Page 32 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Fook him sideways, would he have kissed her, had their children not burst in on them? He’d wanted to—God knows he did.

She wanted it. What harm would it have caused?

At that moment, it might’ve caused plenty of harm. But it had quickly been eclipsed by the harm this particular charade could cause.

Griffin toyed with the stem of his wine glass and watched the woman across the table—ostensibly his wife—make polite, if awkward, conversation with a man who held the power over the Calderbanks’ future.

While a cat perched atop her shoulder.

This fine setting was most obviously her home, while he felt gauche and out of place. She might find social situations awkward—even he, who barely knew her, could see how nervous she was right now—but she held herself as a lady would. Poised, proper, polite.

And ye pinned her to a wall and ground yer cock against her?

Someone like him shouldn’t touch a lady like her.

She asked ye to make love to her.

The thought of his scarred hands on her skin—on her breast!—caused his cock to twitch and he had to shift uncomfortably.

To distract himself, he took a sip of his wine. It didn’t help. Here in this fine dining room, with the perfect soup and the silent footmen waiting to serve the next course and the elegant drapes, he felt like a bull in a china shop. Out of place, out of touch.

A duke is surrounded by elegance.

He didn’t want to be a duke.

Liar.

He’d known he was descended from the dukes of Peasgoode, of course he did. But it was so many generations ago, and through his grandmother’s line, that it had never been relevant. His father had taken a living far away from his family, so Griffin had never known any cousins. Da had been a gentleman, though just barely, so Griffin had attended school with other gentlemen.

But instead of using his head for numbers to make a living for his wife and children, Griffin had gone into Her Majesty’s service, and protected England’s interests with his fists.

At least, he thought he had.

He glanced down at the hand holding the stem of the wineglass, the scars standing out vividly. Could a man like him become a fooking duke?

Ye could, if it meant the opportunities Marcia and Rupert deserve.

Right. Right. They were the reason he was doing this.

So why was Felicity doing this?

When she turned toward him and caught his eye, she sent him a small smile. The kind of smile a wife might send her husband, aye, but they weren’t married. Either she was brilliant at subterfuge, or…

Why was she doing this?

For ye, ye dobber.

Nay, not for him. For Bull. Griffin had heard what the lad had said about Scotland…surely that’s why Felicity was going along with this mad scheme?

Luckily, she was better at carrying a conversation than he was, which allowed him to sit and scowl with his thoughts as he occasionally passed tidbits under the table to what turned out to be—rather than the large slobbering dogs he’d thought had menaced his ballocks—an extremely rotund feline. It had sunk its claws into his thigh and any attempt to shake it off resulted in more pain, so he kept slipping it morsels of bread until it finally grew bored—or perhaps full—and slunk away.

He vowed to check his trousers for blood at a later point.

The dinner was spent in polite discussion of the weather, the terrain of the Highlands, and Bull’s remarkable sense of style. The lad looked like a peacock, but Griffin could admit he was a remarkably well-turned-out peacock.

The secretary—an older man, tall and thin, with a kind smile—seemed to enjoy speaking to the children the most. Griffin hadn’t expected that, but he supposed it was unusual to allow bairns at formal dinners, so perhaps they were an anomaly.

Felicity hadn’t hesitated to include them—include them all—but just pretend this was completely normal.

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