Page 6 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

A s Alexander cupped her cheek, her eyes closed, and he caught the almost imperceptible gasp from her lips.

A very different creature lay beneath that hard exterior of hers—a soft heart encased within a steel cage.

Alexander withdrew his hand and regarded the woman he’d just purchased. Naked, save for the cotton bedsheet she’d wrapped around her frame, she resembled a queen, her head held high while she negotiated her price. Had she been born a man, he could imagine her leading others into battle—or running a ducal estate.

What a challenge it would be to penetrate her armor to discover the woman within! Few could look him straight in the eye. But she had met his gaze, boldly, almost contemptuously, as if she were his equal.

Only once had she shied away from him—when he suggested she masquerade as a widow.

His mouth watered at the prospect of parading her about town on his arm. If she had the power to command a room in nothing but a bedsheet, imagine her allure when bedecked in the finery of a Society lady! Plain Mrs. Rex was too insufficient a pseudonym for her.

“You shall be Lady Rex,” he said, “for a little extra respectability.”

“ Lady Rex?” She shook her head. “N-no—I could never…”

“It’s perfect,” he said. “Your late husband can be an earl.”

“No!” She jerked back.

There it was again—the fear.

“Why not?” he asked.

She turned away. “A-an earl might be difficult to verify if required. But a knight—there are many more knights than earls, yes?”

“A knight it is, then,” he said. “Now—how about a name for your late husband?”

“I care not,” she said, in a voice that conveyed anything but.

There it was again, the undercurrent of sorrow. Perhaps she was a widow fallen on hard times, who took to the streets to fend for herself. Or a mistress, whose protector had abandoned her, or…

Or had died, leaving her destitute.

Was that why she’d insisted on securing her payment in the event of his not surviving? A woman in her circumstances had every need to be practical, particularly if she had trusted in the past and been exploited because of it.

And I as good as accused her of being a grasping hussy.

“How about Sir John as a name?” he suggested.

She shrugged. “It’s as good as any. The world must be awash with Sir Johns—one more won’t arouse suspicion.”

“Good,” he said. “So that’s settled, save one final question.”

Fear flared in her eyes. “Which is?”

“Is there anyone in this part of London who might recognize you?”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I-it’s unlikely.”

“Unlikely—but not impossible. Has a gentleman paid for your services before?”

Her color deepened, but she maintained her gaze, her eyes bright. “Not as a whore, no.”

“As something else?”

Her eyes shone with distress, and he cursed himself for being a cad. But if his scheme were to succeed…

“I’ve never been in this part of London before,” she said, carefully, as if she considered each word. “That doesn’t mean to say I won’t encounter someone I recognize. I…” She hesitated, then blinked. “I spent a few months in Sussex and encountered a man of your kind who might be in Town.” Her voice hardened as she uttered the final words. “But that was several years ago. I’ve changed much since then.”

“Did you”—he gestured to her body—“with him?”

“Not with him !” she spat. “I have some standards.”

“I’m flattered you consider me desirable enough to meet your exacting standards.”

“Don’t be,” she retorted. “You have but one desirable quality. Or, should I say, two thousand.”

He found himself admiring her resolve. She met his salvos with an equally fierce response.

“I see we understand each other,” he said. “I’ll not take you with me if I visit Brighton.”

“Brighton?” Her voice tightened. “I-I said nothing about Brighton.”

“It’s in Sussex, yes?” he replied. “But I have no reason to visit the south coast. My estate’s a day’s ride north of London.”

“O-of course,” she said. “I presume you’ll prefer it if I stayed in London for the duration of our arrangement.”

Her air of nonchalance didn’t fool him. But though he yearned to press her, to discover what distressed her, he refrained.

He wasn’t a complete bastard, no matter what she believed.

The clock on the mantelshelf began to whir, then seven notes rang out. Like an echo, the clocks dotted about his townhouse responded, as if calling to each other.

She turned toward the mantel clock, a soft smile on her lips, as if reliving a memory, and Alexander was overwhelmed by the desire to take her in his arms and kiss her. Then she turned away.

“It’s time I got dressed,” he said. “Can you dress yourself, or should I send someone?”

She responded with a harsh laugh, and he withdrew, slipping through the adjoining door into his dressing room.

His valet wasn’t due yet. Alexander had to distance himself from the alluring woman in the bedchamber.

He glanced about the room. He’d never dressed himself before—but it couldn’t be that hard, could it?

A wicked thought crossed his mind. Perhaps he should instruct her to dress him—make her kneel before him while she rolled his stockings onto his legs, his cock at her eye level, before she pleasured him with that pretty mouth of hers…

Or would she laugh at him for not even knowing how to put his stockings on? He didn’t even know where Larry kept his damned stockings.

He approached a chest of drawers. Larry kept his cravats in the top drawer and the shirts in the middle drawer. Logic would suggest the stockings were in the bottom.

On top of the chest was a neatly folded cravat. Alexander tutted under his breath. Larry was such a stickler for neatness—why the devil hadn’t he tidied it away?

He picked it up, then lifted it to his face, inhaling the soft scent of wood and spices. Had it been clean, he’d have expected the faint undertone of vinegar that Larry insisted kept the moths at bay. So it must have been the cravat he’d worn last night.

Only your necktie managed to emerge unsoiled.

She’d said that. Perhaps she’d ventured in here after undressing him. In which case, where were the rest of his clothes?

A watch had been placed next to the cravat. He picked it up and flipped it open, reading the inscription.

John Arnold & Son, London.

It was his pocket watch—the one those ruffians had taken from him. She must have put it there. Which meant only one thing.

She was in league with them and had played him for a fool.

Swallowing his anger, Alexander strode into the bedroom.

She stood by the window, still holding the bedsheet around her body. As he entered, she turned to face him, her eyes glistening in the sunlight.

But he was no longer fooled by her pretense. He held out the watch.

“What the devil is this ?”

“Your pocket watch,” she said. “I put it in your dressing room.”

“I can see that. I meant—how did you come by it? Which of your accomplices gave it to you?”

“Accomplices? You believe I was with the men who attacked you? Or, that I manipulated myself into your bed at the request of a pimper?” She let out a snort and turned to face the window.

“I should have left you to rot and kept the watch for my trouble.”

“You mean…”

“I mean , I retrieved it before I brought you home.”

He continued to stare at her.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” she added, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“But—how?” he said. “Those men overpowered me.”

“Therefore, I couldn’t possibly have defeated them?”

“You must agree it’s hard to believe.”

“I retrieved your watch,” she said. “Something I now regret. Whether you believe that is nothing to me.”

“How?”

She smiled, her attention still focused on the world outside. “I learned a long time ago that the way to defeat your enemy was not to use your strengths against him, but to exploit his weaknesses. And all men have the same weakness.”

“Which is?”

She turned to face him. “Your unwavering belief in your own superiority. The men who attacked you thought themselves more than a match for a lone man—and a whore. All I had to do was catch them off guard. When one of them took hold of me, I let him believe he was in control, until I could use his weight against him.”

So that explained the bruises on her arm.

Sustained, perhaps, in the act of saving my life.

He held out his hand. “Thank you.”

“I’ve already said, you’re welcome,” she said.

“But I would have you take my hand—as my savior.”

She stared at his hand, then took it.

“My valet will have something for those,” he said, nodding to her bruises.

“It’s nothing. They’ll heal in no time.”

Such nonchalance over the ugly marks marring her skin! Were she a lady, she’d have had a fit of apoplexy if a gust of wind rendered a single hair out of place.

But Mimi—the woman before him, the tough little thing with the soulful eyes—she was worth more than all the ladies of the ton combined.

Devil’s bones —from where had that notion come?

Alexander froze as footsteps approached. Shortly after, the door opened and Larry entered, stopping short as he caught sight of Mimi.

The valet wrinkled his nose. “Your Grace, it’s time for you to dress. Will your… guest be staying?”

Mimi drew in a sharp breath and gave the valet a look of equal dislike.

“Larry, this is”—Alexander hesitated—“Lady Rex. She’s lately returned from Italy and is looking for lodgings to rent. I believe there’s a house on the square that’s vacant. Would you speak to Gillingham so he can make the arrangements?”

Larry was no fool. The knowledge that Alexander lied thickened the air.

“In whose name will the lease be drawn up, sir?” Larry asked.

“Mine,” Alexander said. “I’ve agreed to act as guarantor until Lady Rex’s late husband’s stipend is settled. And I require an account to be opened in her name at my bank.”

“You do ?”

“Yes, Larry, I do,” Alexander said. “With all haste.”

“The partners at Coutts are very particular about new account holders, sir.”

“Then go to the Hart bank instead.”

“Very good, sir,” the valet replied. “The Hart bank caters to…a wider variety of clientele . Mr. Hart will take money from anyone.”

The valet glanced about the bedchamber. “I cannot find your clothes from yesterday, sir,” he said, “save your cravat. Where are they?”

Alexander glanced at Mimi.

“They’re in the scullery,” she said. “In a bucket. I put them there to soak.”

The valet wrinkled his nose. “They’re not rags—Mrs.…” He hesitated and cocked his head to one side.

“Lady Rex,” Mimi said.

“ Lady Rex, yes. They’re not rags, Lady Rex . They were crafted by the finest tailors of Savile Row. They could be ruined. In future, leave me to tend to the master’s clothes.”

“Then the next time your master rolls about in a ditch, I’ll leave you to scrub it off,” Mimi said.

Larry arched an eyebrow.

“Though,” she continued, “I suspect a prig such as yourself would faint at the stench of shit.”

Alexander suppressed a smile as the valet blushed to the tips of his ears.

“Well, I-I suppose, just this time…” he stammered, then wrinkled his nose.

A cold smile curled on her lips as she stepped toward the valet.

“That’s right, dearie,” she said, her voice flattening to the accent of the slums. “Leave the shit scrubbing to the likes of me, and you can amuse yourself folding silk and wallowing in your superiority.”

Oh hell —what was she about? A sense of anticipation threaded through Alexander, as if she were planning something.

Then she released the bedsheet, which fell to the floor, revealing her naked form.

Alexander’s mouth watered at the sight—her glorious curves, despite her lean frame, the soft, pert breasts with their dark-pink nipples, and the thatch of curls. His cock surged with the need to be buried between those sweet thighs. And to think—she was his until next summer.

A low whimper made him look around. His valet stared open-mouthed, raw, base desire in his eyes.

Mimi let out a laugh. “Take a good look, Larry,” she said. “I usually charge, but you get your first gawp for free.”

“I-I…” The red-faced valet stepped back, his eyes flaring with shame.

“Larry, I’ll see you in the dressing room,” Alexander said.

The valet mumbled an apology, then slipped into the dressing room, closing the door behind him.

Mimi made no attempt to move. She met Alexander’s gaze with a mixture of pride and hurt in her eyes. Suppressing the need to claim her luscious body, he stooped to pick up the bedsheet, ignoring the raging torrent in his groin. Then he placed the sheet around her shoulders, drawing it close around her body.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Good. I’ll return when you’re dressed, then I’ll escort you to breakfast. If there’s anything you need in the interim, I can send my housekeeper.”

“Anything like what?”

He gestured toward her gown—the gaudy, tattered garment draped over the back of a chair. “My housekeeper can lend you a gown should you need it, at least until you’ve visited Madame Deliet—the modiste I mentioned.”

She nodded, but the smile he’d been hoping for didn’t materialize.

“We’ll have you settled into your house in a day or two,” he added. “My housekeeper can oversee the hiring of your staff.” He glanced toward the door through which Larry had gone. “Or you can direct her in the choice. It’s for appearance’s sake, of course, but that’s no reason not to hire staff who’ll tend to you properly—and with respect.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

She smiled at that, and his heart soared at the beautiful expression in her eyes.

Resisting the urge to take her in his arms, he left the bedchamber and entered the dressing room, where a subdued Larry stood waiting to dress him.