Page 14 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

A t last—the day had come.

Alexander suppressed the pulse of excitement in his body as he knocked on the door of number 16 Grosvenor Square.

Her gowns, all bought and paid for, now awaited his viewing pleasure—and London Society.

How might she look in a lady’s attire?

The butler opened the door, the usual expression of disdain on his face.

“Is she at home, Wheeler?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

The butler stepped aside, and Alexander entered the hallway.

“Please wait in the parlor. The mistress will be down directly.”

“Isn’t she waiting in the parlor?”

Wheeler arched an eyebrow, then held out his hand. “Do you have your card, sir?”

Of course! If Mimi were to maintain the pretense that she was the respectable Lady Rex, as opposed to his doxy, then he must play a part also. A respectable widow wouldn’t be sitting waiting at her window, ready to spring into life at the first sight of him.

He fished a card out of his pocket and handed it over. “Tell your mistress that I’m come to take her for a promenade.”

“Very good. I shall see if she’s receiving visitors.”

There was no mistaking the sneer in the butler’s tone. Wheeler knew—as every servant in the house knew—that Mimi was being paid to receive him…in every sense of the word.

Then Alexander checked himself. He really was a complete and utter arse. He ought to at least treat her as a duke would treat the widow of an old friend—even if she were warming his bed.

His manhood stirred at the prospect of visiting her chamber later, and he entered the parlor with a cockstand that needed to be eased before he could be seen in public.

Shortly after, he heard footsteps. The parlor door opened and Alexander caught his breath.

Before him stood what could only be described as a goddess.

Her gown was the color of claret, warm and intoxicating. Her skirts concealed her form, falling from a high waistline in smooth ripples. The matching redingote was fashioned from what looked like thick velvet, trimmed in a military fashion.

Her hair was swept up into an elegant chignon that might have looked severe and uncompromising on some, but the delicate wisps of hair curling about her face softened the look.

Sweet rutting heaven —he’d never seen a sight so lovely.

The urge to claim her threatened to break his resolve. He only need dismiss the butler, then he could pull her to the hearthrug, lift those skirts, and bury himself inside her.

Then he met her gaze. Rather than the hardened doxy, her expression was that of an innocent—a young woman anticipating a promenade in the park with her suitor. She lowered her gaze, and the faint bloom on her cheeks stirred his heart as much as the thought of that delectable body stirred his manhood.

Wheeler cleared his throat, and Alexander looked away, swallowing his shame. She was the mistress of the house, and he was staring open-mouthed with a cockstand the size of a longboat in his breeches, like a pimply adolescent ready to spend at the first sight of a pretty girl.

She might be his to own—for the next few months, at least—but he owed her more than that .

“Your Grace,” she said, her gaze flicking toward the butler.

There seemed little point in maintaining the charade, given that Wheeler understood their circumstances, but Alexander found himself compelled to step forward and hold out his hand, as if she were a sought-after debutante and he the gallant suitor.

“Lady Rex,” he said, “I’m come to escort you for a promenade about the park, if you’d be so kind as to oblige me?”

Mimi took his hand, and smiled as he lifted hers to his lips.

She played her part well, with not even the slightest glimmer of irony in her eyes. He only saw pleasure and anticipation. She was either extremely accomplished at playing the part, or…

Or the life of a lady came naturally to her.

But now was not the time to ask about her birth, or her history—not when she had gifted him with that beautiful smile.

“Thank you,” she said. “I should like that.”

“You look beautiful,” he said. “If all your new gowns are as pretty, then I consider it money well spent.”

Her smile disappeared.

Shit.

She withdrew her hand and retreated into the hallway. “Shall we go?” she asked. “I’m sure you’re as anxious to achieve your objective as I am to achieve mine.”

He followed her outside and glanced at Wheeler in time to see him shake his head, as if disappointed.

Well, Alexander would be damned if a servant looked down on him.

“The door, if you please, Wheeler,” he said.

The butler rolled his eyes, then opened the front door. Alexander held out his arm and Mimi took it, curling her gloved hand about his sleeve. Then he escorted her outside, and they set off toward Hyde Park.

Silence thickened in the air, punctuated by their footsteps and the distant clip-clop of hooves and the rattle of wheels as carriages rolled along the streets, conveying their occupants to luncheons and tea parties. Alexander cast a sidelong glance at his companion, but she maintained her gaze on the road ahead, her expression impassive.

Why did she not speak? In his experience, the most difficult challenge for a man was getting a woman to cease talking. Women always wanted to fill any moment of quiet with inane chatter, as if the more they said, the more interesting they became, when in reality the reverse was true. Doxies filled the void with their demands for payment and inquiries about what else they could do to please their customers—for a coin, of course. Wives were worse. Even after securing a man’s hand, their demands increased, as if they sought to own him. That was why most men spent each day getting foxed at White’s—to numb the pain that the incessant demands of women inflicted on their ears.

“The weather’s very fine today,” he said, breaking the silence. “London’s often warmer than the country this time of year.”

Other than arch an eyebrow, she didn’t respond, keeping her gaze straight ahead.

Bugger . Where had her smile gone?

“I meant no disrespect earlier,” he said, “when I said your gown was money well spent. I may only be a man”—she let out a snort—“but I can appreciate a fine gown.”

Before she could respond, a voice hailed them.

“I say! I thought it was you.”

A couple arm in arm approached the entrance to the park. The man—tall, with blond hair and the broad-shouldered, athletic build that appealed to women, whores, and ladies alike—raised a hand in salute.

The very same hand that had planted a shiner on Alexander’s face.

The man’s companion was unlike the women he usually preferred—in that she lacked the usual look of slavish adoration on her face.

“Foxton,” Alexander said, “what are you doing about at this hour? I thought you’d be in White’s by now on your fifth brandy.”

“Whereas you’re unlikely to darken the doors of White’s again,” came the reply.

“Why might that be, Adam?” the woman on Foxton’s arm asked.

Adam? Since when had Foxton permitted his admirers to address him with such familiarity?

“Surely I’ve spoken of Sawbridge and his antics, Portia.”

The woman frowned, then turned her gaze toward Mimi, her expression filled with what could only be described as sympathy.

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Alexander said. “Gossip travels fast, even out of Season.”

“Perhaps not fast enough,” Foxton said, casting a curious glance toward Mimi. “Sawbridge, are you attempting to improve your standing in Society by persuading this delectable creature to be seen with you in public?” He inclined his head toward Mimi. “My dear madam, I’ve not seen you in London before. Are you here to persuade the rest of your sex that my friend can be trusted not to endanger the lives of his paramours?”

Rather than blush, or wither under the savagery of Foxton’s gaze, Mimi tilted her head to one side, her composure unwavering.

“Forgive me, sir,” she said. “I’m lately arrived in London and know not who you are.”

Foxton’s eyebrow twitched and his mouth set in a firm line, but his companion let out a laugh.

“Ha! Not every woman in the world awaits the day she first meets you with breathless anticipation. That must be disappointing for you , brother.”

So this was Foxton’s sister—rumored to have been kept under lock and key until her debut. The determined expression in her eyes spoke of bedevilment in her soul. Good—with luck, she plagued her brother daily.

“Portia—” Foxton began, but she interrupted.

“Permit me to introduce myself, seeing as my brother lacks the manners. Lady Portia Hawke, sister to this reprobate.”

Foxton frowned. “Portia, you’ll find that my crimes pale into nothingness compared to Sawbridge’s. And it’s not the done thing to introduce yourself—you know that.”

“I’d die of old age waiting for you to do it,” she huffed.

Mimi smiled, her eyes sparkling with mirth.

Bloody hell—why does she never smile that that for me?

“Permit me to introduce the Duke of Foxton,” Alexander said, “and his sister, Lady Portia.” He gestured toward Mimi. “This is Lady Rex.”

“ Lady Rex, eh?” Foxton said. “I suppose a lady’s better than a mere miss .”

“I don’t catch your meaning, Your Grace,” Mimi said. “I am not unmarried.”

“Does your husband approve of Sawbridge accompanying you today?”

“My late husband,” she replied, her voice steady. “I’m lately out of mourning. His Grace the Duke of Sawbridge was a family friend of my late husband’s, and executor of his estate.”

Alexander tempered his delight at the discomfort in Foxton’s expression.

“My sympathies for your loss, Lady Rex,” Lady Portia said.

“You’re most kind.”

“And you lived abroad before you came here?” Foxton said. “Where?”

“Italy,” Mimi said, her voice tightening.

“ Really? I know it well. Tell me, is the Trevi Fountain as beautiful as everyone says?”

“It’s quite extraordinary,” Mimi said.

“So you lived in Florence?”

Damn Foxton—he was trying to trap her!

She narrowed her eyes. “The Trevi Fountain is in Rome . I wonder how well you know Italy.”

“But…you know Florence?” Foxton asked, coloring.

“My late husband and I were traveling to Florence when…” She hesitated.

“Adam, leave the poor lady alone,” Lady Portia said. “I can’t think what you’re doing.”

“I’m asking about Italy,” Foxton said. “I find it astonishing that Sawbridge never mentioned Lord Rex to his friends.”

“Perhaps because I don’t count you as a friend,” Alexander said. “Besides, while you might show an interest in a Lord Rex , I doubt you’d consider a mere Sir John Rex grand enough for you.”

“Sir John, eh? A baronet or a knight?”

“That’s enough!” Lady Portia said, then turned to Mimi. “Lady Rex, accept my apologies for my brother’s incivility. Be assured that not everyone in London is such a boor.” She arched an eyebrow and glanced at Alexander.

“Except perhaps myself, Lady Portia, given what your brother’s told you about me?” he asked.

“Too many people observe the world through the lens of gossip,” Lady Portia said. “I prefer to discover the truth for myself. Gossip obscures the truth.”

“As do deceivers, sister.”

A flicker of mischief shone in Lady Portia’s eyes.

Yes, Foxton—I doubt your sister is the obedient debutante you’d have her be.

“Forgive us for not tarrying,” Foxton said. “We’re taking tea with Lady Jersey. Do you know her, Lady Rex?”

“No, I do not,” Mimi said.

Foxton nodded, then steered his sister along the pavement. Lady Portia’s harsh whisper floated through the air.

“Really, Adam! There was no need to be so insufferable.”

Alexander led Mimi toward the entrance to the park.

“I like her,” Mimi said.

“And Foxton himself?”

“He is as I’d expect, given his rank.”

“You didn’t find him attractive?” Alexander said. “Most women do—at least, that’s what I’m told.”

“My opinion is immaterial,” she said, “but, for my part, I don’t find him attractive—though I can see how most women would.”

“Because?” Alexander couldn’t help asking, unable to contain his jealousy.

“Because, almost without exception, everyone in Society judges others by their appearance and their rank, rather than the quality of their soul.”

“ Almost without exception?”

His heart soared with hope—did she consider him the exception?

“Duchess Whitcombe is different to anyone else I’ve encountered. Behind the titled women lies a good soul—which renders her unique.”

“If Society judges by appearance, then you will triumph,” he said, swallowing his disappointment. “Even the most insightful observer would believe your act just now. Your distress was almost convincing when the conversation turned to the nonexistent Sir John Rex. We have a fair chance at passing you off as a lady.”

“A fair chance is all we need, given the level of intelligence of most members of the ton ,” she said, almost in a snarl.

Unable to think of a suitable response, he said nothing, and they entered the park in silence. It was already busy—couples strolled arm in arm; children held hands with prim, plain women in starched gowns. The occasional rider passed by, and in the distance, the honk of swans echoed across the landscape, against the backdrop of the chorus of songbirds that never seemed to cease.

A boy, barely out of leading strings, ran past them, toward a man and a woman. The man swooped down and lifted him up into the air.

“Come to Papa!” he cried, as the child dissolved into giggles, then they continued along the path, a nursemaid trotting after them.

Mimi followed them with her gaze, a smile on her lips. She glanced back at Alexander, and his heart soared as her smile broadened, illuminating her beautiful eyes.

Then she released his arm. “Eleanor!” she cried.

Her smile had been for another.

Alexander turned to see Whitcombe and his wife. The duchess approached Mimi, hands outstretched.

“How delightful,” she said. “I’m glad you’ve found the opportunity to explore the park at last.”

Jealousy flared as the women embraced, which intensified as Alexander caught sight of Whitcombe staring at Mimi with frank appraisal.

No you don’t, Whitcombe. She’s mine .

Alexander approached Mimi, and she stiffened as he placed a hand on her shoulder.

Whitcombe glanced at Alexander’s hand and arched a dark brow, as if in amusement. Then the corner of his mouth creased into the precursor of a smile.

Or perhaps a sneer. With Whitcombe, one could never tell.

“Lady Rex, I presume,” he said, his voice sounding deeper than usual.

Mimi nodded, and her lips parted as she tilted her head back to meet his gaze. A soft bloom colored her cheeks, and the beast within Alexander’s soul let out a low growl.

Mine.

“You must be the Duke of Whitcombe,” she said. “A pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, I doubt that ,” Whitcombe said, the crease in his mouth deepening.

“You think me insincere?” she asked.

“Not at all, Lady Rex,” Whitcombe said, glancing once more at Alexander. “It was not your pleasure—or lack thereof—to which I referred.”

Alexander removed his hand from Mimi’s shoulder and placed it on the small of her back. Whitcombe recognized the gesture for what it was—a male beast laying claim to a female before his rival—and the crease in his mouth dipped into a full-blown smile. In response, he took his wife’s arm and drew her close.

Whitcombe represented no threat—his devotion to his wife was legendary at White’s. But no matter how much he held the duchess close, Alexander couldn’t quieten the beast in his soul.

Mine.

“Did you say something, old chap?” Whitcombe asked.

“Montague,” his wife admonished him, and Whitcombe chuckled.

“Forgive me, Sawbridge,” he said. “You can’t blame a fellow for being intrigued by your new…companion.” He glanced at Mimi again and inclined his head. “I’ve been anxious to meet the woman who’s made such an impression on my wife after such a short acquaintance. Eleanor is usually so discerning with her friendships.”

Mimi’s blush deepened, and Alexander curled his free hand into a fist. “Whitcombe, you’ve no right to—”

“Forgive my husband,” the duchess interrupted, casting a frown at Whitcombe. “I may be discerning in my choice of friends, but it seems not so much in my choice of husband. Montague, you of all people should understand the difference between discernment and prejudice.”

She offered her arm to Mimi. “Shall we walk, Lady Rex? I’m in need of intelligent conversation—and I’m anxious to show you some of my favorite spots in the park.”

Mimi glanced toward Alexander, as if asking permission, and he nodded. Then she took the duchess’s arm and the two of them strolled ahead. With a sigh, Alexander followed, Whitcombe at his side. As they approached the bend in the path, Alexander’s gaze fell to the grass verge. It still bore the deep furrows—evidence of the accident that had claimed two lives. The path no longer bore the thick bloodstain, but the mark of shame still existed, carved indelibly into Alexander’s soul.

“I suppose I should apologize,” Whitcombe said.

What for—taking me past the scene of my disgrace to relish my shame?

“Really?”

Whitcombe nodded. “My wife would chew my ears off if I didn’t.”

“Where’s the apology in that?” Alexander asked. “You’re only doing so for fear of retribution if you didn’t.”

“Much like you , then,” Whitcombe said. “Tell me, how’s the leg?”

Damn you.

Alexander glanced at the furrows as the memory of that morning penetrated his mind—the coarse laughter as he urged his friend on, the crack of the whip, then the screams that froze his blood, accompanied by the splintering sound of wood and broken necks and finally the relief of oblivion.

A carriage accident, the authorities had ruled.

“It’s improving,” he said.

“There’s no harm in walking with a stick, you know,” Whitcombe said. “Some men consider a cane a fashion accessory, and I daresay you could pull it off. Though perhaps your latest paramour fulfils the same need as a cane.”

“Don’t talk rot,” Alexander said.

“Not literally, of course—a woman that delicate would not carry your weight. But in other things—I daresay she’s propping up your reputation if not your body.”

“Whitcombe, I swear, if you say one more thing about her, I’ll—”

Whitcombe let out a laugh, and the duchess glanced over her shoulder, frowning.

“You’ve got it bad, haven’t you, Sawbridge?”

“Got what?”

Whitcombe shook his head. “I’m in no mood to point out that which you must discover for yourself.”

“Is that what your wife tells you when you’re behaving like an arse?”

Whitcombe merely smiled, then increased the pace, catching up with the ladies. He raised his hand in salute, and Alexander’s heart sank as he caught sight of the couple approaching them.

Earl and Countess Walton.

Walton had assisted Foxton in throwing Alexander out of White’s club. As to the countess…

That harridan had accused Alexander of being a murderer, a reprobate, and a seducer of women, and had threatened to run him through with a sword if he came within twelve inches of her or any of her friends.

Oh, for the days when a woman would merely give someone she disapproved of the cut direct! But Countess Walton would never be content with something so refined.

Alexander gritted his teeth, then joined the party.

Lady Walton’s eyes sparkled with delight as she embraced the duchess. She turned her gaze to Mimi, then her smile disappeared as she caught sight of Alexander.

“Lavinia, this is Lady Rex,” the duchess said. “Lately arrived in London. Mimi—this is Earl and Countess Walton.”

Mimi dipped into a curtsey. “Countess.”

The countess cast a sharp glance at Alexander. “Is this the same Lady Rex you’ve not been able to stop talking about, Eleanor?”

Mimi stiffened, and the duchess laughed. “Forgive me, Lady Rex, but I’ve been enthusing about you to my friends—well, the few that I have. I fear I insulted Lavinia when I was unable to take tea with her last week due to a prior engagement with you.”

“You shouldn’t have disappointed your friend on my account,” Mimi said.

“ You’re my friend also,” the duchess said. “Lavinia, we’re looking forward to your ball next Tuesday, are we not, Montague?”

Whitcombe frowned. “I thought you disliked balls, my love.”

The duchess gave him a sharp nudge. “Lavinia, were you not remarking on how few guests you were able to invite, given it’s the winter and most families have retired to the country?”

Whitcombe visibly winced. Sometimes the duchess had a habit of speaking most inappropriately—even though she often said what everyone else thought, but was too polite to say.

Alexander glanced at Mimi, who, given the distress lining her features, understood exactly what the duchess was doing—angling for an invitation. Eleanor meant well, but the inevitable snub from Lady Walton would distress Mimi more.

“I think it’s time we left, Lady Rex,” Alexander said.

Mimi’s frown deepened, then understanding flickered in her gaze. “Y-yes, perhaps I should return home.”

“But you haven’t—” the duchess began.

“Forgive me, Eleanor,” Mimi said, her voice tight. “I-I have an engagement. Lady Walton, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Such a shame,” Lady Walton said. “I was hoping to further our acquaintance, Lady Rex. Perhaps we might take tea sometime. And, of course, I shall ensure you receive an invitation to our ball. Do say you can come.”

Mimi glanced toward Alexander.

“And”—Lady Walton hesitated, as if steeling herself for a plunge into a cesspool—“Sawbridge—you’re invited also.”

“I say, Lavinia, is that—” Lord Walton began, but was interrupted.

“I’m sure Sawbridge would forgive the informal nature of my invitation, Peregrine,” she said. “Nobody expects a written invitation these days—not among friends.”

“I hadn’t realized I was a friend of yours, Lady Walton,” Alexander said.

“You’re invited as a courtesy to Lady Rex.”

“That’s good,” he replied. “I’d hate to think you’d invite just anyone.”

“I’ve long since realized that you’re not just anyone ,” she retorted. “In fact, I know just what sort of man you—”

“Lavinia, my love,” her husband said, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Mimi shot Alexander a frown. “You’re very kind, Lady Walton,” she said. “I have no fixed engagements next Tuesday, and would be delighted to attend.”

“As would I,” Alexander added. “Will everybody be there?”

Lady Walton wrinkled her nose. “I suppose by everybody , you mean every man and woman with a title. I am a little more selective with my guestlist.” She paused and stared at him. “Though it may not always be apparent.”

“Oh?” he asked, unable to resist the temptation to needle her.

“Viscount de Blanchard will never darken my door,” she said. “As to the Duke of Dunton, well, given how badly he treated Bella—not to mention Eleanor’s poor sister—you’ll not be surprised if he’s not on the guestlist. And as to that other repugnant excuse for a man…”

“Now, Lavinia, my love,” Walton said, “I’m sure our friends have no wish to hear about him—and we mustn’t give Lady Rex the impression that you’re a gossip.”

“Perhaps not, but I ought to at least warn her of the worst predators in town.” She glanced at Alexander.

“I would consider it a great compliment if others ranked above me on your list of repugnant males,” Alexander said.

“Only three others, I’m afraid.”

“The third being?”

“Earl Mayhew, of course. Thankfully, he’s rarely seen in London.”

Mimi let out a cough and lifted her hand to her mouth. “Do forgive me,” she said. “M-my throat’s a little dry.”

“No wonder, in this cold air,” Lady Walton said. “It’s not good to stand still in such cold weather. Our garden was covered in frost this morning—I fear we’re in for another harsh winter.”

She rattled on, about her tenants and the difficulty of ploughing hard ground—or some such—and the duchess nodded in agreement. Mimi joined the conversation, but her demeanor had changed. Her body seemed stiffer, as if she were a rabbit having sensed danger. And her cheeks—which earlier had a rosy hue—were almost completely devoid of color.

“We’ll not keep you any longer,” Lady Walton said. “Peregrine?”

Her husband took her arm and steered her along the path.

“Oh dear, I’ve done it again, haven’t I?” Duchess Whitcombe said. “I never know when to say the right thing.”

“I’m sure Lady Walton took no offense, my love,” Whitcombe said, “and had she not wished for Sawbridge to attend her ball, she wouldn’t have invited him.”

“Perhaps I ought to refuse,” Mimi said.

“I’ll not allow that ,” the duchess said. “The ball will be all the better for your being there.” She took Mimi by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. “Wear the lilac silk at the ball,” she whispered. “You won’t be in want of dance partners if you do.”

“Dance partners?” Alexander asked.

“You’re not expecting to keep this delightful creature all to yourself, are you, Sawbridge?” Whitcombe said, twisting his lips into a smile. “ I shall expect at least one dance, Lady Rex.”

Before Mimi could respond, Alexander took Mimi’s hand and steered her away, only slowing the pace after they’d navigated the bend in the path and the duke and duchess were out of sight. She said nothing and let him lead her across the park and through another exit. After a while, they turned into St. James Street, and he stopped before the familiar shop window with its display of orchids.

“Madame Deliet’s.” Mimi shook her head. “No—no, I’ve no wish to go inside.”

“Do you fear her insults?”

She forced a laugh. “A woman such as I is accustomed to the reception I received from Madame Deliet. But perhaps you wish to take pleasure from witnessing her insult me again.”

His heart twitched at the undertone of sorrow in her voice.

“Even I’m not that cruel,” he said. “But I am anxious to settle a matter with Madame, if you’d oblige me.”

She frowned, but complied as he opened the door and steered her inside.

The bell over the door tinkled. Two women in the shadows in the back of the shop looked up, then resumed their attention on a display of ribbons. A third appeared from behind a curtain, a length of measuring tape draped around her neck.

“ Le duc de Sawbridge! ” she cried, approaching Alexander, hands raised. “What a pleasure to see you again!” She glanced at Mimi. “Ah—have you brought another young lady to be attired in one of my fine gowns? Monsieur, I swear you’re my most loyal customer.”

Meaning the most willing to part with cash.

At the mention of Alexander’s title, the two women in the rear of the shop moved closer, and Alexander recognized Lady Felicia Long and the dowager Countess Billingham—two of the worst gossips of the ton .

Excellent.

They eyed him with hostility.

“Ladies—well met,” he said. “May I introduce Lady Rex, recently arrived in town?”

“Lady Rex?” the dowager countess asked.

“Widow of the late Sir John Rex,” Alexander said. “A knight rather than a baronet, but some say that Prinny was considering granting him an earldom. Everyone who’s anyone knows of Sir John.”

“Oh— that Sir John Rex!” Lady Felicia said, a little too brightly. “I was most distressed to hear of his passing. Were you not, Ellen?”

The dowager countess frowned, then nodded.

“That’s most kind of you,” Mimi said, “though I wasn’t aware the news of his passing had reached London.”

“And His Grace has recommended my establishment to you?” Madame Deliet said. “ C’est correctement? ”

“I did, Madame,” Alexander said, “but sadly you were too busy to help Lady Rex when she paid you a visit.”

“But I ’ave never seen Lady Rex,” the modiste said, her accent thickening. “I would ’ave remembered such a beauty, no?”

Alexander cringed at the sycophancy in her tone. Why had he never noticed it before?

“You were occupied with serving Miss Francis at the time, Madame Deliet,” Mimi said, “though you were kind enough to notify me several times that your gowns were very expensive.”

Alexander smiled to himself as the onlookers whispered to each other and the modiste cringed. And well she might—it was the height of bad form to openly discuss the price of a gown. Even he knew that.

“Lady Rex came here on my recommendation,” Alexander said, “so I consider myself responsible for any slight she may have suffered here, however unintentional.”

“I cannot recall saying such a thing,” the modiste said.

“Can you not?” Mimi said, sweetly. “‘ Chaque robe est très cher, ’ I believe you said.”

Heavens! Did Mimi speak French?

Alexander glanced at the modiste, who stepped back, her eyes widening.

“What was that you said, Lady Rex?” he asked.

“I spoke in Madame’s mother tongue,” Mimi replied. “Perhaps you’d care to translate, Madame Deliet?”

Fear shimmered in the modiste’s eyes. She reached for her measuring tape and entwined it around her forefinger. “I-I did not say… I mean, I’m afraid your accent is—”

“I quite understand,” Mimi said. “The Parisian accent can be a little difficult to understand.”

The modiste opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again, her eyes widening. “I—I…”

“It matters not, Madame Deliet,” Mimi said, a sparkle in her eyes. “I secured the services of another modiste. Twelve day dresses and eight evening gowns—she’s quite the marvel.”

“D-do I know her?” Madame Deliet asked.

“Possibly,” Mimi replied. “She’s one of your countrywomen.”

“Is she?”

“Oh yes,” Mimi said. “She’s as French as you are.”

The modiste shifted from one foot to another, her expression that of a schoolboy caught with his hands in the sweetmeats, and Alexander’s heart soared at the continued mirth in Mimi’s eyes.

“Lady Rex’s new modiste is rather exclusive,” he said, “so you may not have heard of her. But her work is of exceptional quality.”

“As is mine, Your Grace,” Madame Deliet said. “Perhaps Lady Rex would permit me to fashion a gown for her. I have some new silks in that are just perfect.”

“How very kind,” Mimi said, “but I couldn’t possibly.”

“Consider it a gift, Lady Rex,”

“I couldn’t accept it,” Mimi said. “It would be akin to accepting charity, and as you made very clear when I was first here, you’re not in the business of running a charitable establishment .”

This time there was no mistaking the modiste’s discomfort. Her mouth opened and she let out a whimper.

“I think, Lady Rex, it’s time to continue shopping,” Alexander said, holding out his arm. Mimi took it, and he escorted her out of the shop, the bell tinkling as he closed the door behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see the modiste staring after them, her mouth still wide open.

“Forgive me,” he said after they’d walked a few paces.

“What for?”

“For not appreciating how badly she’d treated you.”

She turned to face him, and his breeches tightened as she parted her lips. “Does it matter?”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It does. You’ve already done so much for me.”

A smile played on her lips. “I have?”

“Lady Walton would never have invited me to her ball had it not been for you. The woman loathes me. I’m beginning to believe that I have a strong chance of regaining my standing in Society.”

Her smile slipped. “I’m happy for you.”

He took her arm and led her back to Grosvenor Square. They passed two couples on the way, and though the first looked at Alexander with disfavor, the second couple—Earl Stiles and his wife—stopped to wish him a good day, though Stiles’s gaze settled on Mimi for an uncomfortably long time. The fellow was a magistrate—surely Mimi couldn’t have been brought before him in her former life? But she showed no sign of recognition as she curtseyed and responded to Lady Stiles’s remarks about the weather.

She played her part well—he couldn’t be prouder.

Or more aroused.

By the time they’d arrived at number sixteen, his groin ached with the need to be inside her. She was his for the taking—bought and paid for—yet when he steered her through her front door under Wheeler’s watchful gaze, he found himself unable to order her to the bedchamber.

Rutting beast he may be—and his body screamed at him that she would satisfy his lust ten times over if he demanded it—but he wanted more than mere physical release.

He wanted her . All of her—her body and her pleasure.

She entered the parlor, and he followed, then she removed her redingote.

“Tell me what you want, Your Grace.”

She might as well have been a serving wench at an inn offering him a mug of ale.

“Will you come to the Waltons’ ball?”

“Of course,” she said. “You’re paying me to obey your every request until our business is concluded.”

He took her shoulders, and she drew in a sharp breath as he pulled her close.

“That’s not what I’m asking, Mimi.”

“Then what are you asking?”

“Will you come to the ball with me ? Not because it’s your duty, but because I ask it.”

Understanding flickered across her gaze. For a moment he thought she might refuse. Then, at length, she nodded.

He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Might I be so bold as to ask to partner you for the first dance?”

She blinked, slowly, and his heart squeezed as she smiled. “You may.”

“Oh, Mimi!”

He pulled her close for a kiss, but she stiffened and turned her head to the side. Her smile disappeared.

“Will you not let me kiss you?” he asked.

She closed her eyes as her chest rose and fell. Then she opened them, and the hardness had returned.

He released her and stepped back, willing his cockstand to subside. She lowered her gaze to his groin.

“Shall we retire to the bedchamber?” she asked.

He shook his head and, without speaking, retreated, pushing past the surprised butler as he strode toward the front door and let himself out.

Curse her! Why should she make him feel sordid when she was the doxy?

Perhaps it was the dignity with which she carried herself. But a small voice in his head had whispered of the hope that she was warming to him.

But no—to her, he was merely a means of earning an income.

He crossed the street and entered his house, responding to the footman’s greeting with a grunt. Then he made his way to his study, where a bottle of brandy awaited. At least the bottle wouldn’t stare at him with doe-like eyes to prick his conscience. It merely awaited his consumption—without judgment or admonishment.

By the time he’d worked his way halfway through the bottle, the pain in his heart had dulled—but it refused to disappear.

Perhaps Whitcombe’s right—I have got it bad.

But it—whatever it was—was a mere passing fancy. By the time their business was done, he’d have rutted his obsession with her out of his system. With even greater luck, she would have succumbed—as all his women did—to his talents in the bedroom. Then she’d know what it was like to want something that was unattainable. All he needed to do was make her body scream with pleasure and he could enslave her as thoroughly as he was beginning to fear that she’d enslaved him.

He lifted the brandy glass to the light.

“Fuck, that’s strong stuff if it’s turned me into such an elo—eloquent phil…” He shook his head, struggling to voice the word. “Phillo…philosopher.”

Philosopher . That was it.

“I’ll have you, Mimi,” he said. “All of you. It’s only a matter of time.”

He strolled toward the window and pulled back the curtain, and his gaze was drawn to the house across the square. He leaned against the window frame and exhaled, his breath misting on the glass. Then he lifted his finger and traced the letter M .

A movement caught his eye, and he saw a figure emerge from number sixteen. Though she wore a cloak, there was no mistaking her. She climbed down the steps then stopped and glanced about—as if she carried a guilty secret. For a moment she glanced toward his house, and Alexander shrank back, clutching his brandy glass, even though she’d never be able to see him.

Then, with a glance over her shoulder, she set off.

So—she turned away from him in fear when he attempted to kiss her, but she was content to spread her legs on the streets to earn an extra coin or two.

Once a whore, always a whore.

As she disappeared out of sight, he tipped up the brandy glass and drained it. Then he turned, drew his arm back, and flung the glass into the air with full force. It struck the wall and shattered into shards on impact.