Page 62 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

The memory of holding her last night already made him ache. Tonight would be…

“Rupert, our arrival at Peasgoode will be well past the polite hour for a social call. I believe, unless the Duke is very determined, we shall be allowed to go straight to”—Felicity hesitated—“straight to B-E-D.”

At least she spelled that one correctly.

Griffin sighed. “Bed isnae a naughty word, Flick.”

Her adorable—delightful, delicious—lips tugged into a pout. “Well, I am not certain, so I am erring on the side of caution.”

She was the kind of woman who asked a virtual stranger to teach her about pleasure, but also spelled out words she deemed vaguely naughty. Including bed.

She was intriguing.

She was a woman he very much wanted to understand.

Still staring out the window, Marcia sighed happily. “It’s lovely here, isn’t it?”

Griffin’s gaze was locked on Felicity. “Aye,” he growled. “I grew up no’ far from here.”

“Can we see where ye grew up, Papa?” his daughter asked excitedly.

Not now. Now they had a mission. “Perhaps one day.”

Home.

The thoughts buzzing around his head were giving him a headache. With an irritated snarl, Griffin dragged his hand through his hair and tugged hard, trying to distract himself.

“We will be there soon,” murmured Felicity.

Was she talking to him? He didn’t open his eyes to find out. Couldn’t afford the comfort she offered.

Had to stay sharp. Stay safe. Stay alive.

But she was right; they did arrive at their destination, there was the chaos of getting everything loaded into carriages, and they did trot up to the Duke’s estate at an ungodly hour. It was impossible to see properly in the dark, but judging from the candles in the windows, the place was fooking enormous.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to find out, he supposed.

They were met by a butler who put Felicity’s man to shame in the areas of pompousness and stick-up-the-arse-ity. With the unlikely name of Bobo, he was only a few years older than Griffin, but acted as if he were the king of the castle.

“Welcome home, Mr. Armstrong,” Bobo intoned, with a solemn bow. “And Mr. and Mrs. Calderbank, welcome. His Grace is looking forward to greeting you tomorrow.”

Well, thank fook they wouldn’t have to go through that tonight.

“Thank you, Bobo.” Ian looked as tired as Griffin felt. “And where is His Grace?”

“Already retired, sir.”

Ian nodded, then yawned. “Oh, forgive me. I will join him.” He winced. “I mean, I will also retire. I am certain Bobo and Mrs. Bobo—the housekeeper—will ensure you are all shown to your chambers?”

“Certainly, Mr. Armstrong,” intoned Bobo with another bow.

“Then I will bid you goodnight.” Ian nodded to each of them in turn. “Tomorrow you will meet the Duke, and I suggest you do your best to impress him. Remember, we—he values family, so no arguments or drama, if you want to impress him.”

Felicity slipped her hand into Marcia’s. “Of course, Ian. We can only be ourselves.”

The secretary smiled. “I’m certain that will be enough, Flick.”

As Ian hurried up the grand staircase, the butler gestured for the rest of them to follow. “This way. My wife has assigned your chambers near one another in the west wing.”

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