Page 73 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

“Flick,” Marcia drawled with a roll of her eyes, “you don’t have to spell out dutiful.”

“Unless she thought she was full of doody,” Rupert deadpanned.

His siblings cracked up.

Siblings? Nay, he only has a sister. Bull is not his brother. Try to remember that.

Griffin wasn’t completely surprised that neither the Duke nor Ian joined them for breakfast. What did surprise him was that there weren’t any other guests dining with them.

Either Peasgoode’s other guests didn’t break their fasts in public, or there were no other guests. Thorne had said the estate was remote and the Duke reclusive; did he not make a habit of entertaining?

Ian had indicated he’d interviewed other applicants to be the Duke’s heir, and none of them had quite measured up to Peasgoode’s metric. Was it possible none of them had been invited to the Highlands to meet the Duke?

All of that suited Griffin just fine.

Their meal was enjoyable and a bit raucous, so maybe it was for the best that they were alone. Even Griffin found himself enjoying the children’s banter, and Felicity’s adorable attempts at maintaining propriety. Fruitless attempts.

When they were finished breakfasting, the butler magically appeared in the doorway. “The Duke invites you to meet with him in the Blue Room,” Bobo intoned.

“Och, that must be fancy,” Bull mock whispered. “Ye can hear the capital letters.”

As they filed out, Griffin found a beaming Mrs. Mac waiting for them. He raised a brow. “Are ye joining us, then?”

“Weeeeelllll…” She waggled her palm back and forth, as if deciding. “I was going to tootle over to the falconry, but I suppose I could take a few minutes to meet a Duke first, eh?”

Griffin didn’t roll his eyes, but it was close. Instead, he bowed regally, indicating she should precede him and she did, with a flounce.

There was no one in the room.

Bull whistled as they spread out. “See what I mean? Capital-letters-worthy.”

“Try not to steal anything,” Marcia murmured.

Felicity cleared her throat. “Bull does not steal things.”

It was a Mother tone of voice, a tone which brooked no argument. Bull made the sign of the Cross and clasped his hands in front of him as if praying.

This time Griffin did roll his eyes, and turned away, so the lad wouldn’t see his smile. It was in time to watch Mrs. Mac bend over double, her arm almost shoulder-deep in an apron pocket six inches to a side.

“This ought to help, young man, eh?” she declared proudly, as—with a manner of a magician pulling a donkey from a hat—she presented him with a set of knitting needles and a skein of blue yarn.

“Brilliant, Mrs. Mac!” Bull declared, scooping them from her and placing a kiss on her cheek. “This will most definitely keep me from rifling through the Duke’s heirloom silver cabinet.”

The words were so clearly dripping in sarcasm they might as well been dipped in it, and Griffin wasn’t the only one who snorted disbelievingly.

The door on the other side of the room entered, and two men stepped through.

Rather, one man stepped, one man rolled. Ian Armstrong—tall and lithe—was pushing a bath chair, in which sat a short, elderly, slightly plump man. His lap was covered with a blanket woven in the MacIver plaid, and behind his spectacles his eyes glittered brightly.

The Duke of Peasgoode looked like someone’s benevolent grandfather.

Griffin slowly rose to his feet, and the rest of his counterfeit family followed.

“Your Grace,” he greeted stiffly, bowing.

“This is them, Ian?” The Duke’s voice didn’t sound as weak as his body. Instead, he sounded excited, as he shared a knowing smile with his secretary. “Please, please, introduce us!”

Ian smiled as he placed his hand gently on the Duke’s shoulder. “His Grace, the Duke of Peasgoode, Lord Duncan MacIver. May I present the Calderbanks?”

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