Page 13 of Doxy for the Ton
Her jaw bulged as if she gritted her teeth.
“Guineas,” she said. “Make it ten guineas and you have a deal. But I want to see the money first.”
“You have my word as a gentleman.”
She pulled her chemise off and climbed into the bed.
“You trust me, then?” he said, lying back.
She settled onto her side so she faced him. At close quarters, he could see the paint on her face creasing as she smiled.
“I’ll get my money either way,” she replied. “If I decide not to trust you, then you’ll wake up in the morning with a knife in your heart.”
“I have no heart,” he said.
“Then, sir, we are equal.”
He shook his head. “You and I are not equals.”
Her eyes narrowed. “It’ll cost you extra if you wish to talk all night.”
“Then I’ll stop talking.” He rolled over, turning his back to her. After a moment, he heard a soft sigh, then her breathing steadied.
She’d misunderstood him. They may not be equals, but she assumed he’d meant that he was her superior. But he’d caught a glimpse of the expression in her eyes—a flicker of a human soul. She had a heart, though she hid it well.
She didn’t have to bring him home tonight. She could have robbed him, left him for dead, and secured herself more money than she’d earn from pleasuring him.
No—he was not her superior.
She was his.
Chapter Three
“No!” a voicecried.
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.
