Page 53 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“I cannot begin to guess. Something involving wind power and pickles and Antarctica.”

“That does sound sinister.” Her maid, who had been with Felicity for almost ten years now, was still smiling as she picked the pins from Felicity’s hair.

“Oh well,” Felicity sighed, hefting a breast in each hand. “It is not as if we can burn the blasted thing. How else could I possibly contain these things?”

Her mother had been aghast when Felicity had announced her intention to breastfeed her infant son. She’d ranted and railed about how her body would be ruined, and Felicity—who’d spent her confinement reading everything she could reach about human reproduction and child rearing, in order to understand the chaos which had become her life—pointed out that her body and reputation were well and truly “ruined” already.

Mother had not been amused, but Felicity had to admit her breasts were larger and sagged more than they had in her youth.

“If only someone could construct something more comfortable, but just as supportive…” Felicity murmured to herself.

“If anyone can do it, you can, milady,” murmured the other woman faithfully, before sending a smile and slipping from the room.

“A better corset,” mused Felicity, as she finished her evening ablutions. “Perhaps something smaller, focused only on the bust region. With some sort of ribbon holding it up via the shoulders?”

Smiling at her naiveté, she pulled back the counterpane and pushed the decorative pillows over to one side. She found their symmetry pleasing, but they were complete shite to sleep on, all firm stuffing and strange fringe.

But as she sat on the edge of the bed and was lifting her legs to slide beneath the sheets, the door opened.

Miss Prettypaws and Sitz slipped through, but Felicity gave them approximately zero percent of her attention, because Griffin followed them, jacket slung over one shoulder.

With a gasp, she grabbed one of the decorative pillows—something in green and apparently stuffed with hedgehogs, judging from what poked her when she pushed it against her chest—for modesty. “Griffin!” she hissed.

“Felicity,” he hissed right back.

Then he shut the door behind him.

And they were alone together. In her bedroom. And she was in her nightrail. There were cats involved too, but her brain had become rather stuck on alone together in the bedroom.

She pulled the pillow closer, then winced when the aforementioned hedgehog stabbed her in an inappropriate place. “Are—are you not staying in your own room tonight? Again?”

Why was she so flustered?

Perhaps it had something to do with the nonchalant way he was pulling off his boot.

“I’m no’, wife.” Was the reminder for her, or for him? “Because bloody Ian Armstrong is still in the bloody sitting room with the bloody door open.”

Ah. “And if you went into my study to go through the secret door, he would see you.”

“Exactly.” The second boot joined the first, then he lifted his hands to his necktie. “And so, Flick, ye’re stuck with me tonight.” He glanced around the room, his eyes lighting on the settee arranged near the window for maximum light. “Pay me nae attention. I’ll sleep there.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Look, Miss Montrose—” When he yanked his necktie from around his neck, she saw anger in his movements. “Ye were the one who agreed to this subterfuge! Ye cannae get missish on me now.” The movements were economical, precise as his fingers moved down his waistcoat buttons. “If ye dinnae wish me to dirty yer settee, I’ll sleep on the floor. Willnae be the first time.”

Her throat had gone dry as he shrugged out of the waistcoat. The linen of his shirt was tight across his shoulders, and a tear on the chest had been repaired with neat little stitches. Why had she focused on such a thing, when he was standing there, half-dressed, staring at her defiantly?

Hello? Hello? Her subconscious was trying to get her attention. He is not just half-dressed, he is in—and I will repeat it, because I believe you are missing something rather important—in. Your. Bedroom. In which you are also half-naked. An opportunity presents itself, perhaps?

And yes. Yes, she was completely intrigued by the idea…but she was also completely and utterly exhausted. That was likely the reason she was arguing with her inner thoughts, dratted things.

He had noticed where she was staring. “What?” His large hand rose to pick at the tear. “Aye, it’s auld, but I couldnae afford to discard it when one of Rupert’s contraptions ripped it.”

Her throat was dry, and her head was pounding. “Who mended it?” As if it mattered.

“Me.” His chin rose defiantly. “Stitching is the same, whether it’s done on flesh or cloth. I’ve done it more than a few times, either way.”

Oh dear. She leaned back against the pillows. “On whom?” she asked weakly.

---