Page 2 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

London, December 1818

H ow in the name of the devil’s cock have I ended up in this godforsaken part of town?

Alexander stumbled, wincing at the pain in his leg. The numbness brought about by the liquor had all but gone. In fact, it had transformed into the most almighty pain behind the eyes. Doubtless he’d wake up with a shocking megrim that his friends—his few remaining friends—would say was richly deserved.

He caught his foot on a paving slab, tripped forward, and slammed into a wall.

Fuck , that hurt.

He hurt all over. His leg, his head, and his right eye…

He grimaced at the memory of someone—Foxton, if he recalled, or was it Westbury?—planting a shiner on his face before marching him out of White’s and tossing him onto the pavement.

Curse him—curse them all!

Alexander righted himself and glanced about, the familiar thirst tearing at his throat. Surely there must be a tavern nearby—wasn’t every other building near the docks supposed to be an inn, or a gin parlor? Nothing but liquor would dull the agony brought about by guilt over what he’d done—the deaths he’d caused. He needed to render himself unconscious to silence the little devil in his mind that told him exactly how much of a bastard he was.

But there was nothing to see other than the squalid little houses in this dingy little street with the ditch running through the center, glistening with slime and clumps of mud.

At least, he hoped it was mud—the odor that churned his stomach spoke of something far less palatable.

Blurred figures moved ahead, and Alexander caught a murmur of voices—the drunken slur of a man, punctuated by the high-pitched, coaxing tones of a woman. A street whore, most likely, offering her wares to the sailors who wandered about the docks looking for a little companionship and a good, hard fuck.

He stumbled forward and collided with a figure, wrapped in a scarlet shawl.

“Mind how you go, sir.”

The figure turned, and Alexander caught sight of a painted female face with bone-white-powdered skin and ruby-red lips, plump enough to wrap around a man’s cock.

“Forgive me, madam,” he slurred.

Her eyes widened and he let out a silent curse. In this part of town, his Society accent gave him away.

Her mouth curled at the corner—a smile or a sneer, he knew not—and he braced himself for the inevitable offer of her body for a shilling or two. Instead, she shook her head and frowned.

“You shouldn’t be in this part of London, sir. Not if you value your life.”

“My life is mine to do as I please with,” he said, inhaling sharply at the wave of nausea.

The stench from the road thickened in the air. No wonder whores wore cheap perfume—not to be more alluring to their customers, but to cover the stench of shit.

“What about your coin?” she said, extending her hand. “Or that pretty fob watch I see—would you care to lose that? I’ll wager a gentleman such as you has more to lose here than his life.”

I’ll wager?

What sort of talk was that for a street whore from the wrong side of London?

And her accent…

Perhaps she sought to ingratiate herself by imitating a lady’s voice. Doubtless some men paid extra if a whore screamed their name in the accent of the ton as she climaxed.

He let out a snort, which finished in a hiccough as his body convulsed. “You speak fine words for a whore who makes a living spreading her legs for all comers.”

“Better that than a lord who makes no living at all.”

Her accent had shifted back to the harsh notes of the slums.

Alexander stepped away and grimaced at the pain in his leg.

“Sir, you’re hurt.” She reached for his arm, and he shoved her aside.

“Get away from me,” he snarled. “I’ve come here to drink cheap liquor, not rut cheap sluts.”

Hurt flickered across her expression, then she threw her head back and let out a harsh laugh. When she caught his gaze again, her expression was filled with loathing.

“Fine words for a pretty lord lost in the slums,” she said. “I wish you joy of your evening, sir, and pray you get exactly what you deserve.”

One day, Sawbridge, you’ll get exactly what you deserve.

Unwittingly, she’d uttered the exact same words that his friends had said earlier that evening.

He deserved to be punished. After all, he’d caused the death of his best friend, Robert Staines—and not only Staines, but the finest doxy in England also. To kill a fellow wastrel required a few months of penitence, a pretty speech at a funeral, and several rounds of drinks at White’s to atone. But to kill the woman who’d given countless nights of pleasure to almost every member of White’s…

Some sins could never be forgiven.

Alexander opened his mouth to reply, but as he looked at the whore’s painted face, he saw only Danielle—the finest doxy in town, whose eyes had haunted his dreams from the moment he kneeled beside her broken body and watched the life drain out of her.

He drew in a sharp breath, then regretted it as the stench of the street filled his nostrils. Then he turned from the whore and stumbled along the street.

Coarse laughter echoed ahead, and he caught sight of a sign swinging in the breeze. Fueled by the prospect of liquor and oblivion, he increased the pace. Then two thick-set silhouettes appeared before him.

“Well, well—what do we ’ave ’ere?”

“I’m looking for an inn,” Alexander said, gesturing toward the building.

“An inn?” the man said, a mocking tone to his voice. “D’you hear that, Bill—an inn?” He approached, and the stench of waste mingled with another—stale sweat and equally stale ale. “What’s a fancy-arsed gent like yourself doin’ in a place like this?”

“Looking for a drink,” Alexander said.

“Them fancy clubs not good enough for you? Thought you’d save yourself a penny or two and come onto our street?”

The first man drew something out of his coat. At first it looked like a stick, until the moonlight picked out the edge of a blade.

Alexander stepped back, his stomach twisting. “ Your street?”

“Aye, that’s right, Mr. High and Mighty. You may think you rule the world, but it’s us that rule here. But we’re disposed to be kind, ain’t we, Bill?”

His companion nodded. “Aye—for the right price.”

Alexander thrust his hand into his pocket and fished out two coins. “There you go,” he said. “A sovereign each for your trouble.”

“A sovereign, eh?” the second man said. “How about that?”

“I’ll bet there’s plenty more where that came from.”

“Now, gentlemen,” Alexander said, “I think a sovereign’s quite enough…”

“Ha!” the first man cried. “Gentlemen! This nob thinks we’re gentlemen ?”

“Perhaps we would be, if we had the same fancy clothes.” The second man gestured toward Alexander. “That cloak must be worth a bit—it’d keep me warm all right.”

“You’ve got your Wilma and her cunny to keep you warm, Jack. Let me have the cloak, and you take his boots.”

Alexander drew out his fob watch. “Take this,” he said. “It’s a John Arnold.”

“A—what?”

Alexander flipped open the back of the watch. “John Arnold—see the inscription?”

The man snatched the watch. “Pickings for all, this one has, Bill,” he said. “What else has he got?”

“I’ve given you enough,” Alexander said. “Let me pass.”

“Hark at him! Let me pass , indeed!” The man held up the knife, the curved blade gleaming like a sinister smile. “It’s finished when we say it’s finished.”

Alexander curled his hands into fists, then lunged at the first man, but he dodged to one side.

“Oh no you don’t, fancy-man!” He rushed forward, and Alexander caught a blur of movement, then pain exploded in his face and he reeled back.

Pondering on what cursed bad luck it was to be struck twice in the same place on a single night, Alexander crumpled to the ground. The stench of waste intensified, but at least oblivion, when it came, would give him respite from the odor.

Then he let out a bitter laugh as the world slipped sideways. Perhaps his friends—and that street whore—would see their wishes fulfilled tonight. For if anyone deserved to be murdered in the gutter, it was him.

Two shapes advanced, then were joined by a third, and Alexander braced himself for the final blow.

But it never came. Instead, he heard a deep grunt, followed by a curse.

“Bleedin’ hell, woman—keep yer nose out and bugger off.”

“Bugger off yerself!”

He struggled to his feet, but another strike sent him reeling and he fell forward into the ditch. He reached out with his hand, grimacing at the notion of crawling about in the waste, then he felt a blow to the head and the world went black.

*

Alexander opened his eyes to a blurred world, filled with softened shapes and a dull yellow light. He winced as pain sliced through his head, and closed his eyes again.

A sharp odor filled his nostrils, and the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

Then the memory thrust into his mind: the street near the docks, two men coming at him with a knife, beating him to the ground.

Forcing his eyes open, Alexander lifted his head, then yelped at the stab of pain in his neck. He blinked until his vision cleared, and focused on familiar items: the fireplace with the clock on the mantelshelf, the bureau, the washstand and basin—and the table by the sash window bearing a half-empty decanter and four beveled glasses, their facets twinkling in the candlelight.

He was in his bedchamber.

In fact, he was in his bed, and…

He lifted the bedsheet.

He was as naked as the day he was born.

Had the encounter by the docks been a dream?

No, the memory was too sharp—the painted face with the scarlet lips, the sign swinging in the breeze depicting a red-faced sailor, and the knife…

He shuddered at the fear that had gripped him at the curved blade, which matched the curved, gap-toothed smiles of his assailants. He’d been at their mercy. And then…

And then nothing.

In which case, how the blazes had he survived, let alone ended up in his bedchamber?

Devil’s breeches—how much did I drink?

The door creaked open, and soft footsteps approached. Alexander’s valet knew his constitution—at least after having drunk a skinful—well enough to avoid making sudden noises.

Alexander gestured toward the table. “Fetch me a brandy, would you?”

“Fetch it yourself,” a voice—a female voice—replied.

He opened his eyes again, to see a painted face leaning over him, powder-white skin and scarlet lips, surrounded by a cascade of gaudy red curls.

“Who the devil are you? ” he asked.

Her mouth curled into a grin. “A fine question to ask, considering the state you was in when I—”

She broke off as he grasped her wrist. “I take it you’re a whore,” he said through gritted teeth. “What are you doing in my house?”

Her eyes narrowed in pain, and he released her. She withdrew her wrist, and her smile broadened.

“Mimi La Fleur,” she said.

“What kind of name is that? ”

“A whore’s name,” she retorted, wrinkling her nose. “At least you don’t stink no more.”

“What are you talking about?”

She let out a chuckle. “You don’t remember? Hardly surprising, given how drunk you were.”

He sat up, his head throbbing, to get a better look at her.

Despite the gaudy wig and overly made-up face, she was comely enough. His gaze wandered over her body, taking in the flare of her hips, the dip at the waist, and the swell of her breasts. What pleasures could be found beneath the thin material of her gown?

She approached the fireplace, moving with the loose-hipped gait of a woman born for seduction, then tossed another log onto the fire. Alexander’s cock stiffened at the sight of her derriere as she bent over to poke the fire.

“Did you remove my clothes?” he asked.

She turned, still holding the poker. “You didn’t want your bed stinking of shit, did you?”

“That’s a filthy mouth you’ve got there,” he said.

“Not as filthy as your clothes. Only your necktie emerged unsoiled.”

Then he recalled it—the stench of the ditch in the center of the road, the ditch that moved toward him at speed as he tumbled to the ground, reached out with his hands, and…

Bloody hell!

He lifted his hands, beset by the memory of his fingers covered in a thick layer of evil-smelling slime. But they were clean.

Tentatively, he lifted his fingers to his nose and sniffed.

She set the poker beside the fire. “Your butler’s a weak-bellied one, ain’t he?”

“What?”

She gestured to his hands. “He wouldn’t touch you—ha! Wouldn’t let me in at first, even when he saw you—but the stench of shit will always level folk who think they’re too good for the likes of me.”

Infuriating creature! Why did she talk in riddles?

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. “And how did you get here?”

“Same way as you, Your Grace ,” she said, a flicker of contempt in her voice. “In a hackney. The driver wouldn’t take you at first, but your coin soon persuaded him—and you talk too much when you’re drunk. Wasn’t too difficult to get the direction out of you. Duke of Sawbridge, eh? What the bleedin’ hell was a duke doin’ in that part of town?”

“Minding my own business.”

“It’s my business now,” she said. “Thought you’d soiled yourself, your butler did.”

Dear Lord —Gillingham was stuffy enough at the best of times, always admonishing him over some transgression or other. Alexander only kept the old goat on because he’d served the Sawbridge family almost all his life.

“Never you worry, though,” the doxy continued. “I set him straight. Offered to clean you up meself, seein’ as nobody wanted to come near enough to even poke a stick at you.”

She grinned, then a flash of recognition caught him—that same face, her brow wrinkled with concern, soft lips parting as she murmured words of comfort while she bathed his body and bandaged his leg…

“My leg.” He shifted position on the bed and groaned as the pain in his left leg flared.

“I changed your bandage,” she said. “Nasty wound. How did you come by it?”

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked. You’re a bigger fool than I took you for.”

“Why’s that?” he asked.

“That leg’s in danger of goin’ putrid. It’s all the same to me if you lose the leg, but I imagine you’d miss it.”

“I care not,” he said, sinking back. “It’s just a leg—there are worse things to lose.”

Anger flared in her eyes. “Says one who’s never known loss. Men like you are all the same.”

It ought to have been laughable that she—a street whore—held him in contempt, but she spoke with a fierce conviction, and an undercurrent of deep loss.

“Only when you’ve lost something do you truly come to appreciate it,” she said. “But then it’s too late.”

“What did you lose…Mimi?”

She flinched and looked away. “Nothin’ you’d care for. And I don’t mean to lose anything tonight. I’ll want payin’.”

“What for?” he asked.

“For bringing you home.”

“That’s not your business.”

“For cleaning you up, then.”

“That’s not your business either.”

“Then what?” she asked.

He shrugged, affecting nonchalance as his manhood surged with want. “I’m sure you’ll think of some way to earn your coin.”

“I could just take it,” she said.

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because I’m not a thief.”

“No,” he said, “you’re a whore.”

Her expression hardened. “That I am,” she said. “But I’ll want paying up front. I know what your sort are like.”

He let out a laugh. “My sort? Since when does a whore lecture a duke on honor?”

“Honor!” she scoffed. “A word used by men of your rank to excuse petty vengeance on those they believe to have done them wrong. I’m talking about honesty, sir, not honor.”

Her voice had changed again—the harsh tones of the street whore replaced by the clear notes of another creature altogether—almost as if she were a lady.

Then he shook his head. The liquor must have addled his wits.

“How much do you want?” he asked.

She cocked her head to one side and looked over his body, as if sizing him up. Then she lowered her gaze to his groin, where his stiffened cock was already lifting the bedsheet.

“That depends on what you’re wantin’ me to do.”

The coarse accent had returned.

“What do you do?” he asked, his cock twitching in anticipation.

She reached for her gown and lifted it over her head with practiced ease. He suppressed a groan at the sight of her undergarments, the thin material leaving little to the imagination—the soft, shapely body, with the dark pink centers of her breasts, and the dark triangle between her thighs.

“I’ll do anything if you pay the right price.” she said.

“Now, that’s what a man wants to hear.”

He peeled back the bed sheet to reveal his naked form, then patted the bed.

“Well?” he said. “What are you waiting for?”

“Payment.”

“You whores are all the same,” he said. “You’ll get it once I’m satisfied.”

“A man like you is never satisfied.”

“Satisfy me, woman, and I’ll give you more money that you could hope to earn in a lifetime.”

She tugged at the laces of her chemise and climbed onto the bed. He rolled toward her and winced.

She placed a hand on his leg, her skin pale save for a darkening bruise on her wrist.

“Does it pain you?” she asked.

“It’s a little better.”

“Good.” She caressed the skin of his leg with her fingertips. “You broke it, yes? It was unwise of you to venture out. Why did you—and in such a place?”

She glanced up, and he caught a flicker of concern in her eyes.

Then he dismissed it. No doubt the doxy was playing on his pain to secure a higher price.

“Just get on with it,” he growled. “I’m not paying you to talk .”

She curled her lips into a smile of cold seduction. “As you wish.”

She pulled off her chemise and tossed it across the room, then she crawled toward him. His mouth watered at the sight of her skin, milky white and gleaming in the firelight—and her breasts, soft and round, perfect to fit into his hands. He cupped a breast, drawing in a sharp breath as her nipple hardened against his palm. He squeezed, softly, and she froze. Yearning flickered in her eyes.

Then it was gone. The diamond-hard expression of the doxy returned and she clambered over his body and straddled him, her breasts pressed against his chest.

He leaned forward to capture her mouth, but she gripped his shoulders and pushed him back. Then she circled his cock with her hands. Desire surged through him and he jerked upward in an instinctive need to claim her. But she held him firm, running her hand up and down his length in unhurried strokes.

Pleasure surged, and he gritted his teeth.

Not yet…

Every man knew that the intensity of the pleasure increased with the length of the wait. If she brought him to pleasure too soon…

“No…” he groaned. “It’s too…”

“Too what?” she asked, a smirk on her lips. “Too much?”

The tide of pleasure swelled and Alexander focused his mind on his breathing—long and slow—to divert his mind from her wicked ministrations.

She gave his sac a gentle squeeze, and a fizz of pleasure tore through him—tortuous pleasure…

“W-witch…”

She laughed. “I’ve been called worse, Your Grace .”

Then she removed her hands and he let out a groan of loss. He jerked upward and, with a swift, slick motion, she impaled herself on him.

“Fuck!” he cried out, as the burst of pleasure threatened to disintegrate him.

“Now who’s got a filthy mouth?” she taunted him, but before he could respond, she withdrew, then thrust forward once more. He gripped his hands about her waist, then she tilted her hips. His cock surged as her body squeezed him, and he could swear he saw stars.

“ Sweet Lord , woman—how did you learn to do that? ”

She grinned. “Have I earned an extra sovereign?”

Must she remind him that she only sought to pleasure him for the sake of his coin?

Then he checked himself. Weren’t those the terms by which he entered into any relationship with a woman? Why, then, did her actions make him feel less of a man, rather than more?

Perhaps it was because, unlike the other women he’d rutted, she took no pleasure from the act. In fact, unlike most doxies, she didn’t even trouble to give the appearance of pleasure. She might as well have been his steward, working on a ledger.

“Mimi, I… Oh!” he cried out as she thrust against him once more, the glorious sensation almost too much to bear. “S-slow down, woman, for pity’s sake!”

She paused, her eyes dark against her painted face. “Let me earn my coin,” she said, and he winced at the hard edge to her voice, akin to anger.

He pulled her close and leaned forward to claim her mouth, but she jerked her head to one side.

“Kiss me, woman,” he growled.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not what you’re paying for.”

“It is, if that’s what I want.”

She squeezed his cock with her body again. He was close, and judging by the triumph in her eyes, she knew it—curse her, she knew it.

“Tonight is about your pleasure, Your Grace,” she said.

“And yours?” he replied. “I want to please you.”

She grew still. “Why?”

“It’s what I do—give women pleasure.”

Longing flickered in her eyes, then she let out a harsh laugh.

“Would it stoke your pride if I showed pleasure, Your Grace?” she said. “Or perhaps screamed your name? For an extra coin I could promise to tell everyone I encounter that you took me like a bull.”

Shame rose in his gut. “Don’t say such things.”

“Then don’t be talking about my pleasure,” she said. “My body may be for sale—but no man will have my pleasure.”

“Do you want another sovereign?” he asked. “Every whore has a price.”

“Not this whore,” she snarled. She continued to ride him until the wave of pleasure threatened to break. “Some things are not for sale—the cost is too great.”

He bit his lip to stem the surge in his body. He couldn’t hold on much longer…

Then she reached down and ran her fingertips along the sensitive skin at the base of his cock. He jerked upward and his resolve shattered.

“Sweet heaven!” he cried.

Almost immediately she withdrew, then grasped his manhood as he exploded with pleasure. He threw his head back as his body disintegrated whilst she wrung every drop of pleasure from him until he lay back, utterly spent.

When he opened his eyes he saw her naked form striding across the bedchamber toward the washstand. She dipped a cloth into the basin and wiped it over her legs, then she returned to the bed and wiped the evidence of his pleasure off his body. His manhood twitched as she ran the cloth along his length, then she tossed the cloth onto the floor, wrinkling her nose as if in contempt.

His stomach churned in shame. Had she found the act so distasteful?

Or was it him she found distasteful?

“Did you have to do that?” he asked.

She shrugged. “It was no different to when I wiped the shit off you earlier.”

“Don’t say that,” he said. “It’s—”

“It’s what?” she snapped, anger illuminating her eyes. “Sordid? Demeaning?” She made a dismissive gesture. “It’s all the same to me—just business.”

“So, I’m just another man to you.”

“As I’m just another whore to you ,” she said. “If you don’t like what you see, then you shouldn’t have purchased the goods. I’m what men like you made me.”

Gone were the harsh vowels of London’s slums. Her accent—and her words—were not those of a street whore.

He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. What had she said that was not true? Perhaps his shame was because in looking at her—at a person who was a mere commodity, who had no worth in the world—he was looking in a mirror and seeing himself for the first time.

What was he other than a commodity—someone who had no worth? Worse, even—for he had been responsible for the loss of two innocent lives. At least a whore earned her keep giving pleasure to others.

He heard a rustle of clothing and looked up to see her slipping her chemise back on.

“Stop,” he said.

“I’ve earned my coin,” she replied, reaching for her gown.

“No.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re all the same. More money than Croesus, yet the least willing to part with it.”

“Croesus? Who’s he?”

She stiffened, then averted her gaze. “Some rich nob who didn’t like payin’.”

“I’ll pay you,” he said. “I-I only meant that I don’t want you to go. Stay—for the night, at least.”

She closed her eyes and her chest rose and fell in a sigh, and Alexander suppressed the urge to take her into his arms. Then, after a pause, she opened her eyes.

He patted the bed. “Ten pounds.”

A dark corner of his soul whispered of the desire to see her vulnerability again, to penetrate that hard shell.

“It’s a good price,” he said. “But you must earn it. I want to rut you again before breakfast.”

Her jaw bulged as if she gritted her teeth.

“Guineas,” she said. “Make it ten guineas and you have a deal. But I want to see the money first.”

“You have my word as a gentleman.”

She pulled her chemise off and climbed into the bed.

“You trust me, then?” he said, lying back.

She settled onto her side so she faced him. At close quarters, he could see the paint on her face creasing as she smiled.

“I’ll get my money either way,” she replied. “If I decide not to trust you, then you’ll wake up in the morning with a knife in your heart.”

“I have no heart,” he said.

“Then, sir, we are equal.”

He shook his head. “You and I are not equals.”

Her eyes narrowed. “It’ll cost you extra if you wish to talk all night.”

“Then I’ll stop talking.” He rolled over, turning his back to her. After a moment, he heard a soft sigh, then her breathing steadied.

She’d misunderstood him. They may not be equals, but she assumed he’d meant that he was her superior. But he’d caught a glimpse of the expression in her eyes—a flicker of a human soul. She had a heart, though she hid it well.

She didn’t have to bring him home tonight. She could have robbed him, left him for dead, and secured herself more money than she’d earn from pleasuring him.

No—he was not her superior.

She was his.