Page 148 of Dukes for Dessert

Terrifying, even.

Women had undressed him before. Had stayed for a cuddle, a drink, or even a night.

But never in his life had he felt such intimacy. Such immense vulnerability. This was no prelude to wickedness, but a quiet aftermath.

Something a wife would do.

Unstitched by the thought, he reached for her, smoothing his hands over the shape of her slim waist confined in her corset. “Should I unlace you?”

She shook her head, parting only a few buttons of his collar and splaying it open before she nudged him to lie down.

Sebastian did as she directed, stretching long across the bed and creating a cradle for her head in the divot between his shoulder and chest. She settled in exactly the place he’d hoped, fitting against him like a missing piece of a puzzle before resting a hand on his breastbone.

How strange to be so tranquil and unnerved at the same time, he thought as his arms encircled her.

They lay there for a silent moment, their muscles melting together, breaths slowing and eventually synchronizing as Sebastian watched the play of the lantern light on the canopy above.

Never in his life had he sat in silence with a woman, not contentedly at least.

What was Veronica Weatherstoke doing to him? What sort of man would she make of him if they spent more than these precious hours in each other’s company?

It was a question he couldn’t allow himself to ponder. So, he posited one to her instead, one he’d been contemplating since rediscovering her on this train.

“What keeps you from allowing me to make love to you?” He kept his tone casual, as if the answer meant nothing more to him than any passing curiosity. “Are you afraid I’ll get you pregnant?”

Her head shook against his arm. “It isn’t that… In fact, I don’t think you could.”

He grunted. “I assure you, Countess, I come from a very fertile line of—” He felt tension steal back into the hand at his chest, bunching her shoulders closer to her neck.

Not everything is about you. He chided himself, feeling like an absolute ass. “You mean you are not able to…”

“I don’t think I am,” she said matter-of-factly, though the tension didn’t abate as she idly plucked at a button on his shirt. “Surely you don’t want to talk about sad things just now.”

His hand stroked up the soft arm of her gown, and he lifted it to her hair to finish unraveling the few onyx braids that remained intact. “I find I want to know all your secret joys and sorrows.”

She nuzzled in deeper, allowing him more access to her hair. “More sorrow, I’m afraid,” she admitted without dramatics. “Though I’m learning to find joy. To…allow myself the opportunities for discovery and the liberties of pleasure.”

“I suppose children are not conducive to liberty,” he postulated.

“Though I know they can become great sources of joy.” A long breath left her deflated against him as he finished with her braids. Meticulously, Sebastian combed thick fingers through the silken waves of her hair, sifting through little knots or tangles with infinite care, and then massaging the scalp. It was something he’d enjoyed when his locks had been long, and he sought to give her the same shivering delight.

“I am sorry that you were ever denied joy…” he whispered.

A kiss tickled his rib through the thin cotton of his shirt. “I conceived once,” she confessed after another silent beat. “Early on in my marriage. But in my third month, Mortimer…he…he kicked me in the stomach, and I lost the child.”

A red-hot rage poured through Sebastian’s entire being, setting his cursed soul on fire. He took out the memory of Mortimer Weatherstoke’s death and relived it with effusive, savage delight.

Thank God the bastard had never been able to procreate.

The dark, selfish thought was accompanied by shame.

Sebastian himself was proof one didn’t turn out like one’s father. And perhaps a child would have made her life less frightening and lonely. Or conceivably she’d have been subjugated to the hell of a mother forced to watch her husband hurt their child.

The very idea tore through him with claws and teeth, shredding the sweet languor he’d enjoyed only moments before. He shouldn’t have asked the question, not only for his own benefit, but he was certain she’d rather not relive the agony.

Veronica smoothed patient hands over his shoulder. “I don’t want your fury,” she said, low and gentle. “It is done. He is gone from this world, from my life, thanks in part to you.”

“I only regret it was not my hand that wielded the blade.” He didn’t realize he’d spoken the wrathful wish until she replied.