Page 116 of Dukes for Dessert

The drapes had been left open, revealing the meager glow of the city as it reflected off the delicate flakes of snow to mingle with various lights from the train. It illuminated just enough of the cabin to outline the shadows of furniture and glint off crystal, silver, and his blade.

Tucking the knife against his cuff, Sebastian slithered closer to his mark.

The vile fuck would finally get what was coming to him. Perhaps he should light a lamp so he could watch the life bleed from Weller’s eyes.

Sebastian had never been a macabre sort of fellow. He left that to men with darker predilections. But this…this was personal.

Drifting to the bed, he loomed over the outline of a slim body, his every muscle coiled like a snake.

When he struck, it was with a viper’s speed and precision, and before his victim could blink from slumber to awareness, he’d a knife to his throat and arms pinned helplessly to his side.

Wait.

He released one alarmingly slim arm to test a curious softness he’d not expected.

Breasts. Shit.

“Please.” The feminine plea feathered over his flesh and arrowed down his breastbone, landing in his cock. “Please, no.”

Lord, but he loved it when they begged.

Begged for pleasure, to be precise, never for their lives.

This was a disconcerting development, to say the least.

Sebastian snatched his offending hand away from the lovely orb with no small amount of reluctance and regret. The shape had fit his palm like a dream, the warmth of the plentiful flesh beneath a thin cotton night rail a balm to his frozen fingers. The plump nipple beaded against the cold.

Who was this, the wife or the daughter? Thinking swiftly, he returned the knife to his cuff with the swiftest sleight of hand. If he was lucky, he could rely on what he always did to get out of trouble with a lady.

His charm and general magnificence.

“Do pardon me, madam, or is it miss? I fear I have the wrong railcar.” He released her carefully and straightened, hoping to convey chagrin from the shadows. “I was…invited by a woman, you see, and this is the car number she gave me along with orders to be stealthy. I dare think we both might have been had.”

“Moncrieff?”

The disbelieving whisper froze the blood in his veins and his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

That voice.

He’d recognize it anywhere. Heard it in his most salacious dreams.

And the mild ones, as well.

Her features were little better than shadows, but it didn’t matter. He’d committed her every feature to memory more than a year ago. The curve of her cheekbone, sharp yet delicate. The silk of her ebony hair and the cream of her skin.

The veritable perfection of her incomparable beauty.

Veronica Weatherstoke.

A woman possessed of every virtue he’d lost along the way.

She was loyal, erudite, patient, measured, clever, strong…

Kind.

It was rare for such a beautiful woman to develop such deep wells of compassion, rarer still a countess. Hers was not a refined sort of empathy.

She’d been born into this merciless world with a tender heart, soft eyes the color of the finest jade, and a full, kind mouth…

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