Page 3 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

“N o!” a voice cried.

Mimi opened her eyes and sat upright. The room was dark, save for the orange glow from the fireplace.

Dawn hadn’t broken yet.

Not that she minded. Darkness, rather than something to be feared, was her friend. It provided shelter from predators. And it was a great leveler. The darkness concealed the sneers of those who considered themselves superior.

And it concealed her soul.

The man lying next to her—the Duke of Sawbridge—twitched in his sleep.

He was typical of his breed, save for the self-loathing concealed behind his arrogance.

“No—you can’t die!”

“Hush!” She poked him in the side. He stirred and rolled over, then his breathing steadied.

Doubtless whatever dreams plagued him were born of the liquor he’d imbibed. He stank of the stuff, even after she’d bathed the muck from his body.

His head would be sore in the morning.

As would her face, if she didn’t clean it. Her face paint itched. If she left it, her skin would be red raw in the morning. Then where would she be? No customer would want her.

With a sigh, she slipped out of bed and padded across the floor to the washbasin. She rinsed the cloth in the water, then pressed it against her face, relishing the coolness against her skin. Then she reached for the cake of soap and held it to her nose.

Her gut twisted at the rich scent of spices and the memory it evoked—a man, with kind eyes and a soft smile.

She bit her lip to distract her mind from the rising ache in her heart.

There’s no use remembering him. He’s long gone, and there’ll never be another like him.

Mimi dried her face, then she removed her wig and ran her fingers through her hair, digging her nails into her scalp. She let out a small sigh of relief—that wig itched almost as much as the face paint. But men seemed to prefer red hair, and the extra coin was worth a little discomfort.

She set the wig aside, then approached the window and drew back the curtain. A thin sliver of gray stretched across the night sky. Dawn was approaching, and with it, her ten guineas. She yawned, lifted her arms toward the ceiling, and inhaled, drawing in a lungful of air as she stretched.

Heavens! She couldn’t recall when she’d last been this tired. Clearly a night in a soft bed rendered her weak. She didn’t want to soften and grow used to it.

Not again.

Succumbing to another yawn, she returned to the bed and slipped inside, allowing herself the luxury of leaning against the warm body of the man inside.

He let out a long, low groan, and the anguish in his voice threatened to claw away the defenses around her heart.

She placed her hand on his arm. “Hush,” she whispered. “All is well.”

“They’re dead,” he said. “I killed them.”

“Killed who?”

He gripped her hand.

“Sir…”

“They’re dead because of me!” he cried. “Do you understand that? I’m going to hell because of what I did.”

The bed moved as he shook.

“The devil awaits me, and I deserve his retribution.”

He tossed his head to one side, then let out a howl of despair that shattered her soul.

“Be still!” she cried. “It’s just a dream.”

He sat upright, his profile silhouetted against diffused light from the glowing embers. “Are you a demon—come to take me to hell?”

“No.” She drew him close. “I’m here to give you pleasure.”

“And ease my pain?” he asked, his voice a hoarse plea.

“If you wish it.”

He relaxed in her arms, and she sank back onto the pillows, pulling him on top of her.

He brushed his lips against her chin, and a flare of longing ignited in her heart as his lips moved toward her mouth.

A kiss…

The most intimate of gestures—there was a reason why it was called the doxy’s downfall.

Surely one kiss wouldn’t risk her soul? To her, he was a means to coin, and to him, she was merely a soft body to rut.

“That’s it,” he whispered, his breath warm against her lips. “Mimi…”

She stiffened and turned her head to one side, and his kiss fell on her cheek.

She tried to push him away, but he held her closer, the firmness of his grip speaking of desperation and pain.

But it was not a pain that she could ease. Not with a kiss, at least.

Time to earn my ten guineas.

She reached lower and found his manhood, already hard for her. He sighed as she parted her thighs and he slipped inside her. He began to thrust, weakly, sliding through her with slow, tender strokes. For a moment, she ignored the danger and allowed herself to feel. Warmth blossomed in her heart to match the desire in her body.

“Oh, Mimi…”

As he whispered her name, a ripple of pleasure threaded through her, and she bit her lip to stem the tide.

“No…”

“Yes,” he murmured, his lips tracing a path along her throat. A fizz of need threaded through her breasts as his lips caressed her skin, and she gritted her teeth, steeling herself against the tide of longing…

Then, with a sigh, he relaxed and slid back into sleep until, finally, he was at peace, his breathing steady—the nightmares gone.

She ought to be relieved that she’d not come to pleasure at his touch, but instead, she was overcome by a sense of loss.

Think of the money, Mimi. Ten guineas is worth it.

Perhaps it was—but no sum was worth risking her soul.