Page 4 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

W hy did the world relish the dawn rather than dread it? Particularly the birds—opening their mouths to declare, sharpy and rudely, the beginning of a new day.

To most, the dawn heralded life, and love.

But not to me.

To Alexander, the dawn served as a reminder of his sins—and the prospect of eternity in hell for what he’d done.

Dawn was the precursor to death.

And yet, this morning, for the first time since that day in the park, the pain in his soul had lessened. A pair of warm arms enveloped him with tenderness and a soft voice shushed his cries and eased his pain.

Perhaps, in time, he’d be able to sleep through the night, unmolested by images of twisted bodies, broken bones, and the lifeless eyes of his best friend.

He sat up and stretched, wincing at the stab of pain in his leg. He glanced about the bedchamber and caught sight of a gaudy orange object beside the washbasin.

A wig.

Then he recalled a hard, painted face, fixing him with her dispassionate gaze as he came to pleasure at her touch.

He lowered his gaze to the bed and caught his breath.

She lay beside him, her back to him. Her body rose and fell with each breath. Soft, pale-brown hair spilled over the pillow in waves, not quite concealing the creamy-white skin of her shoulders. He lifted the bedsheet for a better look. She stirred and he withdrew, his cheeks warming with shame.

He wasn’t some eager adolescent taking an illicit peek at a woman. He was a duke, and she was the doxy he’d bought and paid for—at least for the night.

She rolled onto her back and he caught his breath.

Gone was the harsh whiteness of powder, the gaudy red on her cheeks and lips. Before him lay a fresh-faced creature, her skin almost translucent. A gentle smile of contentment curved her lips, which were a soft pink. In the stillness of repose, she looked innocent—angelic.

In that moment, she was neither the painted whore he wished to bed, nor the brittle porcelain lady he was expected to wed. She was merely a young woman, in the tranquility of sleep, awaiting the joy of a new day.

He had never seen anything so lovely.

He placed his palm on her face, then caressed it with his thumb, tracing the outline of her mouth. Her lips parted and his skin tightened at the gentle warmth of her sigh against his fingertips.

Her eyes fluttered open. They were a light shade of brown—like rich honey—with small green flecks in the center that shimmered in the sunlight.

He hadn’t noticed their color last night—overpowered as they were by the excess of powder and rouge, and that wig, the megrim-inducing shade of orange that hid her soft brown tresses.

“Mimi…” he breathed.

The name suited her—elfin and delicate.

She blinked, slowly, and he caught a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes. Then she stiffened and her expression shuttered. Clutching the bedsheet to her body, she sat up. Then she ran her hand through her hair and her eyes widened with a flicker of panic.

She glanced toward the washstand and slipped off the bed, taking the bedsheet with her as she reached for the wig.

Alexander darted toward the washstand and snatched the wig.

“Give that to me,” she said. “It’s mine.”

“No.”

“A thief, are you?”

He held the wig up. “Why hide yourself beneath this—this filth ?”

Pain glistened in her eyes. “You were willing to pay for that filth last night. You came to pleasure quick enough.”

His gut twisted with shame and he tossed the wig toward her, but she remained still, clinging to the bedsheet as the wig fell to the floor.

“Forgive me,” he said.

“For speaking the truth?” She blinked, then shook her head and stooped to retrieve the wig.

“Leave that,” he said. “Please.”

She stiffened. “That wig cost money.”

“I’ll pay you for it.”

She smirked. “Fancy it yourself?”

“I intend to destroy it, so you never have to wear it again.”

“It’ll cost you.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You think I can’t afford it?”

“You know nothing about having to pay the price for something you cannot afford.”

“You think because I’m a duke I’ve not been faced with too high a price?” he said. “How about the loss of two lives—the loss of my respectability? My peers cannot bear to look at me—even those below me won’t associate themselves with me. I cannot even find a respectable mistress. I…”

His voice trailed off as he realized the meaning of his words. But the damage had already been done.

“So you thought you’d settle for a filthy whore such as myself?” she said.

“Perhaps at first, I thought…” He gestured in the air between them. “But then you—you were not like I’d expected.”

“What was I like?”

He stepped toward her and winced at the pain in his leg, which bore a fresh bandage from last night. She lowered her gaze to his leg, and he caught it again—the concern in her eyes.

Though she might not want to admit it, she cared .

“I never thanked you,” he said.

“What for?”

“For last night—bringing me home. And those two men who accosted me. Did they—”

“They’ll be waking with sorer heads than you this morning.”

“They were big brutes,” he said. “Do you mean to say you…?”

“I don’t expect a pampered man such as yourself to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“I’ve learned to defend myself,” she said. “It’s the finest education a doxy can have. I’ve no use for the skills taught by governesses. Your ladies concern themselves with whether their embroidery stitches are neat enough. I concern myself with warding off would-be violators.”

“I didn’t think a whore could be violated,” he said.

It was a cruel riposte, and the pain in her eyes told him that his arrow had hit home.

“Women such as I are violated all the time,” she said. “Men like you use our bodies for your own gratification before returning to your wives—men who cry with pleasure at our touch, then snub us in front of your more respectable friends while you spit on us like we’re the dirt under your polished calfskin boots.”

He caught her hand, and her eyes flared with surprise.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I-I didn’t mean to hurt you. In fact…”

In fact, I want nothing more than to see you smile—that beautiful smile you gifted me with in your sleep.

How could he say such a thing to her? Most likely she’d laugh at him.

But he could have the next best thing.

“I’d like to make you an offer,” he said. “I want you to be my mistress.”

He stepped back, waiting to see her smile. But instead, she gave a gasp and retreated. Rather than joy in her eyes, he saw fear.