Page 89 of The Duke's Counterfeit Wife

It was a sweet memory, but now that Felicity considered it—standing in the middle of Griffin’s room, tapping her lip irritably—her son hadn’t told her what Griffin would be up to.

“He is sneaking about in the dark,” she muttered, glaring at the fire which was burning down. “That is why he did not come to me last night.”

Or tonight.

She wasn’t sure if she was happy to have such a simple explanation, or frustrated he hadn’t shared his plans with her.

If he had, you would just spend this time worrying over him, would you not?

Well, yes. Perhaps he’d been trying to do her a favor.

Hmmm. Perhaps she should do him a favor.

Just as that thought popped into her head, there was a sound from next door. Her room. It was a muffled sort of thud, and caused her to swing back to the room in surprise. She yanked open the door, half-expecting to see Griffin standing there, but stopped still at what she did see.

Squinting, Felicity wondered if she needed her glasses after all.

No, no, there was no mistaking what had happened.

The chandelier had fallen.

Right out of the ceiling; even she could see where the connecting chain had neatly snapped in two, causing it to plunge down atop the bed, severely inconveniencing anyone who might have been lying there.

As she had been, an hour ago. As she and Griffin had been, two nights ago.

Oh dear.

Well, other than the dust caused by the thing’s fall, there appeared to be no reason to scream or wake the household. It could be addressed in the morning. In the meanwhile, she would say quite a few prayers of thanks that neither she nor Griffin had been lying in the bed at the time.

Griffin…

Her thoughts turned to her earlier plan. After all, there was no way she could sleep in her own chamber tonight, could she?

A yawn caught her by surprise, and she finished with a smile.

Stripping out of her dressing gown and nightrail, she laid both over one of the chairs in Griffin’s chambers and climbed into the big bed. His was even larger than hers, the headboard and posts made of a thick, dark wood, and the counterpane nice and fluffy.

There were, however, far too few pillows.

She nestled into the exact center of the bed, curled up on her side, and promptly went to sleep.

The fire had burned to embers and the moon had set—the room was pitch-dark, was the point—when she woke to the sound of the door opening.

Felicity stared up in the darkness, her breathing shallow so she could listen to the sounds across the room. There were very few of them. Was Griffin wearing shoes, or padding around Peasgoode in the dark in just his stockinged feet?

The next sound she heard was near the bureau, and she marveled how he’d moved across the chamber without making noise. He fumbled for something, then the lamp clicked on.

From a distance, her eyesight wasn’t the best without her glasses, but she could see him well enough to see the frown tugging at his lips, see the way his brows were draw in either disappointment or irritation. She hoped she wasn’t about to make it worse.

“Hello,” she said.

His reaction was immediate; Griffin dropped to a crouch and spun about, a knife appearing in his fist as if by magic.

Since she was sitting up in his bed, and quite naked, she hoped he was able to determine she wasn’t a threat.

Still, he paused for a moment, expression blank as if trying to place her…before he blinked and straightened. “Jesus Christ, Flick, what are ye doing? Trying to kill me?”

“Says the man with a knife in his hand.” She tried to make light of the situation. “Do you always tiptoe around the dark with a knife?”

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