Page 88 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

That seemed like a logical fallacy.

Phallus-y?

Last night he hadn’t come to her, and seeing as how the clock had ticked past midnight, Felicity suspected he wasn’t going to come to her tonight either.

Did he think he’d satisfied her curiosity? Did he think she was done learning from him?

She was a scientist; she would never stop learning!

And, she suspected, Griffin had years of things he could teach her.

Felicity lay in her bed, hands crossed over her stomach, staring up at the chandelier. What an odd choice; to hang it directly over the bed. And it seemed rickety, swaying slightly in the nonexistent breeze.

Last night she’d stayed awake as long as she could, waiting for him, but when she’d slept, it had been deep and refreshing. It meant that she wasn’t the least bit tired now.

She needed something to exhaust her.

She needed Griffin.

With an irritated huff, Felicity threw back the covers and swung her legs off the bed. If he thought she was done with him, he had another think coming! He owed her, didn’t he? She’d skipped up to the Highlands, was doing a bang-up job at convincing the Duke and Ian that they were one big, happy—highly functioning, not at all conspiratorial—family, and was falling in love with the man.

The least he could do was make love to her again.

Perhaps three or four times. Five times, at least.

By this time in her irritation, she’d managed to pull on her dressing gown and was standing in front of the adjoining door to his chamber. Without her spectacles, everything was a blur, but she’d seen it yesterday; it was almost the same as her own, but decorated in maroons and gold, as compared to hers which was mainly in blues.

She’d always found blue soothing.

But tonight Felicity couldn’t relax, and she suspected it had nothing to do with the wallpaper, and everything to do with who wasn’t in the room with her.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door to the connecting changing room, walked through, and then boldly stepped into his room.

She expected to hear snoring, or at least deep breathing. A mound under the covers on the bed, or perhaps—if he was having trouble sleeping—propped up reading a book. Did Griffin enjoy novels? She’d only ever seen him read the newspaper.

He wasn’t reading anything now.

He wasn’t even there.

She checked.

Not in bed, not in the bathing room, not in the closet, not under the desk.

By the time she realized she was bending over, checking under the blasted desk for a full-grown man, it should’ve been obvious he wasn’t there.

He wasn’t in the room.

So where was he?

And that’s when she remembered how he and Bull had gone off that morning and the day before, poking around. Bull had invited her on a tour of the gardens that afternoon, and told her how they’d searched for hints of Peasgoode’s connection to Blackrose, but hadn’t found anything so far. The investigation was hampered by their secrecy.

“He’s shite at small talk, Flick,” her son had announced proudly. “So Griffin’s put me in charge of making friends with the servants and stable hands. He thinks I can likely get information he cannae.”

“He is smart,” she’d admitted wryly. “But you will be careful, Bull, do you understand?”

He’d glanced at her, his grin softening to something else. Something which reminded her of the sticky, sweet boy he used to be. He’d slipped his hand into hers then, and squeezed.

“Aye, Mother. I’ll stay safe.”

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