Page 8 of Doxy for the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #7)

T he carriage hit a rut and jolted sideways. Alexander groaned as a spike of pain shot through his leg.

Fuck—that hurt.

A sharp sigh from the woman opposite told him he’d spoken aloud.

Shit . That was all he needed—yet more disapproval from his friend’s wife, one of the few respectable women in London who tolerated his company, even if only for her husband’s sake.

“Does it still trouble you?” she asked, gazing at him with her usual intense expression.

“What, Duchess—my leg, or the reason it was broken?”

“I was inquiring after the former,” she replied. “The latter is a matter for your conscience.”

“Eleanor, we discussed this.” Her husband, the Duke of Whitcombe and perhaps Alexander’s only friend, took her hand.

“That we did, Montague,” she said, turning her attention on the world outside, through the raindrop-spattered carriage window.

“It’s most obliging of you to take me home,” Alexander said. “I could have sent for my own carriage.”

“It’s not out of our way. We’ve been taking tea with Lord and Lady Radham—and their new daughter.”

“Had I known, I’d have asked you to give them my best wishes,” Alexander said.

The duchess turned her gaze toward him, then opened her mouth to respond. She was never one to engage in the bland social niceties such as conveying meaningless regards to an acquaintance. Instead, she had a discomfiting habit of saying that which everyone else was thinking, but was too polite to voice.

Such as Alexander’s many transgressions toward Lady Radham, the duchess’s younger sister, who had once been the subject of salacious gossip—gossip that Alexander had, to his shame, relished.

But he’d learned his lesson. The pleasure in having indulged in sordid tales about others made the humiliation of being the subject of such tales himself all the more intense.

The carriage turned into Grosvenor Square and the duchess sighed, her breath misting against the window.

“Look at that poor woman caught in the rain,” she said. “She’ll be soaked without an umbrella.”

Whitcombe leaned toward the window. “She has her footman with her, Eleanor. Doubtless he’ll be in for a tongue lashing for forgetting to bring one.”

“She looks more sad than angry.”

“How can you tell at this distance, my love?”

“I can’t see her expression, but there’s something about the way she carries herself, as if she feels she doesn’t belong.”

Alexander laughed. “How can anyone know what another person is thinking merely by looking at their stance ?”

The duchess focused her dark eyes on him, and he felt his cheeks warm under her scrutiny.

Whitcombe took her hand, and her expression softened as she shifted her gaze to her husband.

“I’m fortunate to have a clever wife, Sawbridge,” he said, mirroring her smile.

Ugh . Perhaps getting soaked was preferable to being stuck in a carriage with a lovesick couple. Though Alexander couldn’t deny the pang of longing at seeing two people so much in love—so different, and yet so perfect for each other. Opposites, yet equals.

She glanced outside again. “Thank heaven for that,” she said. “That must be her home.”

Alexander leaned toward the window in time to see two figures—a cloaked woman and a thin youth in blue livery—climbing the stairs toward the front door of a house…the house across the square from his own that had been vacant.

Until yesterday.

Her cloak clung to her form, and his manhood stirred in recognition—and in anticipation of being buried inside her. To think—in a matter of hours he could be parting those lovely thighs.

Mimi…

“Beg pardon?” Whitcombe asked. “Do you know her?”

“I…” Alexander’s cheeks warmed as he felt the duchess’s gaze fall upon him once more. “Sh-she’s my…”

Devil take him! What ought he to call her? Mistress? Lover?

Doxy?

The duchess let out a huff.

Damn . Of all the people to witness his discomfort, it had to be her .

“I think it’s a disgrace,” she said.

“Eleanor, my love, you know nothing of her,” Whitcombe said.

“You think her unfit to live in Grosvenor Square, Duchess?” Alexander asked.

“No,” she said. “I am disappointed that your…” She hesitated and lowered her gaze to the bulge in his breeches.

Go on, Duchess, say it. Call her my whore and be done with it. Show me what you’re really like beneath that pretense at kindness.

“I’m disappointed that your friend must fend for herself in the rain while you luxuriate in our carriage,” she said. “No wonder nobody respectable wants anything to do with you.”

“Eleanor,” Whitcombe said, “it’s not Sawbridge’s fault if his paramour takes a turn in the rain.”

She let out a huff. “At the very least, he could have put his carriage at her disposal.”

In that, the duchess was right. Mimi must have been to Madame Deliet’s, and Alexander hadn’t concerned himself with how she’d get there. It had been for her sake that he’d not offered to escort her personally. If their ruse of her being the respectable widow of a knight were to be believed, she was better off attending the modiste while not being on the arm of the man with the worst reputation in London.

At least she’d had the good sense to take a footman with her.

“She’s not my paramour,” Alexander said. “She’s a respectable widow.”

“But you and she are…” Whitcombe leaned forward, a smile of mischief on his lips.

Aware of the futility of lying before the sharply observant duchess, Alexander nodded.

“Then she’s a brave woman—or perhaps a fool—for associating with you. Does she know of your reputation?”

“She’s an old family friend—at least, her late husband was.”

“And he was?”

“Sir John Rex.”

Whitcombe frowned. “I’ve not heard of him. Rex, you say? There’s Sir John Wrexham, though he must be at least sixty. He has an estate in Yorkshire. But I thought him still alive.”

“Sir John and Lady Rex lived in Italy,” Alexander said. “Now her period of mourning is over, she’s come to London.”

“And you’ve settled her in the house opposite,” Whitcombe said, amusement in his tone. “Most magnanimous, I’m sure.”

“I’m dealing with her solicitor,” Alexander said. “Surely there’s no harm in that?”

“Does she have any acquaintance in London?” the duchess asked.

“Not yet.”

“I could introduce her to Lady Arabella,” she said. “She spent some of her childhood in Italy.”

Bugger .

“I don’t think Lady Rex would want—”

“Shouldn’t that be up to Lady Rex to decide? I’d have thought she’d welcome the opportunity to speak to someone who knows something of her former home.”

“Eleanor, my love,” Whitcombe said, “Sawbridge knows Lady Rex better than you.”

“ Do you know her well?” she asked, turning to Alexander.

He glanced at the house into which Mimi had entered, recalling the shuttered expression in her eyes, the coarseness which she had, at first, used as a shield, until her accent had lapsed into that of a lady. His heart twitched at the memory of her smile—the soft smile of contentment that he’d glimpsed as she slept. But he was yet to see that smile when she was awake, buried, as it was, beneath layers of steel.

No. He didn’t know her well—in fact, he didn’t know her at all.

“Perhaps I should pay her a call,” the duchess said.

“Eleanor, why?” Whitcombe asked. “You dislike strangers.”

“Montague, aren’t you always encouraging me to speak to strangers in case I find them to my liking?”

“She may not welcome the intrusion,” Alexander said.

“Shouldn’t she be permitted to decide for herself whether to receive visitors?” the duchess said. “Or is she dependent on you ?”

Alexander shook his head. “She has an independent income.”

The knowledge that he’d lied clung to the air, but if the duchess recognized it, she gave no sign.

“And she chooses to spend her time with you ?” she said. “She must be a remarkable woman. I look forward to knowing her better.”

“Eleanor…”

“No, Montague. I’m determined.”

There was no deterring her. Duchess Whitcombe was a contradiction. Most of the time she remained quiet, especially at parties. But when a subject interested her, she could be neither silenced, nor deterred.

Alexander knew enough of the tenacity of women—this woman in particular—that the very last thing he should do was warn her off. It would only pique her interest further.

But if Mimi were to enter Society, Alexander could think of none better to make her acquaintance. Duchess Whitcombe had the kindest soul in England. She wouldn’t punish Mimi for her association with him.

He leaned back in his seat. “Duchess, I’ve no objection to your visiting Lady Rex. She may welcome the company.”

She arched an eyebrow, then nodded. “That’s settled. I’ll call on her later this afternoon.”

Damn . He’d wanted to visit Mimi today—but the last thing he needed was to be caught in flagrante delicto by Duchess Whitcombe.

After depositing Alexander outside his front door, the carriage circumnavigated the square, then disappeared onto the adjoining street. He glanced across at number sixteen. Perhaps, if he were quick, he could pay Mimi a visit, take his pleasure, and be gone before the duchess returned.

Then the door opened, and his butler appeared at the threshold.

“Ah, Your Grace,” he said. “Your solicitor is here. I believe you’re expecting him.”

Mimi’s bed would have to wait. But Alexander could console himself in the knowledge that the longer the wait, the sweeter the pleasure.