Page 11 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

B efore Alexander reached the top of the front steps, the door to number 16 Grosvenor Square opened.

“Ah, Wheeler, isn’t it?” he said to the black-clad butler. “Is Lady Rex receiving visitors?”

“Naturally, sir.”

The butler’s expression revealed little, but Alexander could swear he caught an undercurrent of disdain. Butlers were a different breed—they considered themselves the ultimate guardians of etiquette, even greater champions of propriety than the people they served.

Even dukes.

“You’ll find her in the parlor, Your Grace.”

“Lead the way, then,” Alexander said. “Though I’m paying for this house, this is the first time I’ve set foot in it.”

The butler rolled his eyes, then he escorted Alexander to a door, knocked, and opened it.

“His Grace, the Duke of Sawbridge,” he said, his tone almost apologetic.

Alexander heard a soft “Oh,” then he entered the parlor. Mimi stood, with another woman, beside a table laden with fabric and ribbons.

His blood surged with want as his gaze slid over Mimi’s delectable form. She stared back at him, apprehension in her soft brown eyes, then dipped into a curtsey.

“Your Grace, I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“ Weren’t you?”

She colored, then addressed her companion. “Peg, have you everything you need?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Excellent. Perhaps you’d like to take tea with your cousin before leaving?”

“Yes, thank you, ma’am.” The companion gathered the cloths and ribbons, then exited the parlor.

Alexander approached Mimi and held out his hands. After a pause, she took them, and the apprehension in her eyes disappeared, replaced by the hard smile of the doxy.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” she said brightly.

She played her part well. Why, then, did he find it so infuriating? Couldn’t she give him a little of the softness he’d glimpsed before? He was paying her enough to please him.

He glanced at her dress. “I see you have a new gown, though it doesn’t look to be up to Madame Deliet’s usual standard.”

Her smile slipped.

“It’s not a new gown,” she said. “I had it altered to fit while my gowns are being made.”

“You’ve been here almost a week,” he replied. “Hasn’t Madame Deliet finished even one gown? I’m anxious to take you out.”

“Are you?” A flare of hope shimmered in her eyes.

“I want to get my money’s worth.”

The hope faded. “How very prudent of you.”

“Prudence is overrated,” he said. “Madame Deliet’s intelligent enough to understand that if she works quickly, she can command a higher fee. She knows I always pay well for my…possessions.”

She flinched—almost imperceptibly, but enough to confirm that his arrow had hit home.

“If a man is foolish enough to pay over the odds for the goods, then that’s his loss,” she said.

“Or gain,” he replied, “if the gowns are delectable enough. I trust Madame won’t let me down.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said. “Madame Deliet isn’t making my gowns. She refused to serve me.”

“She refused ?” He shook his head. “That woman would serve anyone if there’s a profit to be had.”

“Evidently not anyone .”

“Well, there goes my reputation if even she won’t deal with me,” Alexander said.

She let out a snort. “ Your reputation is intact,” she said. “You’re a fool if you think Society will shun you forever—your title and wealth will win them over no matter how heinous your crimes. Perhaps, when asking yourself why Madame evicted me from her shop, you should consider how Society views a woman , rather than a man.”

“What did you say to her about me?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

Defiance flashed in her eyes, and a fizz of need went straight to his groin. He pulled her close and parted his lips for a kiss, but she withdrew and approached the fireplace.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Ringing the bell for tea.”

“I didn’t come here to take tea .”

She stiffened, then turned to face him, and cold fingers clenched at his stomach at the darkness in her eyes as she lowered her gaze to the bulge in his breeches.

“Where do you want me?” she asked.

“In the bedroom.”

“Very well.”

She crossed the floor, stopping to retrieve a ribbon from the floor, then stood before him, the slight tremor in her body the only evidence of emotion.

“Would you like your whore naked, my lord—or would you prefer to strip her yourself?”

A sharp intake of breath came from the doorway, and Alexander turned to see the butler, together with a footman who looked barely old enough to be out of leading strings. The footman blushed scarlet, while the butler merely arched an eyebrow.

Alexander opened his mouth to reply, but shame tightened his throat—shame at being overheard, and at having exposed her to the contempt of her servants.

“Struggling to choose, Your Grace?” she sneered. “Then let me surprise you. But next time you must tell me what you prefer. I’m anxious to earn my fee.”

Her head held high as if she were the duchess and he the basest creature on earth, she swept past him. The servants parted to let her through the doorway.

“Ma’am, if there’s anything you need…” the butler began.

“No thank you, Wheeler. I can see to myself. Please tend to His Grace. Give him anything he requires before he”—her voice wavered—“visits me upstairs.”

She exited the parlor, leaving Alexander with the two servants.

“Fetch me a brandy,” he said.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the footman replied, but the butler placed a hand on the youth’s shoulder.

“No, Charles,” he said, meeting Alexander’s gaze. “ I’ll do it.”

This time there was no mistaking the butler’s disdain, or to whom it was directed.

By the time Wheeler returned, Alexander’s guilt no longer needled at him—it sliced through his heart with vicious strokes, like an angry duelist at dawn.

“Your brandy, Your Grace.”

Alexander took the proffered glass and drained it, letting the acrid liquid tear into his senses. But it didn’t numb the guilt.

“Another?” the butler asked.

“No,” Alexander said. “Forgive me.”

“What for?”

Alexander sighed. “I think you know what for.”

“In which case, sir, might I suggest it’s not my forgiveness you require.”

“Ought a butler speak to his master thus?”

“Perhaps not, sir—but though you told Lady Rex just now that prudence is overrated, every butler knows that propriety is not.”

Bloody hell —it was almost like being back at Eton standing in front of his housemaster, awaiting a caning for some transgression.

But perhaps a bloody good caning was needed, given the transgression he’d committed—six of the best, trousers down.

I really am an utter bastard.

By rights he should slink back to his house with his tail between his legs. But that was the choice of the coward. The least he could do was face her—match her courage and dignity.

After dismissing the butler, he made his way up the stairs, approached the nearest door, and pushed it open.

The chamber was furnished in soft shades of blue and yellow—a bed beside the window, with a two-seater sofa beside the fireplace, a table beside the window bearing a vase of flowers, and a dressing table opposite the bed. The simplicity of the interior gave it a spacious air—room to breathe. Sunlight streamed into the room from a tall sash window, illuminating the vase of flowers, rendering the petals luminescent. He approached the vase and traced the soft, cool edge of a petal with his fingers.

The dressing table was bare, save a hairbrush and a bottle of cologne—hardly the tools of a doxy’s trade. Suppressing his guilt at the intrusion, he picked up the bottle and held it to his nose, inhaling the scent of rose.

This was her bedchamber—but she was nowhere to be seen.

Feeling guilty at having invaded her privacy, he slipped out and clicked the door shut.

He opened the next door along—and caught his breath.

The room was darker, furnished with thick velvet that absorbed the light and stifled the senses. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the sunlight, but two candles at either end of the mantelshelf cast an orange glow that picked out the shapes of the armchairs beside the fireplace, the vases either side of the window…

…and the naked woman on the bed.

“At last, he comes.” She raised her hand and beckoned.

“What are you doing, Mimi?” he asked.

“Fulfilling my part of the bargain. After all, you’re not here to take tea .”

He approached the bed. “Mimi, I—”

“Hush, Your Grace.” She slid off the bed and placed a finger on his lips. Then she dropped to her knees and undid the buttons on his breeches. A rush of heat coursed through his veins as she slipped her hand inside and circled his already stiffening manhood.

Sweet heaven! Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back, relishing the touch of her hand as she slid it along his length.

“That’s it, my lord,” she whispered, her voice low and hoarse. “Your pleasure awaits.”

He opened his eyes and almost spent at the sight of her ready to service him. Her eyes glittered in the candlelight, their expression soulless and cruel. She curled her lip into a smile and ran the tip of her tongue along her teeth.

Then she reached for him and parted her lips.

“No!” Struggling to conquer the lust raging through him, he pushed her back. Undeterred, she rose, took his hand, and led him to the bed, where she pushed him onto his back. Before he could sit up, she climbed on top of him.

“Mimi, I… Oh!” He let out a groan as she grasped his cock and guided him inside her. Defeated, he succumbed to desire. Tiny stars pulsed in his mind as she shifted her body back and forth, then she increased the pace, and the tide swelled, bringing him to the brink of completion. “Slow down,” he rasped. “I—”

She thrust forward, her breath coming in sharp, angry puffs. Then his mind exploded, the stars bursting to life as pleasure ripped through him, until he cried out her name and fell back, his heart pounding against his chest, as if it yearned to be free.

He tried to move, but his spent body refused to obey, so he lay back, relishing the aftershocks of his climax. But as pleasure faded and he floated back to reality, he found himself overcome by shame and disgust.

Disgust at himself.

He felt like a cheap whore—which was precisely how he’d treated her.

By the time he could sit up, Mimi had moved her lithe body to one of the chairs, leaning back casually, one leg draped over the arm, her body exposed to him—as if she wished to taunt him and his cruelty.

His fingers trembling with shame, he buttoned his breeches and smoothed down the front. Then he plucked the blanket from the bed, approached the woman on the chair, and draped it around her shoulders. Her eyes widened, then she gathered the blanket around her body.

“Forgive me,” he whispered.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said tonelessly.

He held out his hand. “Perhaps…” He hesitated. “Perhaps we might take tea now.”

She glanced up at him, her eyes bright with moisture, and for a moment, his heart fluttered with hope.

Then she shook her head.

“Leave the money on the desk in the hallway. A sovereign should cover my expenses.”

Pain stabbed his heart at her words. “Mimi, don’t say that.”

“Why not?” she said. “We’ve made a business agreement, which includes the payment of disbursements, and I must settle the account with the dressmaker. If you dealt with her yourself, it might raise questions that you wouldn’t care to ask.”

“At least take tea with me,” he said, aware of the plea in his voice.

“Tea is what friends do,” she said. “You’re not paying me to be your friend. You’re paying me to give you pleasure, and to parade about London on your arm to improve your reputation so that in the future you will be able to pursue better women than me. Have I missed anything?”

“Aren’t you in need of a friend?” he asked.

“I have all the friends I need.”

A spike of envy pricked at his heart. “Did the Duchess of Whitcombe visit you?”

She let out a low laugh. “Jealous, are you? Would you rather I hid myself away and paid attention to none but you?”

She stood, holding the blanket tight around her form, and he reached toward her, unable to fight the need to take her in his arms.

“Mimi, I—”

“Please,” she said, her voice wavering. “Go. I need to bathe.”

“Can’t we take tea, at least?”

She let out a sigh. “Very well. I am at your disposal.”

“No, you’re not, you’re…”

“We both know what I am,” she said. “If you want to take tea with me, then I shall comply. Everything in this house belongs to you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to take tea with you, Mimi. I want you to want to take tea with me—to take pleasure from it.”

Sadness gleamed in her eyes. “Then you should have stipulated that in our agreement, Your Grace. My pleasure is not for sale.”

Unable to think of a reply that didn’t expose himself as even more of a cad, he nodded and withdrew from the chamber. As he descended the stairs, he almost collided with the young footman.

“Charles, isn’t it?” Alexander asked.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I’m leaving now, but your mistress might appreciate a bath.”

The footman nodded, flushing scarlet as he glanced at Alexander’s crumpled breeches, before showing him outside. Once on the pavement, Alexander turned back toward the building, his gaze settling on the upper-floor window with its curtains still drawn.

Everything in this house belongs to you.

“No, Mimi,” he whispered. “Not everything.”

Hunching his shoulders against the wind, he crossed the square and returned to his townhouse. How many times had he slipped out of the home of a mistress, or a paramour, after a session of glorious rutting, having patted her on the rump and tipped a coin in a dish as payment, returning home to congratulate himself on his prowess?

What made this time so different? Why did he, for the first time, feel nothing but shame?