Page 19 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Bull sat up straighter, his fingers tapping out rhythms on his thighs. “You’re churning butter? Plunging a toilet?”

“Plunging can’t be used in that context,” huffed Rupert. “Toilets aren’t built that way these days.”

Marcia rolled her eyes and increased the speed of the small circles.

“Holding your little brother’s neck and grinding his crown!” Bull declared triumphantly.

“What?” Rupert shook his head, just as his sister blew out a frustrated sigh. “What’s—”

“Here, I’ll show you!” announced Bull with a wide grin, lunging for the lad.

Felicity just managed to grab him. “Stop being silly. Charades is not a silly game.”

“Did you hear what you just said, Flick?”

She grimaced, but didn’t loosen her hold on her son’s arm. “Yes, I realized as I was saying it. But really, pay attention.” Marcia had opened her fist, and now used the finger of that hand to encircle the imaginary round thing, then pretended to lick it. “She’s obviously baking a cake. Or…something?”

The girl smiled and nodded, then made a fist again and started making the small circles.

Bull hummed. “You’re…stirring batter? Making bread? I don’t know, I’ve never cooked before. Batter? Battered?” When Marcia shook her head enthusiastically, he continued. “You’re verbing something in a bowl? Stir, blend, whisk?”

“Mix!” Felicity declared triumphantly. “You are mixing!”

Marcia dropped her imaginary bowl with a huge sigh. “Finally. How hard is ‘mix’, Bull, honestly?”

Bull shrugged and dropped back against the settee, linking his hands behind his head as if he had no cares in the world. “You should’ve just pointed to yourself, and told me to remove an n. I would’ve guessed minx.”

Felicity was surprised to discover she was enjoying herself. “Who is next?”

“You, Flick,” her son declared with a smile. “But since Marcia will likely kick me if I don’t give her a chance to humiliate me, I’d better take your turn.”

Without giving her time to react, her son had popped up and was leaning over Rupert’s hands. He read the slip of paper, then shook his head and pierced the lad with a glare.

“You have a devious mind, Rupert.”

“Thank you,” the lad said solemnly.

With a sigh, Bull stepped in front of them, shook out his hands, then launched into a complicated pantomime involving theatrical reactions to something he saw in the distance, then apparently jumping sideways, pressing his back against…a wall? And then peering around the corner?

“You’re frightened of something?” Marcia called. “Is it a bear? A lion? A policeman looking for pickpockets? A razor?”

Bull, who Felicity knew for a fact was quite proud of the wispy mustache he was trying to grow, broke character long enough to plant his hands on his hips and glare at his best friend. “Oh, ha-ha.”

“No talking,” called Felicity, trying to hide her amusement. “Go back to the hiding.”

Her son slipped back into his pantomime, seeming intent on whatever it was he was hiding from.

“Concealing yourself?” Felicity called, at the same time Marcia guessed, “Evading someone? Something? Some kind of verb!”

Rupert, who of course couldn’t guess since he’d written out the words, had by this point dissolved into snickers as Bull’s antics became more and more outrageous.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, a deep voice from the back of the room called out, “Avoiding. Ye’re avoiding someone.”

Bull stopped, mid-pantomime, his hands held over his head and one foot off the ground—why, Felicity couldn’t guess—and started at Mr. Calderbank in shock. “That’s right. Avoid. Ye guessed it, Gruff.”

The man grunted and snapped his newspaper up once more. “Dinnae call me that,” he grumbled from behind it.

Bull exchanged a glance with Marcia, and his lips slowly curled. “Yer turn, Flick,” he declared as he threw himself back to the settee. “Pick a good one for her, Rupert.”

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