Page 113 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Her gaze still on his cock, she managed a hoarse, “Yes.”

“Good.” His nod was arrogant. “Now, spread yer legs.”

Yes.

Oh, yes.

Chapter 20

The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, the flowers were likely stinking up the place and the bees were buzzing annoyingly as they went about their vital pollinating nonsense. And Griffin didn’t give two shites about any of it, because his attention was focused on the woman at his side.

Felicity, and his family.

Her hand was tucked into his as they carefully picked their way across the lawn toward the picnic spot the Duke had chosen beside the river. The water was high and rushing fast, but even Griffin could admit that added to the general bucolic idyllic scenery. Felicity wore a hat today, and gloves as well, but they didn’t stop him from feeling her warmth as her fingers squeezed his lightly.

He glanced down at her, and she offered him a shy smile.

Yesterday…

Yesterday, they hadn’t emerged from their suite of rooms. Dinner had been brought on trays, and Felicity had bundled into his robe when Mrs. Bobo knocked on the door with a question about the new kitten’s care.

But otherwise, they’d spent the time in bed.

Making love, and…talking. Just talking. About the past. About the present.

But he’d been too much of a coward to bring up the future.

Not yet. Not until he knew he had a future. He’d lost his job at Cooke, Books & Steele, and had no more than a few months’ savings. He might find another clerking job, or perhaps Rourke or Thorne could find him a new place when Peasgoode kicked him out on his arse.

Because after what Felicity had endured—had overcome—in her life, the last thing he wanted to do was ask her to take more chances.

“Oh good heavens,” she murmured under her breath as the picnic came into view. “The Duke’s idea of simple is anything but.”

Rupert was holding her other hand, and Griffin saw him tug it to get her attention. “The word picnic comes from French in the last century, possibly from the same root word as where we get the word pike. The weapon, not the fish.”

“Really?” Felicity smiled down at the lad. “You have a remarkable memory, do you know that, Rupert?”

“Yes,” he agreed solemnly.

“B-R-A-V-O.”

That wasn’t a remotely naughty word, but when Rupert huffed and rolled his eyes, Griffin saw a twinkle behind Felicity’s spectacles and guessed she knew that.

Griffin hid his smile—he was smiling more often these days—and led his family toward the Duke’s spread. “And does the etymology say anything about setting up tables and linen cloths and silver out of doors?”

“And wine and candelabra—in the middle of the day!” Felicity pointed out, sounding amused.

Rupert hummed. “No, I don’t think so. But it is French.”

“Good point, the French can be extravagant.”

As Griffin listened to Felicity chat with his son, his heart swelled. Rupert had blossomed since coming to Peasgoode, that was impossible to deny. The fresh country air, the huge library, the older men who doted on him…Duncan and Ian treated the lad as a beloved grandson, passing on wisdom and chess strategies and tips on land management.

It was a shame one of them was a traitor to the Crown.

Probably.

Perhaps?

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