Page 100 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“I think, Flick, that naming him after Papa might get confusing. How about Grumpy?”

“Grumpy Cat,” Felicity repeated. “I think that is a perfect name. Let us get him cleaned up.”

She met the eyes of her not-quite-step-daughter, and they both grinned in excitement.

Chapter 18

Griffin’s first sign of the attacker was the opening of the door. After the accidents of the last few days—he still wasn’t certain if they were merely accidents, or something more sinister—he should’ve been on his guard, but he thought he was safe, here in his room. But then the door opened.

He was concentrating on the small, bean-filled sacks arcing through the air, and saw the swish of Felicity’s skirts out of the corner of his eye as she entered.

So he assumed he was safe.

But the small streak of angry gray hurled itself, yowling, across the room.

Griffin barely had time to glance down before the sopping wet thing leaped at his knees, tiny claws digging into his trousers and the skin beneath, then climbed him like a-a—well, rather like a cat climbing a tree.

Two of the sacks safely returned to his open palms, while the third landed, forgotten, between his bare feet, as the thing scampered up his waistcoat only to freeze. Griffin tucked his chin and peered downward at the tiny gremlin who clung desperately to his shirt front.

“The fook is this?” he growled.

Across the room, Felicity was already giggling. She peeled off her jacket and tossed it across the bureau. “This, my bogus husband, is Grumpy.”

Griffin frowned down at the creature. It was a cat—kitten?—he was ninety-five percent certain of that. But the damned thing had fallen into a rain barrel or something, because its fur was sticking to its skinny frame, while its head was about eight times too large for its body.

But, aye, it was frowning up at him. Or at least, the markings around its face made it seem that way.

“Why does it look like a gremlin?”

Still chuckling, Felicity strolled across the room at a pace—as far as Griffin was concerned, what with the cat hanging off his nipples—far too sedate. “Marcia and I gave him a bath. Come along, baby. Come to mama,” she crooned as she stepped closer and tried to peel the cat’s claws from Griffin’s chest.

Griffin, standing there with his hands still holding his sacks, stifled his sigh and focused his attention on the top of her bent head. “Ye bathed the damned thing?”

“We found him in the stable. Or rather outside the stable. Come, dearest, let go of your papa.”

“I’m no’ the thing’s papa.” Her hair had escaped its normal bun, stray locks flying about her head. She looked as if she’d been in a battle, but damn she smelled good. “Why do yer animals always latch on to me?”

Without looking up—she’d managed to disengage two of the creature’s legs and was trying to turn its attention to her—Felicity murmured, “Because cats have a sixth sense.”

He harumphed, standing as still as possible, trying not to notice the alluring way she chewed on her lower lip. Bloody difficult, with her so close. “What the hell does sensing earthquakes got to do with me?”

Green eyes peeked upward for a moment, and he could swear there was mirth behind her spectacles.

Then Felicity focused once more on the gremlin. “Not earthquakes, Griffin. A cat’s sixth sense is the well-known ability to find the human in the room who dislikes them, or whom they make sneeze. Then they suddenly become that human’s best friend, rubbing up against him or her, or possibly sitting in their lap. They are also remarkably good at finding full containers of liquid, such as teacups, often going far out of their way in order to accidentally brush up against one and knock it to the floor—there we are, little one!”

Triumphantly, Felicity stepped back, cradling the wet mess to her chest as she beamed up at Griffin. “Grumpy did not hurt you too much, did he?”

Scowling, Griffin tossed one of the sacks to the opposite hand, then rubbed his chest. No blood, good. “Did ye really trap a barn cat and drag it into the house to bathe it? I thought cats hated water?”

“It was not the easiest of endeavors. Marcia is having to change right now. Hold out that towel, please?”

Griffin obliged, scooping up the towel one of the maids had laid out for the bathing room. But instead of taking it from him, Felicity shoved the cat into his hands. Instinctively, he clamped them shut, trapping the animal within the towel.

“There we are,” she crooned, stepping close once more to rub the now-docile animal with the towel. “What a good little lad.”

She’s no’ talking to ye, he told his cock.

His cock didn’t listen.

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