Page 115 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“Aye,” Griffin croaked. “Like at home.” He cleared his throat. “Heavenly Father,” he began, then glared at Bull, who nodded.

“We thank ye for this food.” Bull glanced at Rupert.

The lad grinned. “Especially the desserts!”

Marcia cleared her throat. “And the people we’re sharing it with. The food, I mean. Thanks for them.”

Felicity’s fingertips were pressed to her lips now, and Griffin couldn’t look at the merriment dancing behind her spectacles, or he knew he’d break into laughter.

Still, she managed to finish the prayer for them. “We thank you in Jesus’s name.”

“Amen,” Griffin muttered, as the children echoed in various levels of cheer and lengths of lag.

He sat back in his chair with a grateful sigh, in time to see Duncan nod solemnly. “Just beautiful, lad. As a man gets older, he starts thinking about Eternity, and it does my heart well to hear the beautiful voices of bairns raised in praise of the Lord.”

“I like pudding,” Rupert offered blithely.

Sometimes it was easy to forget his son was a genius.

“Yes, dear.” Felicity was still smiling. “But this time do not forget to use your N-A-P-K-E-N.”

The woman’s definition of naughty words was rather general, wasn’t it?

As the meal began, Duncan and Ian started reminiscing about religious experiences and church services, and eventually began to share stories of past Christmases. The children hung on every word.

Eventually Ian waved his fork about. “But surely you have some lovely stories as well?”

“Aye, aye!” Duncan gestured encouragingly. “Tell us about yer Christmas traditions! Can we incorporate them here at Peasgoode?”

Christmas traditions? Oh hell.

Felicity had paused, fork halfway to her mouth. “You want to know how we celebrate Christmas? The five of us?” At Duncan’s impatient wave, she turned wide, frantic eyes to Bull.

Thank Christ the lad was swift. “Oh, Christmas, aye. We…um…eat food.”

“Excellent,” chuckled Duncan, pushing his empty plate away. “A tradition I can appreciate. Do ye go to Church?”

“Nay.” Then Bull’s eyes widened. “I mean, aye. It depends.”

“When we lived in America,” Marcia offered, her elbow on the table and her chin propped in her palm, “Papa allowed us to decorate a tree, so long as it wasn’t too large. I loved stringing the popped corn.”

Bull rolled his eyes. “Ye told me about that, but I dinnae believe ye. Why would anyone wish to explode perfectly good corn kernels?”

“I don’t know, they just did!” Marcia shot back hotly. “They were delicious, and sometimes Mrs. Mac would let me eat some instead of stringing them.”

Ian glanced from one to the other. “Your neighbor traveled with you to live in America?”

“Dinnae be silly,” Griffin snapped. “She moved with us from America.”

“Oh.” The secretary shrugged. “Well, I suppose that makes as much sense as anything.”

Bull was still teasing Marcia. “And when ye were there, did ye try exploding other vegetables? Or did ye stop at corn? Has anyone tried lighting broccoli on fire? Or tomatoes? Maybe exploding vegetables could be the Next Big Thing.”

Marcia crowed, “Tomatoes aren’t vegetables!”

Before Griffin could intervene, Rupert cleared his throat. “Corn is indigenous to the Americas, and the natives introduced the first European colonists to its cultivation. It’s suspected that cooking the kernels in oil over flames is a centuries-old method of popping the kernels. Americans have started grinding the popcorn into cereals and meal, which sounds frankly disgusting, although no one asked me.”

Everyone at the table stared at him.

---