Page 126 of Dukes for Dessert

“Indeed.” Sebastian flicked a glance at Weller. Or was it Veronica? They stood close enough in the cramped space it was impossible to tell. “Allow me, then, to make presentations to—”

“We’ve not the time, Moncrieff.” The duchess sniffed toward the table, her only recognition of the existence of other people thus far. “Now that we’ve been introduced and you’ve proven yourself a gentleman, I’d like to invite you to our private car for breakfast.”

His eyes lit with interest, and Veronica felt her own demeanor darken.

He’s a bloody pirate! She wanted to scream. How could a woman—a duchess—be throwing her young, buxom daughter at the man? Did she not know his seat was in ruins? His family in shambles?

He’d been arrested only a year past!

“It would be rude to leave the lovely Wellers and the Dowager Countess Southbourne’s company.”

The duchess finally glanced over at them as if they were mud she’d scraped from the bottom of her shoe. “I’d have invited the Countess if she’d not regrettably returned to her origins in trade.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Moncrieff slid Veronica a speaking glance. “Fashion is more of a passionate hobby than anything. Much like the Duchess of Trenwyth does with her paintings.”

Veronica’s fingers itched to curl around his obscenely thick neck.

Opening her fan, the woman used it as a shield against the now awkward assembly. “The difference is vast, dear Moncrieff. The Duchess of Trenwyth’s painting hangs in the Queen’s own private quarters. She does not lease her services to new money.”

New money. The phrase encompassed and oppressed the social standing of entrepreneurs such as manufacturers, transporters, and merchants who were quickly amassing fortunes, often far greater than those held by the landed lords.

Veronica couldn’t see Weller’s features, but his neck turned an alarming shade of purple.

“You are wicked,” Moncrieff teased indulgently, though she noted that his smile was confined only to his lips. “Men like me are forced to dowry-hunt amongst new money, so I cannot share your sentiments.”

The duchess’s eyes glinted. “Follow me, Moncrieff, there’s more to discuss on the topic of dowries.” Her head gestured toward the door before she flared her skirts and sailed away, her diminutive daughter trailing in her wake.

Affecting a regretful expression, Moncrieff turned back to the table. “It seems noble duty calls.” Rather than hurrying away, he bent and kissed the hand of each lady at the table, leaving Veronica for last. He reached across Weller to envelope her fingers, lips only hovering above her knuckles.

“It’s been a rare pleasure,” he said before sauntering away.

They all watched, mute, until he was forced to tilt his shoulders to the side in order to fit through the door.

“Insufferable man!” Weller threw his linen on the table and sat down in a heap. “I didn’t like him from the moment I laid eyes on him,” he said, as if he’d not been close to licking Moncrieff’s boots only a moment before.

“I don’t think he meant us disrespect,” Penelope murmured, her voice painted with awe. “It’s impossible to refuse a real-life duchess.”

“Do you mean to disrespect me by defending him?” Weller snarled, his knuckles whitening as they gripped the side of the table.

Adrienne placed a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, as the girl had gone several shades of green. “She meant nothing by it, Arthur. I’m certain we were all overwhelmed by our first brush with a woman of such rank and an earl of such…such…”

Weller leaned forward, his cheeks mottled with barely-leashed rage. “Such. What?” he asked from behind clenched teeth.

“Such infamy,” she finished quickly.

His nostrils flared for a fraught moment, and then he leaned back into his chair, taking up his cutlery. “One wonders how a body would fare being thrown from a train at this speed,” he speculated, apropos of nothing. “Do you think the snow would cushion a fall?”

Veronica didn’t remark on the ill-concealed threat, directed at no one in particular. Her entire being was focused on the piece of rolled-up paper Moncrieff had tucked into her hand.

4

Sebastian most often found anticipation a delicious form of torture.

However, that was before he’d had to wait in the third cargo car back from second class, wondering if Veronica Weatherstoke would be the first woman in his personal history to deny an invitation to meet him.

Rather than luggage, his surroundings were dedicated to freight and shipped goods of every imaginable kind. Copper pipes lashed to the right wall gleamed in the wan light from the window. Across from them, bolted shelves propped up gluttonous bags of barley and seed. Crates of frozen butter were stacked neatly by fragile boxes of wine glasses.

There would be a battalion of wine glasses. Their next stop was Paris, after all.