Page 109 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

After several minutes of silence, the only sound the lapping of the water against the tile, or his breath in her ear, Griffin hummed. “Will ye tell me about him, Flick?”

Her eyes were closed, her focus on the sensation of his touch. “Who? Bull?”

“Bull’s father. He told me it was the Duke of Exingham.”

Felicity’s eyes shot open and she felt herself stiffen.

He must’ve felt it too, judging by the way he cursed under his breath and tossed aside the cloth. “Nevermind. I shouldnae have asked.”

“No—no. You have every right to know.”

“I dinnae.” To her surprise, he wrapped his arms around her waist and linked his fingers together, then pulled her snug against him. “It’s yer past, Flick, and I dinnae want ye to feel ye must—”

“I want to tell you,” she interrupted, placing her fingers atop his, under the water. Here she was, nestled in a man’s arms in the bath. She never would have imagined such liberties, such ease, before Griffin. “Besides, it is not a secret. Exingham himself would have bragged to you about it, if you had asked.”

“Fook.”

“He was not a very nice man. I confess I did not even say a prayer for his soul when I heard he had died, and his son took the title.”

His hold tightened, and she could feel his heart pounding against her back. “Did he hurt ye?”

“Cheerfully.” When he sucked in a breath, Felicity hurried to say, “Shall we change the subject? I met Ian’s second-in-command yesterday, did I tell you that? His name is John Totwafel, and I confess I could not concentrate on a thing the man was saying, because I could not stop staring at his hair. I feel rude to even point it out, but the man had the most remarkable head of hair—honest to goodness, it was orange, with wiry curls—”

Her words were cut off with a squeak when he suddenly hauled her to her feet.

Well, technically, it was a bit more complicated than that, what with the fact he was reclining behind her, and they were in a tub, and whatnot. But the end result was they were both standing, she was still in his arms, and at least half the water ended up on the floor.

And before she could ask him his intent, he’d stepped out of the tub, turned, and picked her up.

“Griffin?” she asked hesitantly. “What are you—”

“We’re done with the bath.”

“Really?” Disappointment lent a bit of a pout to her tone. “I thought we might linger a bit longer.”

“Grab those towels,” he commanded, turning her toward the shelf. “Did ye think I was going to make love to ye again in there?”

Two soft towels landed in her lap. “Well, actually, yes, I imagined so, what with the breast-fondling—”

“I’ll fondle yer breasts on dry land. I dinnae ken where ye get yer ideas—fooking in the bathtub? It’s awkward and slippery and dangerous. Likely unhygienic too,” he grumbled as he allowed her to slide to stand on her own two feet. “Nonsense.”

It hadn’t seemed nonsense to her, but Felicity forgot to say so when he began drying her.

He wasn’t exactly gentle, his movements brisk and efficient. He paid particular attention to her torso.

“I can dry myself, Griffin.”

“Aye, but then I cannae practice my breast fondling.”

She sucked in a surprised breath as he did just that, and he was still grinning wickedly as he spun her about, wrapped the towel around her, and tucked it in. Next thing she knew, he was settling onto the same chair he’d fallen into earlier, and she was sitting in his lap.

Again.

Only this time her ankles were crossed, and it seemed far less desperate. In fact, his hand settled atop her knee, and his strong arm at her back made her feel…safe? Comforted?

He is taking care of you. Just as he said he would.

Oh.

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