Page 16 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

A lexander gritted his teeth against the urge to push her against the wall and rut the fury out of his body.

Curse her! Even caught in the act of betrayal she refused to bend, instead facing him as if she were not the transgressor.

And, in his weakness, he still desired her.

“You have no need to tell me who—or what—I am, Your Grace,” she said, her voice steady. “I am what you pay me to be.”

“Precisely,” he said. “And if a man isn’t getting what he’s paying for, he has every right to object.”

“What precisely have you paid for that I’ve not provided?” she asked, tilting her head up.

“Exclusivity,” he growled. “A whore may be unfamiliar with the concept, but it is, nevertheless, what you promised.”

“Can you promise me the same?”

His heart twitched at the undercurrent of hurt in her voice. If she believed he was rutting other women then she was a fool. Other women had lost their appeal for him.

He wanted her.

Only her.

But, curse her, she didn’t want him. She only wanted the money she could earn with her body.

“My only promise was to pay you at the end of our agreement,” he said. “But how can you expect me to pay if you’re fucking someone else?”

She flinched, then gestured toward the door. “You’d best come inside.”

“No,” he replied. “Not when you’re inviting half the men of London to come inside .”

Hurt flared in her eyes. Then she blinked and it was gone. When she next spoke, her words were toneless, as if she were reciting a laundry list.

“I care not whether you come or go,” she said, “but if you remain on my doorstep you risk providing your neighbors with the sort of entertainment that will jeopardize your mission to restore what little reputation you have. If you no longer want my body, then at least take my advice.”

“Which is?” he asked.

“Do not disgrace yourself in front of your peers who”—she glanced about the street, at the white-fronted houses with dark, gaping windows—“who, I suspect, are watching us at this very moment in the hope of securing the latest nugget of gossip to share at Almack’s or White’s.”

Her quiet, calm dignity—and the fact that she spoke the truth—threatened to dissipate his anger. She ascended the steps and knocked on the door. After a suspiciously short time, it opened to reveal the black-clad butler, who looked more like a beetle than ever. Devil’s coachman , Whitcombe had once described his own butler, and Wheeler resembled that long-bodied little creature, raising his sting to defend himself—and, most likely, his mistress—against predators.

“Welcome home, Lady Rex,” the butler said. “I trust you had a pleasant trip?”

“Yes, thank you, Wheeler,” she replied, softening her features into a smile.

Bloody hell —was the butler an accomplice in her infidelity? Why did she gift him with her smile?

The butler’s gaze fell on Alexander. “Lady Rex didn’t tell me she was expecting a guest.”

“My apologies, Wheeler,” Mimi said. “Would you be so kind as to have a fire made up in the drawing room, then perhaps a brandy for the duke?”

“Very good, ma’am. And for yourself?”

“Tea,” she said. Then she turned to Alexander. “Your Grace, permit me to freshen myself up. Wheeler will tend to your needs while you wait.”

“I doubt that ,” Alexander said, aware of the petulance in his voice.

“Perhaps, Wheeler, you’d better bring the entire bottle for my guest, rather than just one glass,” Mimi said.

The butler’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Very good, ma’am—as you wish.” He gestured toward a door at the rear of the hallway. “This way, if you please, Your Grace.”

Bloody hell—why did the man act toward Alexander as if he’d committed the transgression rather than her? And why must he be treated as a guest to be tolerated—in the house that he paid for?

But rather than voice his disgust, Alexander followed the man toward the rear of the house and into a room furnished in warm autumnal colors, rich reds and browns. Wheeler pulled a cord beside the fireplace, and shortly after the young footman appeared.

“Charles, the mistress has a guest. Be so good as to light the fire.”

The young man glanced at Alexander. “Wh-while he’s in the room, Mr. Wheeler?”

“That can’t be helped,” the butler replied. “Get on with it.”

The footman approached the fireplace, where he plucked a box from the mantelshelf and struck it to release a spark. A small flame burst into life, and he held the box at the base of the fire. Shortly after, flickers of orange glowed in the fireplace, picking out the shapes of the logs.

Like witchcraft.

Alexander hadn’t seen anyone light a fire before. Most servants did their best to avoid being seen by their masters, understanding that it was offensive to the eyes of those above stairs to be compelled to look upon those who resided below.

But one disadvantage of such a custom was that Alexander knew little about how to survive. His cook prepared his meals—served by footmen, lest he be offended by the sight of the kitchen staff. His valet dressed and undressed him, and the invisible housemaids and lower servants ensured that his home was kept free of dust and the fires were always crackling brightly in any room he stepped into.

As the footman replaced the box on the mantelshelf, Mimi entered the room. Gone was the shabby cloak and the plain garb of a servant. She had changed into one of her day gowns—a light-blue muslin trimmed with lace.

Did she perhaps intend to tempt him?

The footman glanced from her, to Alexander, then he retreated.

“Forgive me ma’am, for lighting the fire in front of your guest…”

“Thank you, Charles,” she said. “That was most kind of you after all the effort you’d gone to lay the fire this morning.” She glanced at the clock over the mantelshelf. “It’s getting late. You can retire if Mr. Wheeler has nothing else for you to do.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The boy bowed and retreated, almost colliding with the butler, who brandished a tray with a decanter and a single glass.

“Ah, Wheeler, thank you,” she said, gesturing toward a table. “Please set it there.”

“Charles will be back with your tea, ma’am,” the butler said, then he poured a measure of brandy into the glass and handed it to Alexander before exiting the room, ushering the footman in front of him.

Mimi approached the fireplace, plucked a poker from a rack beside the grate, and thrust it into the fire. Then she crouched beside it and blew across the logs. The orange glow pulsed with each breath, and flames crackled over the logs. Then she set the poker aside and took a seat.

Clutching his glass, Alexander sat. Then he took a mouthful of brandy.

“You’ll not join me in a brandy?” he asked.

“I prefer a clear head.”

“Yes,” he said, bitterly. “I suspect that’s for the best, given your profession.”

If he’d upset her, she gave no sign. Instead, she gave a slight smile. After Charles returned with a tray of tea things, she poured a cup and resumed her seat, stirring her tea, the rhythmic clink of the spoon against the cup in unison with the ticking of the clock.

Alexander gestured toward the fireplace. “I hadn’t realized it was so easy to light a fire.”

She rolled her eyes. “Lighting the fire may be straightforward. The skill is in laying it—in setting out the coal and logs such that the flame has every chance of life, without being smothered. I take it you’ve neither laid, nor lit, a fire, Your Grace?”

“Of course not.”

“Yes, of course not , Your Grace.”

She continued to stir her tea, the chink of metal against porcelain beginning to needle him.

“Haven’t you stirred that enough?”

She set the spoon down and sipped her tea. Then he saw it—the slight shake of her hand.

He’d rattled her, though she hid it well, behind the veil of the heartless doxy.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Your Grace?” she asked.

He gestured toward her gown. “There was no need to change on my account. That gown’s pretty enough, but I’ve seen you in your whore’s garb before.”

The teacup rattled on her saucer and she clapped her hand over it.

“Do you let him give you pleasure?” he asked.

She set the cup on the table. It rolled off the saucer and fell onto the floor, spilling its contents on her skirts.

She let out a cry, and Alexander leaped forward.

Sweet heaven —had she hurt herself?

“Mimi, are you—”

“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s nothing I can’t deal with. I’m capable of laundering a gown, you know.”

“I-I meant, did you hurt yourself?”

He reached for her hand, and his skin tightened at the feel of her slim fingers curling around his. Oh, how he’d missed her touch! He lifted her hand to his lips, but she snatched it free.

“I’m not hurt,” she said, the expression in her eyes belying her words.

“Where were you today, Mimi?”

“Or rather, whom was I with?” she replied. “There were three of them for most of the time—at one point I had five in the room with me. Is that what you wish to hear?”

“Did”—he swallowed, yearning, but also unwilling to hear the answer—“did you take pleasure today?”

She rose to her feet, her eyes bright.

“Yes,” she said. “Today gave me much pleasure. What do you say to that?”

“What if I threw you out like a cheap whore?”

He flinched at his words, but she remained impassive.

“Think of your reputation, Your Grace,” she said, her voice laced with ice. “How would your friends react if even a cheap whore such as myself couldn’t stomach your company? If you wish me to leave, then gladly I shall—but not before I have my money.”

“There we have it,” he said. “Money. Is that all your care for?”

“It’s easy for you to have contempt for that which you’ve never been without,” she scoffed. “I daresay you have contempt for that young man who lit this fire—though you’re incapable of lighting it yourself. But if you didn’t have people to cater to your every whim—to feed and clothe you, to maintain the roof over your head, to light the fires that keep you warm—you’d not survive a single day.”

Her words pricked at his conscience. She had sketched a portrait of a pathetic creature, unable to fend for himself.

Unable, even, to prevent his best friend from getting killed…

He reached for the decanter, refilled his glass, then drained it in a single swallow.

“Y-you’re a liar,” he said, his voice catching as the liquor burned his throat.

“No more than you,” she said. “I’ll admit I’ve played a role in the past—every woman in my profession must, if she’s to survive. But I have never lied to you—neither have I broken faith, despite what you wish to believe.”

“It’s not what I wish to believe,” he said. “It’s what I saw . Why else were you creeping about the streets tonight? And I saw you yesterday, just after I left, in the same gown. Whatever part you were playing, it wasn’t Lady Rex.”

“So you thought the worst of me.”

“What am I supposed to think?”

“You could always ask ,” she said, “but I suppose men of your rank prefer to condemn women like me. A whore can be trusted more than a duke—if we don’t keep to our word, we’ll not survive. But you…you lie to yourself each day. You convince yourself that this soulless life you lead will give you fulfilment and make you happy. But are you happy— truly happy?”

She stepped toward him, her eyes glowing in the firelight.

Alexander reached for the decanter.

“That won’t ease your pain,” she said.

He met her gaze, poured a third glass, then drained it.

She curled her lip in disgust. “Very well,” she said. “If you wish to end your days drunk in a ditch, I shan’t stop you.”

“Don’t be melodr—m-melodramatic,” he stammered.

She shook her head. “Perhaps I should have left you to the mercy of those men.”

He opened his mouth to ask her what men, then the memory resurfaced—two thugs brandishing knives advancing on him, a harsh female voice, followed by a male grunt of pain—then a painted face swimming into focus as he lay in the gutter, his body aching, concern in her eyes.

“Y-you said you could use your enemy’s weaknesses against him,” he said. “Is that what you were doing today?”

She raised her eyebrows.

“Am I your enemy, Mimi?”

For a moment, she stared at him, and he held his breath, fearing her response.

Then she sighed. “No. You’re not my enemy—you never could be.” She turned her head toward the fire, which now blazed merrily. “I have not lain with another man since we met,” she said. “Today I visited”—she drew in a deep breath—“friends. Women whose need is greater than mine. You see me as a doxy who spreads her legs for cash. It’s not the cash I strive for, but the choices it gives me.”

She turned to face him, and his heart almost cracked at the expression in her eyes: dignity—more dignity than any lady in Society displayed, for it came from her soul, not her rank or fortune.

And her honesty.

Shame stabbed at his hollow heart, shriveling his pathetic soul. How could he have believed her to have broken faith? He may outrank her, but she was his superior, in every sense.

“Mimi, forgive me,” he said.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“But what I said—”

“Was not unexpected for a man in your position.” Then she smiled. “Shall you remain here tonight?”

His manhood stirred at her invitation. The thought of taking her—of laying her down on the hearthrug and claiming her in front of the fire—was almost too much, and his hands twitched with the need to be buried in her hair as he buried himself into her willing body.

But her willingness was bought and paid for—not given freely. He wanted her consent, free from the promise of cash—and he wanted her pleasure.

“I should go,” he said.

Her smile slipped.

“You’ll still get your money, Mimi,” he said. “All two thousand—no matter what happens. But you must answer me truthfully.”

“What do you want to ask me?”

“Lady Walton’s ball,” he said. “Do you wish to go?”

“She has invited me.”

“But do you want to go? Not because Lady Walton has invited you, or because I want you there—but for your own sake.”

She lowered her gaze to her hands that she’d clasped together. Then she shook her head.

“No,” she whispered. “But I will go, because you require me to.”

“Then,” he said, taking her hand, a seed of hope sprouting in his heart when she didn’t withdraw it, “as my way of atoning for not trusting you, I release you from any obligation to attend. I shall go, and if you choose to come, I’ll be honored to dance with you. But if you prefer not to go, then you have my full blessing. You are a free woman.”

Fighting against the desire to bring her hand to his lips, he caressed her fingers.

“Mimi,” he said, “Lady Rex—would you consider accompanying me to the Waltons’ ball on Tuesday?”

“I…” She shook her head. “I-I don’t know. B-but you may stay tonight if you wish.”

He withdrew his hand, his heart shriveling with shame. She was offering her body to comfort him in the light of her rejection.

No accusation she could level at him would make him feel any more ashamed.

“I think, perhaps, you’d prefer an evening to yourself,” he said. “If you have no objection, I’ll call on you tomorrow, and we can explore the park again.”

She nodded. “Yes, I’d like that, Your Grace.”

“Might you call me Alexander?”

“If you wish.”

He suppressed a sigh. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Lady Rex.” Then he bowed and exited the drawing room.

The butler opened the front door as Alexander approached.

“Thank you, Wheeler,” he said. “Take good care of your mistress, won’t you?”

“I will, Your Grace,” came the reply. “As should we all.”

Alexander thrust his hands into his pockets and stepped outside, then he turned back toward the house as the butler was closing the doors. Shortly after, he saw a light in a window on the upper floor—Mimi’s bedchamber.

He caught his breath. Perhaps she might draw back the curtains and look out, hoping for a glimpse of him.

But she did not appear.