Page 151 of Doxy for the Ton
“Which is?”
“You must take time to look after yourself. You spend your days thinking of others—who is there to take care ofyou?”
At that moment, the door opened, and Betsy entered with the tea tray. After she’d set the tray down and exited the parlor, Mimi rose and poured the tea. She half filled one cup, then topped it up with milk and handed it to her guest.
“Just how I like it,” he said after taking a sip. “It’s extraordinary how you always remember, Miss King. You should be proud of the woman you’ve become.”
She blushed and resumed her seat. “You’re most kind, Mr. Stockton, and I thank you for not judging me for having been a who—”
“My dear,” he interrupted, “your past matters not. And I’m not alone in my sentiment. There are others who admire you for yourself. One in particular.”
Whom did he mean? Perhaps, if she asked, he might speak ofhim. But could she bear to hear that he was indulging in the pleasures of London Society without her?
No—I must stay strong and look to the future, not dwell on what could never have been.
“Now,” Stockton said, interrupting her thoughts, “tell me about your school. I happened to see it from the carriage window and saw a young man perched rather precariously on the roof.”
The danger averted, Mimi described her plans for the school, and tea passed without any mention of that which she would rather forget.
After the solicitor took his leave, Mimi cleared the tea things and took them to the kitchen, then she returned to the parlor to read the contract.
There it was—written in stark black letters against the white parchment.
Number 10 Royal Crescent, Brighton, belonged to her.
Her gaze wandered to the foot of the page, and she swallowed the knot of nausea as she saw the name of the signatory.
Ralph Derek John Mayhew, eighth Earl Mayhew.
Then her gaze fell upon the signatories of the two witnesses—the first, Earl Thorpe, and the second…
She traced the name with her fingertips, to reassure herself that the words were not the fruits of her imagination. But they were written in a clear, cursive hand.
Alexander James Ffortescue, fifth Duke of Sawbridge.
Chapter Thirty-One
Rosecombe Park, Hertfordshire
“Are you enjoyingyour breakfast, Your Grace?”
Alexander glanced up at his hostess and swallowed the mouthful of bacon. “Very much so, Duchess.”
“I’m so glad,” she said. “I have a particular excursion planned for you today, which I trust you’ll find a rewarding experience.”
A rewarding experience? What in the name of heaven did she mean by that? Usually, when someone spoke of arewarding experience, they referred to some sort of sufferance deemed to be good for a man’s moral wellbeing—if not quite so good for his person, or his purse.
But Whitcombe’s wife had always been something of an oddity with her particular likes and dislikes—one of her chief dislikes being Alexander himself.
So why the devil had he been invited to spend a week at Rosecombe on her insistence?
What torment was she about to inflict on him?
Alexander glanced toward his friend, but Whitcombe merely winked at him then exchanged a smile with the duchess. Whitcombe was a fool, in thrall to his wife. He even flouted the tradition that dictated a husband and wife sit at opposite ends of the table to spare them from the necessity of actually talking to each other. Instead, he cozied up to her at the breakfast table, as if they were adolescent lovers.
Whitcombe waved across a footman. “Our guest is in need of more bacon.”
The footman nodded and brought over the silver dish piled high with pink slices of deliciousness that filled the air with an aroma intense enough to make a stone statue salivate.
