Page 24 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

At the door, his housekeeper turned. “And you can’t go to tea at a posh lady’s house looking like that, eh? I brushed down your gray suit and laid it out in your room.”

Without taking his eyes from the spitting feline, Griffin growled, “I’m holding a miniature weapon of mass destruction, Mrs. Mac. Surely ye dinnae intend me to put it down and go change?”

“Good point, eh? I’ll never catch the beastie again. Best go over just the way ye are.”

He was certain Rupert was smirking when he called out, “Good luck, Father,” over his teacup.

And that was how Griffin found himself on the front steps of his next-door neighbor’s home, holding a cat at arm’s length.

When the door opened, the butler—silver-haired, stately, and judgmental—didn’t bat an eye at the feline. The way he looked Griffin up and down spoke volumes of his opinion, regardless of the presence of cats.

“Good afternoon, sir. You are expected.”

Holy shite, the man sounded like the last gasp of a zombie. When he moved, Griffin could swear he heard creaking. But as the butler turned away from the door to shuffle toward a small sitting room, he managed to sound more aloof than a chimney sweep on the roof of the fifth floor.

Perhaps ye should’ve changed suits, after all.

But when the butler pushed open the door to the sitting room and intoned, “Mr. Calderbank, Miss Montrose,” he swore he saw her face light with excitement as she ceased stroking the fat gray cat at her side. And damn it, if something in his chest didn’t give an answering squeeze.

Perhaps ye’re having a heart attack.

His subconscious wasn’t being helpful.

She’d risen to her feet, leaving her own feline to stretch lazily on the settee, but was now eying the hissing cat he held by the scruff of the neck.

Feeling out of his element—what the fook was his element, anyhow?—he thrust the thing toward her. “Here.”

She hesitantly stepped closer. “You…brought me a pussy—a cat, Mr. Calderbank?”

“Nay, I’m returning one of yer beasts. Mrs. Mac found the wee monster in her kitchens. This is why ye need to board up the door, Miss Montrose!”

Ignoring his outburst, she stopped in front of him and scooped the angry cat out of his hand. He released it with a sigh of relief.

“This wee monster is not one of mine, Mr. Calderbank.” She tickled the cat’s stomach—which, miraculously didn’t end in her losing any fingers—and the damned thing settled right down. “And since we have reached the point in our relationship where you are bringing me votive offerings in the form of kittens, I think perhaps you can call me Felicity.”

She was blushing. She was blushing, and meeting his eyes, and in her arms, the ill-tempered feline had curled up and begun to growl.

Nay, not growl. The other noise, the one that sounded like a growl but meant—a purr! That was it, the damned thing was purring.

“So I stole a cat?”

“Not if you found it in your kitchen.” Her smile seemed hesitant. “If he found his way into Mrs. Mac’s kitchen, he is likely a stray. You might have a new pet.”

His attention was on her lips, and the shape they made when she said pet. There wasn’t a bloody thing sensual about the word pet. So why was his cock stirring?

“I dinnae want the thing,” Griffin growled.

She didn’t seem fazed when the cat clawed its way out of her arms and up to her shoulder. “Then I will keep him. What should I name him?”

Why in the hell was he still staring at her lips? “I dinnae care, Miss Montrose.”

“Felicity, please,” she corrected softly.

His gaze snapped to her eyes, and his scowl softened. “Flick, I think yer son calls ye?”

That blush was climbing her cheeks again, almost as red as the single curl which fell across her forehead, and behind her spectacles her eyes had widened. But she didn’t look away, even as she raised a hand to readjust the kitten perched beside her ear. “It…is a sobriquet I do not mind from him. Or your children.”

What about me?

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