Page 51 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

He pushed away from the door jamb and stepped inside, looking with more interest at each of her apparatuses. “And…what is this for?” He pointed to something which looked like it was made to extract the crisp from potatoes.

Again, her face bloomed into one of those smiles. “You really want to know?”

Griffin had seen her smile. Hell, a moment ago, he’d made her laugh. So why was this smile so special?

Because ye made her happy. She’s smiling because of something ye did, that’s why it’s so beautiful.

Goddamn, he was well and truly fooked, wasn’t he?

But that didn’t stop him from saying, “Aye, Felicity, I do.”

He told himself it was part of the spycraft, the cover he needed. A man would know about his wife’s work, would he not? But that wasn’t why he spent the next two hours bent over her shoulder, listening to her explain her brilliance.

It was something else entirely.

* * *

By dinner, Felicity was utterly exhausted. Her morning had been spent supervising the packing, and with Griffin gone, she’d helped Mrs. Mac sort out what was necessary. She’d been surprised to discover exactly how meager the Calderbanks’ possessions were, but remembering what Griffin had said about their flight from Britain, it had made sense.

Bull and Marcia had been helpful in running bags and trunks back and forth between the houses, while Rupert entertained Mr. Armstrong with his esoteric knowledge of first century Greek philosophers. The entire process had been made more tiring because Felicity and the others had been sneaking around, constantly alert for Ian’s presence, and having to lie to him.

The secretary had found her in her study, and asked so many questions about her work, Felicity had been impressed. But she’d felt relief when he’d left…the exact same kind of relief she’d felt when Griffin had arrived.

Those hours with him, explaining her inventions and advancements, hearing his thoughts and suggestions…that had been wonderful. A strangely invigorating interlude in the middle of an otherwise strenuous day.

And it hadn’t just been Griffin’s nearness, although that was undoubtably responsible for the way her heart had hammered and breathing had become difficult whenever he’d leaned near her. No, it had been more than that; his interest, his obvious understanding.

Her father had refused to acknowledge her scientific interest or talents.

Her brother had called her “strange” and “too smart for her own good”.

Exingham hadn’t even known of her passions.

Bull…Bull didn’t quite understand the science behind her work, but he supported it. Up until today, she’d assumed he’d be the only male who really would.

But Griffin had been interested. He’d even made suggestions, and listened while she—politely—explained how wrong he was.

And not once, not during all those hours, had he frowned at her.

Felicity sighed as the footman cleared away the last of the dessert plates. Not for the first time, she thanked her lucky stars to employ such a faithful staff. They’d kept her secrets for many years, and now they were doing so again, pretending it was perfectly natural to serve the next door neighbors as if they were family.

“Flick, that was delicious,” announced their guest in satisfaction. “And just as last night, the meal was only highlighted by the fun of hearing you all interact as a family.”

Considering tonight had been a repeat of the night before, where they’d all tried to stay a step ahead on the lies, it was no wonder there was a headache building behind Felicity’s eyes. Still, she managed a wan smile. “I am so pleased, Ian.”

He grinned in response. “The fact I spent my meal slipping tidbits to a small animal under the table made it even more charming.”

Bull tsked and peaked under the tablecloth. “Cheeseburg! I thought ye were upstairs? Mr. Armstrong, dinnae feed him anything else, the glutton is fat enough!”

“But how can you deny such a face?” The secretary was chuckling. “He looks so pitifully hungry all the time. Besides, doing so made it easier to forget we were being watched.”

Sighing again—this time hopelessly—Felicity frowned up at the chandelier. “I really have no idea how he got up there. I will have to have someone fetch him down.”

“Dinnae fash, Mother.” Bull was chuckling as the small orange kitten shifted his weight, sending the chandelier swaying. “Ceiling willnae remain up there forever. He’s just waiting for us to leave before he leaps down.”

Marcia, whose chin was propped on one hand, watched the small cat. “I did spend the dinner in dread of being pounced on.”

“Housecats are evolved from a sort of proto-cat, centuries ago.” Rupert didn’t look up from where he was trying to balance his spoon atop his glass. “Proto-cat was a skilled hunter and used his sharp front claws to climb trees, with his propulsion coming from his strong back legs.” With the spoon balanced, he sat back and grinned at his work. “Ceiling Cat is just displaying such instincts to climb and hunt.”

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