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For instance, he wasn’t smiling now.

His gaze landed on Felicity and Griffin’s linked hands, and she resisted the urge to pull away. She wasn’t doing anything wrong.

Was she?

“Griffin,” Thorne barked, then nodded to Bull and Marcia. “And Miss Montrose. Just the person I wanted to see.”

“M-Me?” Felicity stuttered.

“Aye. Why in the hell—excuse my language—is the bloody carriage of the bloody secretary of the bloody Duke of Peasgoode parked in front of yer bloody townhouse?”

* * *

Griffin pulled his hands from Felicity’s grip, feeling guilty and somehow defiant at being caught holding her. “How do ye ken who he is?”

“Nay, I asked ye a question.” Thorne waggled his finger. “Ye answer first, then I’ll answer.”

So Felicity did. “Mr. Ian Armstrong is my—our guest for the evening, although he expected it to be for longer—representing his employer on some business.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Montrose.”

When Thorne tried that smarmy smile on Felicity, Griffin wanted to punch the arsehole.

“But ye cannae leave me partially satisfied like that.”

Then the bastard winked, and Felicity blushed, and Griffin actually took a step toward him, intending to carefully strangle his friend.

Bull darted between them, his words spilling out with the same frantic movements his hands employed when he had too much energy. “Armstrong is in our house because Marcia and I couldnae use this address, he’d never believe all five of us lived here, and he had to meet with Griffin and Flick together, as well as the rest of us, because he thinks they’re married.”

That shut Thorne up.

The blond man blinked, then glanced at each of them in turn, as if looking for the joke. “I suspect ye’ll have to give me that again, slower, lad. Griffin has been married. I dinnae ken about yer mother.”

“No, milord,” interrupted Marcia shyly. “Mr. Armstrong thinks Papa and Flick are married to each other.”

Thorne’s gaze dropped once more to the spot where Felicity had been holding Griffin’s hands—and he could swear he still felt her heat. Then the bastard’s lips curled thoughtfully. “That is…remarkably convenient. Does anyone want to explain to me why the Duke’s secretary believes that to be the case?”

Luckily, Griffin didn’t have to. He just folded his arms and allowed Bull and Marcia to fall over themselves in their haste to explain to Thorne about the stupid contest Peasgoode had published, and how they’d applied, and the lies they’d told—och, the lies!

But Griffin noticed Bull said nothing about the latest “lie”, the one about Griffin being a spy. Clever lad.

Thorne’s hands were on his hips as he listened with a thoughtful expression on his face, his gaze occasionally slipping across the room to study Felicity, the occasional smile gracing one antic or another. But as the children’s explanations slowed into silence, the man finally nodded.

“I think…I think, believe it or no’, this was exactly what we needed.”

Really, there wasn’t anything else to say but, “Bull shite.”

“Nay,” Felicity’s son quipped with a grin, “It’s Bull, ye Little Shite.”

Those had been his words, and a reluctant grin tugged at Griffin’s lips.

Thank fook his beard hid it.

Thorne turned his charm on the two children. “Miss Marcia, Bull, I hate to do this, but would ye mind giving yer parents and me some privacy?”

“Why?” challenged Marcia, jaw set mulishly. “So ye can talk about taxes?”

“Taxes?” Felicity murmured, beside him.