Page 17 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

She wasn’t the only one who stared at him, waiting for clarification.

“Do you…want some, Papa?” Marcia asked cautiously.

He paused, fork lifted halfway to his mouth. “What?”

Apparently his daughter was as confused as the rest of them. “Eggs and ham? Did you want—”

“Exingham,” Mr. Calderbank repeated, although there was a hint of a smile around the corners of his lips, which Felicity did her best not to notice. “It’s an estate in Aberdeenshire.”

A ducal estate. Felicity didn’t want to have this conversation—not here, not ever—so she hurried to steer the conversation in a different direction. “I was born near Aberdeen, as was Bull.”

Rupert cocked his head. “You don’t sound Scottish. Father is Scottish, he was born in the Highlands.”

“My mother was insistent I do my best to sound like a proper English lady, so I had to work hard to lose my brogue.” It was a difficult memory.

“Our great-grandfather was a baron,” Marcia proudly declared, “from the clan MacKinney.”

Pleased to be speaking of something besides Exingham, Felicity inclined her head. “You must be very—excuse me, verra proud.” When Marcia smiled at her teasing, Felicity felt her shoulders relax a bit. “The MacKinneys are in the northwest of Scotland, as I recall. Have you ever visited that area of the country?”

The lass was shaking her head. “We’ve only ever been here and New York. Papa says it isn’t safe—” She glanced at her father, pressing her lips shut.

That was the second time there’d been reference to danger in this house. Maybe there was a reason Mr. Calderbank insisted on barring the secret door, besides being a grump?

The smile she offered Marcia was a bit strained. “It is a beautiful area. I traveled there once as a girl, to try to capture the evening light on the mountains.” Well, actually, her parents had dragged her there for an entirely different reason, but she’d brought along one of her first cameras…

“Flick is a genius when it comes to light and film,” Bull offered with a languid sort of wave as he reached for the small glass of wine Felicity certainly never allowed him at her dining table.. “She’s been developing her own prototypes for ages.”

Both children across the table perked up.

“You take photographs?” Rupert asked, at the same time Marcia blurted, “Tell us!”

Felicity opened her mouth to respond, but then slowly closed it, confusion and worry stealing over her.

For years, she’d been told not to speak about her life’s passion—“awkward little hobby”, as her mother called it. Once she’d left Aberdeenshire and settled into her own household in London, she continued to follow this social rule. Oh, her daily correspondence was filled with discussions about new technologies and chemical compounds and the study of film… But the few times she was in social settings, she’d learned no one actually cared about her work.

Hopelessly, she glanced at Bull, as if he could help her.

Perhaps he could. Her son clearly understood more about Society and social situations than she herself did. He sent her a soft smile.

“It’s fine, Flick. They do genuinely want to hear. Marcia’s seen yer laboratory, but I havenae explained much.”

Well…if Bull thought it would be acceptable…

Felicity shot a glance down the table, to where Mr. Calderbank was sawing furiously at his chicken and seemed to be ignoring them all.

“Um… I do take photographs. I own quite a few cameras.”

Her son huffed as he replaced his glass. “That’s putting it mildly. No’ only does she own them, she builds most of them. Tell them about the moving pictures, Flick!”

Marcia and Rupert really were interested, judging from how they seemed to be hanging on every word.

It took a while to open up, but by the end of the meal, Felicity had explained the theories and techniques behind moving pictures, and how she and several other scientists were working diligently to make these kinds of cameras commonplace.

“You mean they exist?” Marcia gasped. “You have one?”

“Yes, of course. It is my own design, and it is terribly bulky, but one person can carry it with the leather strap. Mr. Le Prince is slightly ahead of me—and I do not trust that Edison fellow—but I think, between those of us who correspond, every day we push the boundaries of what is capable.”

She couldn’t help it; she knew she was flushed with excitement as she explained the advancements she’d helped achieve. She was leaning forward in her chair, gesturing with her fork—a horrible faux pas she was lucky Mother wasn’t alive to see—talking about her passion.

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