Page 77 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

He couldn’t afford the distraction.

Tonight ye have to explore the house, discover Peasgoode’s hiding spots. Discover the correspondence with Blackrose. Ye cannae crawl into her bed and lick her sweet cunny, because ye’ll be busy, aye?

He’d rather say to hell with the mission and spend his time in her bed, again.

But he couldn’t.

Meanwhile, the Duke had finally realized the joke and was chortling along with Ian and Bull, while Marcia looked confused and irritated, thank God.

“Bull!” she announced. “Stop it or I’ll start looking for more pillows to throw.”

The lad, still chuckling, picked up his knitting once more. “I’m no’ worried, ye cannae throw for shi—”

“Bull,” interrupted his mother in a warning tone.

“Sorry. Cannae throw for S-H-I-T—”

Felicity harumphed. “It is not any better spelled out.”

“At least it was spelled correctly,” muttered Rupert under his breath.

Marcia, meanwhile, had lost her ladylike demeanor. “My aim is brilliant. Papa taught me to throw!”

“He didnae teach ye to juggle, that’s for certain,” Bull taunted.

Duncan burst into laughter again. “You can juggle, Griffin? I would love a demonstration!”

Well, fook. Nay, of course he couldn’t juggle. Who the hell juggled?

Ye’d better pray he doesnae ask ye to prove it.

Perhaps Felicity sensed this was getting out of hand. “Children, settle down, please. We cannot have the Duke thinking we have raised a group of”—she hesitated—“of D-E-V-I-L-L-S.”

“You didn’t,” muttered Rupert, hopefully too low for anyone else to hear.

But Duncan was still chuckling. “On the contrary, dear Mrs. Calderbank, I am charmed by how ye’ve allowed yer children to be themselves. I love that I get to see them as they truly are, rather than their straight-laced attempts at propriety. I’m delighted to see you care for them each deeply and have celebrated their uniqueness.”

Griffin could tell Felicity was uncomfortable with the praise, particularly since she’d admitted to not knowing much about childrearing. Her cheeks were bright pink, and she dropped her attention to her lap.

“Please, call me Felicity,” she said quietly. “Or rather, Flick.”

“I shall be delighted, my dear,” the Duke assured her. “Now, I dinnae have much more time before I have to rush off to my next obligation, but I want to ask about the letters you sent. Ian told me the children applied, and I was intrigued by that. So Bull, ye were the one who wrote all those delightful details? About your family traditions, and your piano playing, and the family octopus? What was his name, again?”

On cue, Bull, Marcia and Rupert all crossed themselves. “Requiescat in pace, Snorky,” they intoned together.

“Clearly some of your grandfather’s religious teachings were passed on,” the Duke pointed out.

Ian, meanwhile, had perked up. “You play the piano, Bull? I’d forgotten that!”

Bull’s expression turned a bit panicky as he slowly lowered the knitting. “Uhhh…”

Oh, shite. Another lie that was going to bite them in the arse?

Griffin frantically wracked his brain to come up with a way to turn the conversation away from his counterfeit step-son’s counterfeit piano ability. Nothing presented itself.

But Duncan’s expression had lit up. “Oh, Bull, Ian and I do so adore piano music. He used to be quite talented, ye ken.”

His secretary shot him a disgruntled look. “I still am.”

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