Page 29 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“Excuse me.” Felicity tried to keep her voice and her manner calm. “Can someone please explain to me?”

It was Griffin who did, in his usual sharp way. “Peasgoode doesnae have an obvious heir. He published a list of names and said he’d choose one.”

Bull was doing that thing where he snapped his fingers then slammed his fist against his palm in short succession, making a horrible noise. But since it seemed to calm him, she’d never told him how distracting it could be.

Now he was practically vibrating as he hurried to add to the explanation. “In the article, Peasgoode said he’d grant the dukedom—an entire dukedom!—to the man he chose as his heir.”

“Sexist,” murmured Marcia, and Felicity had to agree. Wasn’t Peasgoode in Scotland? Women could inherit there… “But Papa’s name was listed as one of the possibilities.”

If Felicity’s brows rose any higher, they’d climb into her hairline. “You are related to the duke?”

Griffin scowled at her. “Eighth cousin, six times removed, something like that.”

“Your great-great-grandmother was his great-grandfather’s sister,” Marcia informed him primly. “You’re third cousins, once removed.”

Her father was glaring at her. “And how did ye find that out?”

She shrugged. “We had Rupert research your family tree. He’s good at that sort of thing.”

A reluctantly impressed look came to Griffin’s eyes, and Felicity was a little disconcerted to realize she could so easily read them.

Bull shook out his hands, a sure sign he was holding in too much energy. “The point is, Peasgoode announced he was going to choose an heir from that list, and since he didn’t have a family, he was going to prioritize family men.”

Felicity’s head swung from Bull to Griffin and back again. “Griffin is a family man.”

“Right, but he’s not married,” Marcia announced.

Was it her imagination, or did Griffin tug his daughter a little closer? “I can be a family man without being married,” he growled.

Bull was nodding. “Aye, of course, but we figured ye had a better chance of being chosen if we wrote to the duke and sort of fudged the truth a little.”

“Bull,” the man barked.

“Aye, bull, exactly.” Her son seemed so cheerful to admit to lying. “And it worked! Ye’re one of the finalists! The duke sent his secretary to meet ye—meet us. All we have to do is pretend that we’re one big happy family, and ye can be a duke.”

Griffin was shaking his head. “I dinnae want to be a duke.”

There were unsaid words there, Felicity knew. She couldn’t yet guess what they were, but the inquisitive side of her could hear them.

“Papa…” Marcia’s quiet words drew his gaze, her expression pleading. “If Peasgoode chooses you for his heir, that means Rupert would one day be a duke.” Her father’s eyes widened slightly and his nostrils flared as he sucked in a breath, and she continued on without pausing. “He would have access to the best schools and the best tutors, and I could study whatever I wanted without anyone telling me I was too poor or too educated or too female, and you could…”

She trailed off, but judging from Griffin’s tortured expression, she’d made her point.

“And ye wouldnae have to move, Griffin,” Bull said quietly.

When the man’s gaze swung to him, the lad flinched, then shrugged. “Marcia told me how tight money is, how ye’re going to run out before the end of the quarter and make them all move.”

Now Griffin turned to glare at his daughter, who merely threw her arms around his middle. “I don’t want to have to move, Papa.”

Felicity’s own heart gave a lurch when the man closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his daughter.

“I dinnae want to move either,” he admitted gruffly. “But I’m no’ a duke.”

Bull shrugged. “Ye could be.”

Deciding it was time to steer the conversation back on track, Felicity cleared her throat. There were still several unanswered questions—one of them more pressing than the others. “But Bull, why is His Grace’s secretary here? Neither of us are related to Peasgoode. Why is it me to whom Griffin must pretend to be married? How are you involved in this?”

Her son glanced at Marcia, whose face was buried in her father’s shoulder, and blew out a breath. “I read the article, and showed it to Marcia. I didnae want them to have to move, and I wanted…”

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