Page 6 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Better to find her son as quietly as possible, then sneak back home.

Hesitantly, Felicity stepped into the hall, placing each foot down deliberately before committing to the next. Of course, if the floorboards squeaked, what was she expecting to do? Ninja-roll across the corridor, like a heroine in some sort of spy novel?

Do not be ridiculous, Felicity. You are a scientist, an innovator. You should not be sneaking about in dark corridors.

A noise to her right made her freeze, her breathing—even her heart!—still and silent. She stared wide-eyed into the darkness, knowing the staircase should be in front of her, waiting for monsters or bogeymen to emerge from nothingness behind her.

None did, and after about a million years, she allowed herself to breathe again.

Felicity, you have spent your life studying your cats. Felines move gently, but with certainty. Do that.

Right. Be like a cat. Be one with the cat. Be the cat.

She could do this.

Felicity rolled her shoulders, straightened her chin, and reached for where the banister would be. Be the cat.

But as her fingers closed around the carved wood, she was grabbed from behind.

She might’ve yelped, had her voice box not frozen in fear once again. As she was spun about and slammed against the wallpapered paneling, all she managed was a panicked little squeak.

Quite similar to a kitten’s, she realized belatedly.

There was no time to consider this, however, before a weight settled against her, forcing her back—her shoulders, her rear end—against the wall, and a hand grabbed the hair at her crown. As her unknown assailant tugged her head back, a corded forearm thrust against her throat.

She didn’t have time to worry about herself before a hushed voice hissed in her ear, “Damn ye, I’ll kill ye if ye’ve touched her!”

Her chest began to burn from holding her breath. He was the one touching her, wasn’t he?

Oh, yes, indeed, he was. She closed her eyes—not that it helped at all—and forced herself to inhale. Yes, this was definitely a man holding her; had the strength not corroborated her hypothesis, the faint scent of shaving soap and mint tooth powder would give her the data she needed.

Breathing too fast now, she opened her eyes and responded the way any normal, rational-minded person would, which was: “What?”

The man’s hold on her hair tightened. “What, ye bastard?”

She swallowed past the impediment of his arm. “I mean, what in the bloody hell are you talking about?”

Despite her fear, Felicity felt a moment of pride that she’d managed to keep her tone steady. During the last years, she’d been working to keep her accent from her voice, and lately it only appeared when she was worried or stressed…but now it seemed as if she’d finally succeeded from banishing it completely!

Huzzah! Except for the whole being-pinned-to-a-wall-by-a-stranger thing.

To her surprise, her harsh language worked.

The man pinning her loosened his hold on her hair as he sucked in a surprised breath.

“A woman?” While he didn’t release her, his forearm slackened a bit. “Ye’re a woman?”

She wanted to make a cutting, sarcastic remark on his powers of observation, perhaps dubbing him Mister Obvious. But her tongue seemed to have become tied.

She forced herself to inhale deeply, hoping that would help.

Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately, for her point—all the action did was thrust her breasts against her assailant’s chest.

He cursed and leaned back as if branded.

But his legs and hips were still pressed against hers, holding her in place, and she felt the unmistakable sensation of his growing interest.

In the darkness, her eyes widened.

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