Page 27 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Behind her spectacles, Felicity’s big green eyes blinked. Blinked in confusion, as if she couldn’t comprehend the question. It had been an arsehole thing to ask.

“Um…pleasure?”

Oh Christ Jesus, aye.

This woman would give him pleasure, if he let her.

He stared down at her, realizing his hand had come to rest on her forearm. How much trouble would it cause if he were to just…lean down and kiss her? One kiss, here and now? Just to assuage his curiosity, just to taste her.

And the cat be damned.

Just one kiss.

And he might’ve—who the fook knew?—had the door not flown open and two young bodies tumbled over themselves in their haste to enter.

“Mother!” called a breathless Bull.

“Papa!” called an excited Marcia.

“Fudge,” murmured an irritated Griffin, even as he stepped away from Felicity and the cat bolted for her shoulder once more.

She shot him a questioning glance as she reached up to calm the animal. “Fudge?”

“Mother!” Bull was grinning when he skidded to a stop in front of her, obviously flustered by something to call her something so formal. “We have a visitor.”

“Yes, we do.” She nodded to Griffin. “And he just asked for fudge.”

Marcia, practically bouncing in place, waved dismissively. “He doesn’t want fudge, that’s just the word he uses when he thinks we’re listening and he doesn’t want to use a truly naughty word.”

“A truly naughty word like what?” Griffin growled. “The whole point was ye’re no’ supposed to ken those other words.”

“Papa.” She planted her hands on her hips, cocked her head, and sighed in irritation. “I’m fourteen. I read books.”

Books about fooking?

Bull’s hands were never still, even in the best of times, and now he waved them in front of Felicity. “Hello? Earth to Flick? We have a visitor! He’s verra important, and—is that a new cat? Ye found another stray?”

“Nay,” she said haughtily, stroking the wee ball of orange and white. “He is Mr. Calderbank’s new cat, but I will care for him.”

Marcia had gasped excitedly—presumably at the thought of having a pet. “What’s his name?” she squealed, leaning closer, apparently forgetting about naughty words and whatever the excitement had been.

Griffin shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for both females, and contented himself with rolling his eyes. “Monster. Fiend.”

“Demon, perhaps?” offered Felicity, with a wry twitch of her lips as she exchanged glances with her son. “I know a Demon. He turned out quite nice.”

Ironically, so did Griffin. He didn’t know the man well—just a fellow agent in Blackrose’s employ—but he was one of the men determined to hunt down the traitor, now, according to Thorne. Strange to think there was a different man out there named Demon.

“Not Demon.” Bull was shaking his head, although his hands were still flapping about. “Devil? Beast?”

Marcia was trying to pet the animal. “I think he looks like a little angel. How about Cherub?”

“How about Parrot?” Felicity offered, lips twitching.

Losing his patience, and thinking how fooking close he’d been to kissing his annoying—stimulating, arousing, desirable— neighbor, Griffin cleared his throat. “Who is the visitor?”

“Oh!” Bull pulled himself up, clasped his hands in front of him, almost devoutly, and smiled. “The secretary to the Duke of Peasgoode is waiting in the sitting room, Mother. Flick. He’s verra important, and we need yer help.”

She blinked, then nodded and hoisted the cat higher still. “Absolutely. What can I do?”

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