Page 10

Why the fook are ye complaining? Ye didnae want it to have a personality. It’s a bloody house!

He paused, hand on the front door, and glanced at his neighbor’s home once more.

Miss Felicity Montrose.

By God, she was… He’d thought her socially awkward, a frightened little mouse, always scurrying from him when he’d demanded she plaster up that fooking door.

But last night…

Last night…

He didn’t know how to finish that thought, but his cock stiffened at the reminder.

He’d threatened her. He’d pressed her against the wall. He’d felt all of her.

And he’d felt her response to him, even before she’d known who he was. He’d felt her, not just against him, but in him and with him and—

And ye’re sounding ridiculous. Get over it. Go upstairs and frig yer hand again, like ye did this morning, and perhaps ye’ll be reasonable company at dinner.

Thank fook neither of his children were old enough to wonder at his distraction.

Because just the thought of the way Felicity Montrose’s breasts had felt, pressed against him…

With a growl, Griffin wrenched open the door. “I’m home!” he bellowed as he tossed his hat onto the rack, the announcement more for Mrs. Mac than the children. The nanny-turned-housekeeper knew to hold dinner until his return, and would even now likely be bustling about to finish preparations.

“Father!”

He managed to drop his briefcase in time to catch his son, who’d barreled down the steps into him. “Whoa, where’s the fire?”

“Upstairs!” Rupert blurted with a grin. “But it was a small one, and Marcia helped me put it out.”

Griffin frowned, even as he turned them both toward the kitchen. “I dinnae ken if I approve of a course of study which involves setting things on fire.”

“Father, it was just a little fire. I needed to see if Joules’ studies on the transfer of heat through matter could be replicated with base materials.”

Ten-year-old Rupert was a genius, as far as his father was concerned, but a bit single-minded when it came to his engineering projects or anything involving an encyclopedia. He deserved the best teachers in the country, but for now he’d have to make do with the second-hand books Griffin had scrounged for him. “And Mrs. Mac approved of this experiment?”

His son shrugged off Griffin’s arm. “No, and she scolded me twice already, so you don’t have to. Marcia was looking for you!” he called as he ducked into the dining room.

Griffin turned to watch him go and was surprised to see the table set. Usually the four of them ate in the kitchen, to make life easier for Mrs. Mac. The dining set had belonged to his wife’s family, and it was one of the few useless pieces of furniture he’d bothered to sneak out of England when they’d fled.

Mary would have appreciated the fact her children still used it, but something about the room tugged at his attention.

“Papa, there you are!”

He turned to see Marcia hurrying down the steps toward him. His brows rose when he took in her appearance. Last year, when he hadn’t been so concerned about conserving money, he’d taken the children to the New York ballet. The pink silk concoction she now wore was the dress he’d purchased for that occasion.

He knew for a fact his daughter hated it.

“Ye look lovely, sweetheart.” He greeted her with a kiss on her forehead. “Is it yer birthday I forgot, or Rupert’s?”

“Neither,” she giggled. “I just wanted to look nice tonight.” When his gaze slid back to the dining room, she took his hands and dragged his attention back to her. “Could you please change into your dinner jacket?”

He glanced at his suit. Perfectly acceptable for an accountant’s clerk, or a simple family meal. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” And since when did Marcia care about his appearance?

“Nothing’s wrong, Papa, I just want…tonight to be special.” She blinked those big blue eyes up at him. “Please, Papa?”

Well, shite. How was a man supposed to trust anything asked in that syrupy sweet tone? This whole thing was suspicious as hell.