Page 75 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

Perhaps it was because he’d been thinking about her, but when he found his seat, he was surprised to find himself tucked up beside Felicity on the sofa. Surprised because he’d intended to stand over by the hearth, where he could watch the proceedings with care, not be distracted by her warmth and sweet scent.

When she shot him a small, secret smile, Griffin threw his arms around her shoulders and dragged her up against him. He hadn’t intended to do that either, but he was helpless when it came to her, apparently.

As Felicity placed her hand on his knee in what must’ve looked like a loving gesture, Duncan beamed at them.

He’s a traitor to the Crown. Try to remember that. He might look like a delighted auld man, but he’s helping the man who killed yer first wife.

Damn. Nay, Mary wasn’t his first wife. She was his only wife.

The woman whose thumb was currently drawing small circles on his knee—he doubted she was even aware of it—wasn’t actually his.

She—he—This whole situation was just one big phony scheme.

But the Duke of Peasgoode was beaming at them, which meant it had worked.

“Griffin, lad, I notice ye’re no’ wearing yer clan colors.” The Duke proudly patted the blanket across his lap. “I ken no’ everyone is keen on their knees waving about in the breeze, but ye’re in the Highlands now! Ye must show yer clan affiliations!”

Knitting needles clicking, Bull announced with a grin, “Ye hear that, Marsh? Maybe ye ought to wear the MacIver kilt.”

Before his daughter would agree—God help them all—Griffin cleared his throat. “My father was a simple vicar, Yer—Duncan. I wasnae raised to claim any particular clan affiliation.”

The older man exchanged an amused glance with his secretary, who had taken a nearby seat, then pulled back the blanket on his lap to reveal his own kilt. “Well, lad…” He reached out a hand to Ian, and the other man took it, helping the Duke slowly to his feet.

Duncan, still holding his secretary’s hand like a lifeline, gestured proudly at his kilt. “Griffin, I would be pleased—nay, honored if ye would consider wearing the MacIver colors while ye’re at Peasgoode, or longer.”

Felicity squeezed Griffin’s knee, but he needed no urging on how to politely accept a favor. “Aye, Duncan,” he managed, surprised to find his voice rough with emotion. “I would be honored as well. Thank ye.”

But how could he wear the colors of a traitor?

Marcia was on her feet already. She planted her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side as she studied the Duke. “That’s a kilt, is it?”

“Aye, young lady.” Duncan seemed amused instead of horrified by her outspoken behavior, thank fook. “Have ye never seen one?”

She flipped the tails of her jacket out of the way and shoved her hands in the pockets of her trousers. “No, not really. I’ve recently decided dresses aren’t for me, you see, and then I show up in Scotland and discover even the men wear them?”

“Miss Marcia, this is not a dress,” Ian declared with affront.

But Duncan was chuckling, and waved away the insult. “Young Marcia, is it?” He held out his hand, and she took it, a little hesitantly. He pulled her forward. “A Highlander’s kilt is a sacred thing, ye ken.” He pointed out each part as he spoke. “The pleats are exact, and each has meaning. The way it hits the knees in the front and is longer in the back, see? It’s folding and donning is a bit meditative, truth be told.”

“What’s that?” Marcia was pointing at the furry pouch dangling in front of his crotch.

Griffin groaned and dropped his head into his free hand.

Luckily, the Duke merely chuckled. “This is the sporran. I keep my—well, I suppose ye’d call it a pocket, really.”

“You have to wear a purse?” Marcia demanded, aghast. “Your kilt doesn’t have pockets?”

“Do yer dresses have pockets?” the Duke shot back, clearly amused at the thought of a sporran being called such an ignoble name.

“No! That’s why I’m wearing trousers!”

Duncan chuckled and released her hand. “Well, lass, kilts dinnae have pockets. We wear the sporran instead.”

She shook her head in disgust. “No thank you, then. I’m not going back to something that requires a purse. Bull, ye should wear a kilt. I’ll carry yer things in my pockets, for a change.”

Bull’s lips twitched, but he pretended interest in his knitting. Was that a scarf he was making? “I have a kilt already, in Lindsay colors.”

“Yes, but you’re not a Lindsay any longer, brother,” Marcia pointed out snidely, as she sprawled onto the chair at his side. “You’re a Calderbank.”

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