Page 41 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

His daughter rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh. Bloody hell, when she had an attitude, she really reminded Griffin of himself, didn’t she? “When Papa doesn’t want us to listen to an adult conversation, he says it’s about taxes.”

Of course, the only other adult he ever spoke to around the children was Mrs. Mac, but it had become a handy fib. As far as he could tell, both Marcia and Rupert equated taxes with adulthood, and were terrified of each.

“Really?” Bull seemed interested. “When Flick doesnae want me listening in on a conversation with one of her friends, she claims it’s about sex.”

Griffin nearly choked—which was impressive, considering he wasn’t doing anything more complex than breathing—but swung his gaze to the woman beside him. The woman who was currently blushing as red as her hair.

She frowned defensively. “I am new at this parenting lark. It was the best I could come up with, and it always chases Bull away.”

The thought of Felicity speaking frankly about sex to anyone made his cock hard. Which was damned inconvenient.

A little voice in the back of his head asked, Why is she new at this if the lad’s sixteen? but was currently being drowned out by the rest of him, which couldn’t seem to stop thinking of words like lips, tongue, slit, sex, slick, throb, plunge, scream.

He swallowed.

There might’ve been other things going on in the room. Fires, the Royal Pipes and Drum Corps’ annual display of countermarching and tripping, prehistoric lizards, the Queen herself in her nightrail… But Griffin’s entire attention was on the woman blushing prettily beside him.

The woman who, only a few hours ago, had asked him to kiss her. Debauch her.

Fook her.

God Almighty, he wanted to. Wanted it more than he’d wanted anything.

But he wouldn’t.

Because she was a lady, and he was…

He was a fool.

Luckily, Thorne had apparently retained his ability to speak. “Miss Marcia, I can promise ye this conversation is no’ about taxes, and Bull—nay, dinnae look at me like—Christ, lad, ye have a verra punchable face.”

“I ken!” Bull quipped cheerfully. “Rourke says it’s going to get me in trouble one day.”

“One day?” muttered Marcia sarcastically, then she squealed.

Bull must’ve pinched her.

Ye really need to stop staring at Felicity and start paying attention to what the hell is going on.

Right. In just a moment…

“My point is,” Thorne continued in an exasperated tone, “I need the pair of ye to piss off. Rupert’s with Mrs. Mac, and I need to talk yer parents into staying married.”

There was the sound of the children leaving, but it wasn’t until Griffin saw the surprise—or was that horror?—on Felicity’s face, that he registered what Thorne had said.

His brain started working again, thank fook, and he whirled back to Thorne. “What?”

“Peasgoode inviting ye to his home, Griffin, it’s more than we could’ve hoped.” Thorne seemed strangely excited. “We’ve been looking for a way in.”

When he glanced back at Felicity she’d wrapped her arms around her middle again, in that way she had of trying to make herself look smaller. Dear God, he’d barely known her yesterday—aside from the whole threatening-at-knifepoint misunderstanding—and now he could recognize her moods?

Instinctively he reached for her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders as he turned them both to face Thorne. He tried not to think of how good she felt pressed against him. Tried to think of this as just like comforting Marcia.

It didn’t work.

“Thorne…” Griffin struggled to keep his frustration from his tone. “The bairns just told ye this whole thing has been a lie. Lies built upon lies, really. They told Armstrong I was a spy, for fook’s sake!”

Thorne, the insightful bastard, was eyeing Griffin’s arm around Felicity with a faint smirk on his lips. “And is it all a lie?”

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