Page 2 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

An intriguing, infuriating mother.

One who made Griffin’s blood boil.

And yer cock hard.

The reminder wasn’t appreciated.

“That bloody door should’ve been plastered over years ago,” he muttered, ignoring the rude nickname the lad had taken to using.

“Aye,” Bull agreed cheekily, sauntering toward the desk with his hands in his pockets. “But the latch and hinges are on our side.”

Griffin’s palms slammed down atop the desk on either side of the damned newspaper. “Then yer mother should’ve plastered over the thing!”

“Da,” urged Marcia in a wounded voice, and when he glanced at her, she was doing that soulful-puppy expression.

He scowled and sat back.

His oldest child might think braids and freckles made her look sweet and innocent, but he knew better; she had too much of him in her to ever discount. Still, he despaired of her decisions sometimes.

Like her outrageously wrong choice for a best “friend”.

Anyone with eyes could see that Bull Lindsay was some kind of criminal-in-training, with the way his gaze flitted around the room, never landing on any one thing long enough to truly study it. His hands weren’t still either, despite being shoved into his pockets, and Griffin had seen him palm cards and small trinkets with a skill even Griffin couldn’t match.

And he’d been trained in larceny, for fook’s sake!

It didn’t help that the lad was handsome, in a foppish sort of way, and had a grin which would one day break hearts. But he was two years older than Marcia’s fourteen, and from the moment they’d discovered the secret door between their houses, they’d been inseparable friends.

Griffin hated the thought of this reckless charmer hurting his daughter, which is why he’d insisted Bull’s mother, Miss Felicity Montrose, close up the door.

And she, being as stubborn and infuriating as her son, had refused.

“Papa, Bull and I want to go for ice cream today.” His daughter’s request dragged him back to the here and now.

“We’ll take Rupert, too, dinnae worry,” Bull volunteered, eyeing the few volumes which Griffin had managed to salvage when he’d fled with his family to New York. Those books were precious to Griffin, and his palms curled into fists at the thought of someone else perusing them.

Christ.

The junior-larcenist-in-training from next door had perfected a look of innocence, and Griffin tried not to read too much into the wee shite’s nonchalance.

Ye’re just projecting because ye ken ye cannae afford to take yer children out for ice cream.

It was true; money was tight. And aye, it was unlikely Griffin would be able to pay the rent on this townhouse for next quarter, much less Mrs. Mac’s salary or the tuition for the school Rupert deserved…

But he would be bloody well castrated before he admitted that in front of his daughter’s “friend”.

“Aright,” he agreed abruptly, rising to his feet and startling Bull, who’d been sidling nonchalantly toward the desk, an innocent expression on his face. “But only if ye prove ye’ll be safe.”

If his children were leaving this house, he was damned well going to trail them and assure himself they would be safe. If he couldn’t reach them in time, he had to know they could care for themselves.

With a huge sigh and a roll of her eyes, Marcia planted her hands on her hips. “Fine. Although Bull won’t let anything happen to us.”

Griffin kept his opinion of Bull’s fighting abilities to himself. “What do ye do if an attacker comes at ye from behind and grabs yer shoulder?”

Another irritated huff, and Marcia turned to Bull. “If you’ll do the honors?”

For the first time, the lad looked uncertain. Wary, even.

Good.

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