Page 55 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

When she planted her fists on her hips and glared at him, Griffin was afraid she was his spitting image. “Papa, we’re not going to know anyone on the train. These are more comfortable.”

“I sincerely doubt that.”

“How do you know?” she shot back. “Have you ever worn a skirt?”

From where she was organizing the last of the luggage in the foyer, Felicity called out, “She is right, Griffin. In order to make a true comparison, you will need to experiment with both scenarios.”

“I’m no’ wearing a skirt.”

Marcia grinned. “Well, neither am I!”

“Fudge,” he growled.

Felicity straightened. “There is no time now to change. We need to be at the station in an hour, and we are still waiting on Mrs. Mac.” She gestured to Marcia. “Now, trousers or no, do you have the proper”—she glanced at Rupert—“U-N-D-R-C-L-O-T-H-S on?”

Marcia frowned as she worked her way through that misspelling. “Um…I think so?”

“Good. A lady should always be properly…” Another glance toward Rupert. “D-R-E-S-E-D.”

Oh good Lord. Did this have to do with him not wanting to curse in front of the lad?

Griffin had no time to consider, because Ian had flung open the front door and was gesturing to the footmen to begin loading bags. “The carriages are ready! Do we have everyone?”

“Just about,” Griffin muttered, as finally—finally—Mrs. Mac came huffing from the direction of Felicity’s study. “Thank God.”

The older woman skidded to a stop beside Felicity’s maid. “Ready, eh?” she announced, then jabbed the younger woman in the side.

Ian seemed to assume she was another servant, and turned to Griffin. “Will your valet be joining us as well? I was surprised you didn’t have me purchase a ticket for him.”

Griffin hesitated. Of course he had no valet, but would the secretary expect him to have one? “Uh…nay. Nay, he doesnae like to travel.”

“That’s a shame.”

It was obvious Ian thought him strange for not insisting his servant overcome his dislike of travel, so Griffin pulled an excuse out of his arse worthy of Bull.

“He has a weak stomach. And nae legs. So I cannae ask him to trek to Scotland.”

“Good Lord, you employ a legless valet?”

“And one with a weak stomach. Ye can understand the dilemma.”

The secretary nodded. “Absolutely. The poor man. Well, His Grace will no doubt assign you an attendant when we reach Peasgoode.” He glanced at the tickets in his hand. “I do have tickets for a maid?”

Felicity’s young maid curtseyed. “That’s me, sir. I’m Made.”

“You’re the maid, miss?”

Another curtsey. “Yes sir. That’s my name.”

Ian frowned. “Your name is Maid?”

“Made, sir.” A third curtsey. “With an E.”

“Mead?” The older man was looking extremely confused.

The small woman bobbed for a fourth time, and Griffin idly wondered how long her knees would last. “Please sir, my name is Made. My mother meant to name me Maude, but spelling isn’t her strong suit. I am Miss Montrose’s maid.”

Ian shook his head. “Who’s Miss Montrose?”

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