Page 125 of Dukes for Dessert

“A count, you say?” Belying his words, Moncrieff’s sip of tea was decidedly unimpressed. “Ah, well…if you can’t find nobility close by, it’s worth looking abroad to the Continent.”

“Yes—well—Gyürky’s holdings are the size of Hampshire,” Weller spluttered, not immune to the implied insult.

Veronica leveled Moncrieff with a scathing look, one he summarily ignored.

How abominably he was behaving. Did he not know that the pique coloring Weller’s features would be felt by his family? That he’d take it out on the women as if his mortification were their fault?

“He’s wealthier than so many of our impoverished noblemen,” Weller said with a sniff.

“Yes, I’m certain his goats are well cared for,” Moncrieff chuckled, then shrugged. “At least he’s not an American.”

“Or a pirate,” Veronica said, finally drawing his notice.

“We were more privateers, my lady,” he corrected with a solicitous smile, one that turned her insides rather slippery and soft. “Regardless of reputation, we generally pillaged according to the rules of maritime law.”

“Generally?” Veronica wrinkled her nose and clenched her thighs. “Last I checked, the Royal Navy is not at war, nor was the Devil’s Dirge under contract with the crown.”

“Semantics.” Moncrieff waved them away as if they held no bearing whatsoever. “It could be argued that any attack on a British vessel could be considered an act of war.”

Was that how he’d wriggled out of trouble with the law?

Or was it because he’d turned the incomparable power of his pulchritude on the queen herself, and the besotted woman granted him full pardon?

Un-bloody-believable.

A handkerchief drifted on an invisible breeze, landing like a silken snowflake at Moncrieff’s feet. It heralded the arrival of a strawberry-haired beauty, thrust into view by an older woman with similar features, but which drooped at the jaw like the jowls of a hound.

“Jessica, you are too clumsy,” berated the matriarch, with overwrought affectation.

“Allow me.” Sebastian bent in his chair and retrieved the scrap of fabric, offering it back to the girl, who was scarcely old enough to have been presented to society.

“Thank you,” she demurred with a coy bat of her lashes. “I’m ever so much obliged.”

Obliged? He returned a scrap of fabric, not the stolen family jewels.

“Think nothing of it,” he replied to the moon-eyed girl, whose entire face bloomed crimson at his wink.

“A true gentleman,” the mother cooed from behind her daughter.

Veronica lowered her lashes to hide the complete orbit of her eyes. Surely, she couldn’t be the only one to notice that all available debutantes seemed to be thanking him for his mere existence.

“Few who know me accuse me of being a gentleman, madam.” His eyes glimmered with merriment as he took another measured sip of his tea.

“I see you don’t recognize me,” the elder woman addressed the table. “I am Heloise de Marchand, Duchess of Lowood.”

This time, the assemblage stood with alacrity. One did not remain seated in the presence of a duchess until she gave her leave.

“Your Grace,” Sebastian executed a perfect bow as the duchess nudged the girl forward with alarming blatancy.

“This is my daughter, Jessica.”

“A pleasure, Lady Jessica.” He caught the girl’s forearm and slid his hand down until her gloved fingers curled over his as he bent to press a kiss over her knuckles.

Veronica’s own hand curled, her nails biting into her palms.

“I am Sebastian Moncrieff, the Earl of—”

“We are well aware of you,” the duchess interjected, as a woman of her age and standing was excused for lapses in manners, so long as they seemed to have done so on purpose. “One does not travel without knowing the importance of one’s fellow passengers.”

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