Page 1 of Doxy for the Ton
Chapter One
Brighton, June 1813
The clock onthe mantelshelf issued a cascade of chimes, descending like a waterfall, until it settled on a single long note, ten times.
He’s late.
Jemima’s stomach fluttered with apprehension.
He wasneverlate.
She always admired his promptness—and how he kept his promises.
Which made him unique among men.
She lifted her left hand and her gaze fell on the emerald ring—the mark of his promise. She could hardly bring herself to look at the ring—it was far too grand for her, a penniless orphan.
Of course,hewould never permit her to voice such an opinion. So, she contented herself with gazing into the stone’s depths, marveling at the hues of blue and green that pulsed in unison with her heartbeat, almost as if it were alive.
And itisalive, my love. This stone embodies my heart, which beats for none but you.
A pretty enough speech—one that, no doubt, was used by men over the years to coax women into bed. But he had no need to waste his breath on fine words for one such as her.
One such as I…
Mistress. Whore. Such words had long since ceased to wound her heart. The wounds had, over the years, hardened into scars with each insult, each cut direct, and each disapproving look.
How would the world react when forced to utter a different word altogether?
Wife.
Or rather—Lady Mayhew.
Lady Mayhew…
It was almost too perfect.
His acquaintances would disapprove. But the value they placed on titles and lineage would prevent them from insulting her openly. She smiled to herself at the notion of being introduced to Society, where she would outrank almost every snobbish creature she encountered.
And her children…
She placed a hand over her already thickening belly.
For any woman, the onset of a child signaled the ending of one chapter and the beginning of another. But for women in Jemima’s position, a pregnancy usually required her to be hastily removed from her home—and either tucked away in obscurity, lest her disgrace taint her protector’s reputation, or tossed out onto the street with a coin or two for her trouble. No man wanted to be saddled with his mistress’s child.
Except Walter…
Jemima’s heart swelled as she recalled the love in his eyes when she announced her condition—the joy at the prospect of a child, and his shame when he realized she’d expected him to abandon her.
She lifted her gaze to the dressing table mirror. The woman who smiled back looked contented, and filled with hope—the bloom on her cheeks that of a prospective wife and mother.
Her heart swelled as she heard the clatter of hooves on the road, and she approached the window, lifted the sash, and leaned out, inhaling the fresh, salty air. Seagulls circled overhead, screeching at each other in perpetual irritation. One stood on the ledge of the adjacent window, a single, baleful yellow eye staring at her.
“I’ve nothing for you,” she said.
The bird continued to stare. Doubtless it, and its acquaintances, knew that the occupants of this house doled out bounty to the needy—both human and feathered.
A carriage came into view at the end of the street. The gull turned its head, then opened its wings and launched off the ledge, its ungainly body tumbling toward the ground. Then its wings caught the air and it soared upward, screeching in celebration of its freedom.
