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“Did you rub her feet anyhow?”

“Of course.” He sounded indignant, and she had to smile.

Of course he had. He cared for his wife.

The same way he is caring for you.

Was it because she was pretending to be his wife?

What had he asked? Oh yes…

“Bull was a delight, even in utero. Of course, I was young and healthy, and I was determined to learn as much as I could. My parents hid me away from Society’s eyes, and we pared down our staff, but I had a maid—Made’s older sister, actually—who was loyal to me, and would find me the books others might have considered too mature for my eyes.”

“Ye were fooking pregnant,” he growled, as his palm dragged across her back. “How much more mature did they expect ye to get?”

“There are those who think a woman should be kept ignorant of her own body.”

The towel came untucked and sagged in the front, but Griffin seemed not to notice, judging from his irritated snort. “That’s ridiculous. Marcia’s no’ ignorant of her body, is she? Fook. Is she?”

Felicity didn’t know, but… “I shall help her learn whatever she wishes to know.”

This time his grunt sounded pleased.

But perhaps that was because he seemed to have noticed the towel situation.

Her nipples pebbled from the cold air and the heat of his gaze.

Felicity realized she was holding her breath as his large palm came to rest on her shoulder. His fingers skimmed across her collarbone in a way that was likely supposed to be comforting, but made her shiver in anticipation.

“Then what happened?”

“Um…” What had they been talking about? Oh yes, her pregnancy. “The birth went well, and I insisted on caring for the babe. That was easy enough, since we had fewer servants and my mother had refused to acknowledge the situation, anyway. My father named my son James Lindsay, after Exingham.”

Humming, Griffin’s fingers skimmed lower. “That doesnae sound like something ye’d agree to.”

“I did not, but Father did not ask my opinion. He believed that naming the babe after its father would ingratiate him to Exingham.” She sucked in a breath as Griffin’s fingertips dragged across the top of her breasts, and she knew her voice was strained as she continued. “But he had not realized how many of the Duke’s sons—legitimate and not—were already named James. It—”

When his hand closed around her breast, she sighed in relief.

“So ye raised the lad?”

Griffin’s question sounded nonchalant as he cupped her and rolled the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She wondered if he realized what he was doing, or if the movement was instinctive.

All she knew was suddenly her focus was on said nipple.

Not on conversation.

“Um…” Oh, yes, he’d asked about Bull. “I did. Or I tried to. As I said, my mother wanted nothing to do with us, and Father soon dismissed us as well. It was difficult, but…fun. I had a small mind to mold, and he really was very bright.”

She knew she was babbling. Of course she was babbling. The man was now tugging at her nipple, and she was learning something new about anatomy. Apparently, unbeknownst to most biology textbooks, her nipple was connected via string to her clitoris, because every time he tugged, the sensation shot sparks through her core.

She squirmed against his lap, wondering if she was getting wet again, and if he was doing it on purpose.

Then, almost to her relief, he returned to his soft caresses, and she could think straight once more. “So how did Bull end up at Exingham?”

Ah, the sad part of the story.

“I said it was fun, but…my parents made certain to tell me how I was harming the lad. I did not think I was, but they pointed out the advantages a duke could give him, versus a single young lady like myself. And…I was strange, I know. I wanted different things than most young ladies.”