Page 20 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Felicity stood and smoothed down her skirt, more to settle her nerves than anything else. It had been a while since she’d played charades, yes, but this was a friendly game with the children, nothing to be worried about.

Right.

But when she went to choose a slip of paper—there were only three left—Rupert’s hand jerked sideways, and her fingers closed around the paper which was laying off to one side. When she peered suspiciously at him, the lad’s expression was curiously blank.

Well, if he wanted her to have that one, she wouldn’t argue. She straightened and unfolded the paper.

Dance.

Well…blast. How did one dance by oneself? To be fair, she barely knew how to dance with a partner, but…

She made an effort.

Trying to remember the one flamenco performance she’d seen, Felicity lifted her arms, swayed her hips, clapped her hands, and stomped her feet. It didn’t work.

“Ye’re making wine? Stomping grapes?”

“Having a fit? What’s she doing with her hips?”

“Och, the hands are the issue. She’s slapping mosquitos!”

“I think she’s standing on hot coals!”

“Lift yer skirt, Flick, so we can see what yer feet are doing. She is stamping something. Is it hot coals? Potatoes?”

“Why would she be stamping potatoes?”

“I dinnae ken, her personal life is her own.”

“Really, Bull, what kind of hobby is stamping potatoes? And why would she keep it secret?”

“Look at the way she’s flailing! Perhaps it is mosquitos?”

“Yes! Bugs! Is it bugs? You’re being bitten by something?”

Marcia and Bull were having the time of their lives, yelling increasingly ridiculous suggestions as Rupert laughed and Felicity felt her cheeks heat in embarrassment.

Finally, she dropped her hands to her hips and glared at the pair. She couldn’t think of any other dance which a woman could perform by herself, and clearly her flamenco left rather a lot to be desired.

Every other dance she could remember required a partner. “I need a man.”

I need a man.

Well, blast, she hadn’t intended to say it like that.

The declaration rang through the room, and her eyes swung to the chair by the window, where Griffin Calderbank had lowered his paper and apparently been watching her performance this entire time.

I need a man.

You know, I rather think you do need a man. And you know exactly who you want.

Bull cleared his throat. “I’m no’ helping ye, Flick. I’m one of the guessers.”

Her gaze flashed to Rupert, who was now sitting up straight, his eyes wide. “I can’t help you. I wrote the clues.”

“All the better to help me,” she challenged, “since you know what I’m trying to do.”

The lad swung in his chair. “Father? Miss Flick needs you.”

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