Page 80 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

She was blushing. She knew she was blushing, and she hated it, because she’d always suspected her skin turned as red as her hair. But how could she not blush, when he was saying such nice things about her? Oh, certainly, he was merely playing the role of a proud spouse, but still…

“I am not all that important,” she murmured, dropping her gaze to her hands, linked in her lap.

“Aye, ye are, Flick.”

Then his large hand was covering hers. That callused hand, which had shown her so much pleasure only two nights ago, merely because she’d asked him.

That, and you bribed him. And you were caught. Perhaps that was why he stayed away last night.

The sobering reminder had had lifting her chin once more.

Without looking at him, she took a deep breath and launched into an explanation. Usually, right around the discussion about apertures, people’s eyes started to glaze over. It was something she had learned young, and why she always preferred the company of her cats over Society; she never knew when to stop talking about her projects, so she didn’t talk about them at all.

But here were Duncan and Ian and even Rupert nodding along in interest as she explained the difference between silver halides and other emulsions, and how the Frenchmen Louis Le Prince had recently traveled to America to further his studies, was even further along than she was, and how they all shared information openly.

Bull called out some helpful hints, and it was gratifying to know that while he was clearly more interested in the lovely blue scarf he was still working on, he’d been paying attention to her work.

And while Marcia looked bored to tears, her chin propped up on one palm, even Griffin offered insights from his place by her side.

Soon, the weight of his hand on hers became comforting. Normal. As if things had always been this way.

Finally, Duncan interrupted. “I feel certain Ian would’ve told ye to bring yer equipment, lass. Did ye?”

Her mouth was still open, mid-dissertation about the benefits of silver nitrates and potassium bromide, but she slowly shut it. Then she nodded. “Yes,” she admitted. “I brought some of my cameras.”

“Excellent! I wish for ye to photograph me! Me and Ian!”

“I—usually my subjects are cats, Your Grace.”

“Duncan,” he corrected. “And I promise, I will behave better than a kitten. Go, go and fetch them. Ian will help.”

In fact, Griffin accompanied her upstairs to retrieve the important items, while the children kept the Duke and Ian occupied with more stories of their childhood—the Lord only knew how many were true. Felicity found herself more nervous than anything else, squinting in the dim light from the chandelier swaying over her bed and dropping important boxes, until Griffin swooped in to rescue her.

“Relax, Flick,” he reminded her with a wink. “I’ll take these.”

“But—” She tried to protest, but he bent down and placed a quick kiss on her lips.

It was over before it began, but left her reeling.

He’d kissed her. Ian wasn’t there. No one was there, except the two of them. There was no need for them to appear to be in a loving marriage.

She tried to work through it logically, but her brain kept getting stuck on the feel of his lips on hers, until the only explanation she could come up with was that he’d kissed her because he’d wanted to kiss her.

And now Griffin was watching her, one side of his lips quirked upward again. It wasn’t a smile, but it wasn’t his usual scowl either.

“Stop trying to overthink things, Flick. It’ll be aright.” And then he kissed her again.

She found herself whimpering and leaning into him, and when he pulled back, he was most definitely smiling.

And she was too.

When they returned to the Blue Room, she was in a thoughtful frame of mind but was quickly distracted by the Duke’s excitement.

“Shall we go out into the gardens, Felicity? Is the lighting better there?”

“No, I can photograph you here.”

“No’ in my chair! Ian, come help me out of this blasted contraption. Rupert, be a dear and fetch that walking stick.”

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