Page 33 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Perhaps it was, in her mind.

She’d swept up to the secretary with that cat on her shoulder, shaken his hand a little too enthusiastically, and introduced the children as her own. Bull had grinned hugely, Marcia had given a surprisingly pretty curtsey, and Rupert…

Well, Rupert, upon being introduced to “Mr. Armstrong, secretary to the Duke of Peasgoode”, had cocked his head to one side and said, “That is a silly name. To pee is a verb, where good is modifying it as an adverb. Therefore his title should be Peaswelle. I’m certain he’ll want to petition the Queen to change it.”

Mr. Armstrong had been a bit dazed, and Griffin hadn’t bothered to hide his groan of embarrassment.

But the older man seemed charmed, for some reason, and now gestured with his fork toward Felicity’s new pet. “I cannot help but noticing, madam, your unusual ornamentation.”

She grinned and lifted one hand to stroke the kitten’s tail. “Would you believe I had almost forgotten about him? He is a new pet, one Griffin just brought home, and he apparently is quite stubborn.” The smile she sent Griffin was one acknowledging inside secrets, and while he tried to return it, his stomach clenched. “I was rather hoping if I ignored him, the wee creature would get bored and leave on his own.”

“I’m not certain it’s working,” Mr. Armstrong said with a smirk. “What’s his name?”

Griffin muttered, “Monster,” as Felicity hurried to explain, “We have not decided upon one. Do you have a suggestion?”

The older man eyed the cat. “Polly, perhaps?”

Bull, he of the never-still-fingers, was twirling a spoon across the back of his knuckles in a thoroughly improper way no one seemed to care about. “Polly is good. Mother’s cats all have funny names. Nyan, Longcat, Cheeseburg, Miss Prettypaws…”

“You named Miss Prettypaws, Bull,” she was quick to point out.

“Aye,” he drawled, flipping the spoon and catching it. “But I was barely three years old at the time.”

Marcia nodded. “She’s ancient. The cat, I mean.”

The duke’s secretary was grinning. “Animal rescue must be a family pastime. As I recall from your letter, Miss Marcia, you also rescued your first family pet…but I don’t recall the specifics. What was it, again?”

“It was an octopus,” Rupert supplied dryly. “She rescued it from a tide pool where it was living its best life.”

“Really?” Mr. Armstrong asked in surprise.

“Oh yes, that’s not something I’m likely to forget.”

Christ, their lies had truly become ridiculous.

Mr. Armstrong was nodding. “You invested in an aquarium for him, as I recall from your letter. What was his name?”

“Larry,” blurted Bull, at the same moment Marcia exclaimed, “Rudolph!”

They looked at one another, wide eyed, and Bull said, “I meant Rudolph,” right as Marcia shook her head and burst out, “Larry.”

Rupert looked from one to the other, then calmly said, “His name was Lawrence Rudolph MacSnorkle Buskirk Calderbank, Esquire, the Third. But we all called him Snorky.”

“He’s gone now,” Felicity hurried to offer, then added under her breath, “thank Heavens.”

In unison, Bull and Marcia crossed themselves, bowed their heads, and intoned, “Requiescat in pace, Snorky,” solemnly.

Griffin gaped.

There was a moment of silence—shocked, on the part of Griffin and Felicity, and respectful from Mr. Armstrong—then Mr. Armstrong cleared this throat. “The Third? Snorky…the Third?”

“Yes.” Rupert didn’t hesitate. “He was named after our great-grandfather.”

Griffin choked on his excellently prepared lamb.

Before he could take a sip of wine, Marcia had jumped to her feet and was behind him. He lifted his hand to indicate he wasn’t actually dying, contrary to appearances, but she gave his back a mighty whack anyhow.

Despite it, he managed to swallow what was in his mouth and wash it down with some wine. His throat was bruised when he shook his head and muttered, “Snorky.”

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