Page 22 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“Two hulls work fine for outrigger canoes—”

Griffin interrupted him. “The outrigger is there to support the main hull.” He rolled over onto his back and tipped his head back to keep his son in his sights. “The third hull isn’t an outrigger, it’s a third hull.”

When Rupert frowned in concentration, he looked so much like a younger Griffin it was at times scary. “Then I need to reconfigure the proportions. The secondary hulls need to be…”

He trailed off, muttering to himself, then pushed the model from his lap and lunged for one of the engineering books, flipping through it with a mission.

Griffin relaxed his muscles, his gaze resting on the molding along the ceiling, and allowed himself a small smile, knowing it was hidden behind his beard.

Aye, Rupert was a bloody genius, and his father was proud of him. It amazed Griffin how his children, once they’d understood their letters and basic arithmetic, had found their passions so easily. Marcia was far more interested in the modern world and social causes than Shakespeare, but Rupert studied everything.

He deserves more of yer time than one afternoon a week.

Both of his children deserved so much more. More than he could give them.

Marcia deserved the chance to travel, to see more of the world. To understand this life she’d been born into wasn’t the only way of life. The opportunity to choose how to spend her passions and which causes to support, rather than being limited by her father’s lack of savings.

And Rupert…Rupert deserved tutors, and a real library, and university. Perhaps ship-design wasn’t in his future—three hulls, indeed!—but the lad was learning the basic tenet of engineering, which was to fail and fail again until one understood the process. Only then could success be achieved.

Aye, Rupert might never be hired to build ships, but so long as Griffin had breath left in his body, his son would never have to make a living with his fists.

Absent-mindedly, Griffin stretched both hands above his head, then reached toward the ceiling. The pull of muscles, tight from sitting in a hard chair all week, was a relief. His fingers curled into a fist, then relaxed again, and he took a deep breath as he studied his knuckles.

Aye, these hands had done terrible things, but last night…

Last night, he’d held Miss Felicity Montrose as delicately as any flower, when in reality he’d wanted to crush her against him. Wanted to hold her, protect her. Wanted to grind his cock against her soft belly, feel her open to him.

Wanted to kiss her.

Right here in this room, with their children watching. He’d wanted to kiss her, feel her melt against him, hear her breathing catch, watch her nostrils flare and her eyes darken with desire.

He’d wanted to fook her.

More than he’d wanted to fook any woman since—nay, ever.

Mary had been the kind of wife a vicar’s son married; no-nonsense, a good cook, and knew how to stretch a shilling. She’d been pretty enough, and Marcia looked enough like her Griffin was sometimes disconcerted. But whereas Mary would’ve never encouraged her daughter to do something as scandalous as protest corsets, and insisted the girl learned sensible, useful skills like laundry and cookery, Griffin had let the girl follow her dreams.

Now that he thought about it, perhaps he’d done it to spite Mary’s memory.

She’d been a good wife—a little overbearing, but only because she’d thought she’d known best—and hadn’t deserved the death she’d received.

And when Blackrose had mentioned poison, Griffin had known he had to protect his children.

Perhaps years of hiding, of tamping down urges and trying to maintain a low profile, hadn’t been great for his concupiscence.

Perhaps that’s why he was now lusting after his strange next-door neighbor.

“Knock-knock!” came the cheerful call as Mrs. Mac bustled in with a small tea tray.

Rupert didn’t look up. “You’re supposed to knock, Mrs. Mac, not say ‘knock-knock.”

“My hands were full, eh?” She winked at Griffin, who rolled himself to his feet. “Tea, Rupert?”

Griffin was already anticipating a taste of the woman’s scones, and halted his forward momentum to frown at her. “Why Rupert? None for me?”

“Now, don’t pout, Mr. C. You’ll get your tea, eh?” She was trying to decide where to set the tray. “There’s an invite for you in my right pocket.”

Griffin raised a brow. “I’ve learned no’ to reach into yer apron, Mrs. Mac.”

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