Page 124 of Dukes for Dessert

“My lord.” Weller stood, wiping his mouth and turning to greet the Erstwhile Earl. “You’ll forgive my idle gossip; I was regaling the ladies about your exploits. You’re rather a legend.”

“No forgiveness needed,” came the amiable reply. “Though my deeds are hardly proper breakfast conversation.”

Veronica witnessed his approach through Penelope Weller’s reaction. Her irises, dark like her father’s, gave way to dilating pupils. Her pert nose flared, and her delicate jaw went slack as she arched her neck back, and then further, in order to take in the man’s sheer immensity. A hand went to her hair, fluttering like a butterfly over the honey curls before smoothing over a lush green morning dress of Veronica’s own creation.

Why did the girl have to look so comely in it? So young and unfettered?

Veronica blinked herself back to sanity.

Why the devil did it matter?

“Would you join us for breakfast?” Weller offered Moncrieff, snapping at a waiter and pointing at a chair he wanted taken from another table.

Don’t accept. Don’t say yes, Veronica pleaded inwardly. Please just move along.

“I’ve already dined,” he answered, allowing her to expel her relief on a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. “But how could I refuse at least one cup of tea with such lovely companions?”

Drat and damn and blast! She dug into her recollection of even more foul curses when the hem of his grey morning suit jacket found her periphery as he stepped to the table.

What in God’s name was he doing? A man bent on murder should not be seen dining with his intended victim. How could he smile into Weller’s face all the while expecting to slide a knife into him at the first appropriate moment?

“My lord, allow me to present my wife, Mrs. Adrienne Weller, and our daughter, Penelope.” Arthur Weller swept a hand across the table as the women in question struggled to stand.

“Please, don’t get up my account,” was Moncrieff’s pleasant reply. “I’ll sit.”

Weller made a grand gesture at Veronica who sat on his other side. “And this is the Dowager Countess Southbourne, the Paris fashion prodigy we’ve engaged to make Penny’s wedding trousseau.”

He loved to parade her in front of important people.

“My lord,” she murmured in greeting. She could no longer avoid looking at him without drawing notice to her odd behavior, so she steeled her spine and lifted her gaze.

Instantly, she regretted it.

The shadows had been kind last night, concealing the full force of Sebastian Moncrieff’s presence.

She’d forgotten he didn’t belong to the darkness. That he was this lambent creature of almost blinding splendor, possessed of the depraved sort of good looks that one would ascribe to a pagan god of opulence and sensuality.

On a ship beneath the open, endless horizon he’d been an exceptionally large man.

But on a train where space was at a premium, he took too much of it for the comfort of regularly built people. Like Goliath, he was both a giant and a philistine.

With the scruples of a tomcat.

“A dowager countess employed by a shipping magnate?” Eyes the color of Brandywine lazily touched every part of her visible above the table. Veronica felt quite molested once he’d finished. “My how the world has changed in my years at sea.”

Veronica’s jaw went slack.

How casually he addressed his crimes. Wore his scandal on his skin and bared it to the world—nay, displayed it in pride of place, as if mischief and malice might be awarded a trophy.

A chair appeared behind him, and he rucked up his trousers as he sat, making room for his powerful thighs. Dismissing Veronica, he turned the full weight of his charm toward Adrienne and Penelope. “I understand felicitations are in order on your impending nuptials, Miss Weller.”

“T-thank you,” the girl breathed, her cheeks staining a soft shade of pink.

It took nothing more than a slight smile in the direction of the staff to incite a parade of food and drink in an elegant dance performed only for men of his rank and power.

Ultimately, he ended up choosing an Irish breakfast tea, and pouring an offensive amount of cream and sugar into a cup that looked preposterously small in his hands. “Tell me, Miss Weller, who is the lucky groom?”

“A Count Gyürky in Bucharest,” her father answered for her. “He’s a direct descendant of Catherine the Great. Much like many of our own noble houses.”

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