Page 2 of Doxy for the Ton
A freedom you’ll never have.
Jemima flinched as her conscience whispered in her mind. Freedom—true freedom—was not the province of her sex. But the adoration of a man she loved as a dear friend, together with her status as his wife, was the next best thing. And it was the best she could hope for.
The carriage drew to a halt, and she caught sight of the Mayhew crest emblazoned on the side. The door opened and the carriage tilted to one side as its occupant climbed out. Jemima withdrew into her chamber, plucked a bottle of cologne from the dressing table, and placed a dab on her neck and the inside of each wrist. The scent was Walter’s favorite, and it helped to stem the nausea that had been plaguing her.
She descended the stairs and entered the parlor. Shortly after, a footman appeared.
“You have a visitor, Miss King.”
“So formal, Timothy?” Jemima said. “Please send Lord Mayhew in, then have Mrs. Riley bring tea.”
The footman colored and lowered his gaze.
“Timothy, is anything amiss?”
“Miss, I…”
“Out of my way—you!” a voice interrupted.
The newcomer pushed the footman aside and strode into the room, tapping his silver-topped cane on the floor.
It wasn’t Walter.
Swallowing the apprehension rising in her stomach, Jemima dipped into a curtsey and addressed her fiancé’s son and heir—Ralph Mayhew, Viscount Purley.
“Viscount Purley,” she said, “to what do I owe the pleasure of—”
“Spare me the niceties, madam,” he said. “We both know you take no pleasure from my company.” He ran his fingertips along a table, then inspected them for dust, curling his lip into a sneer.
“You’ll find it perfectly clean,” Jemima said, allowing herself a moment’s irritation at the man who, though a similar age to her, would soon be her stepson.
“So I see,” he replied. “But then, considering the pater’s generosity toward his whore, I’d be disappointed if your”—he cast another glance about the parlor, wrinkling his nose—“yourpremiseslacked the necessary hygiene to enable you to carry out your business.”
Jemima curled her hands into fists, tempering the rising indignation. But he was within his rights to be affronted at the news that she was to become his stepmother.
Give the boy time, Jemmy my love—he’ll come round.
Dear Walter had such faith in others. He believed everyone was inherently good, even the profligate son he’d often despaired over while he lay in Jemima’s arms, seeking the love he’d never found within his own family.
Mayhew turned to the footman. “Go. I’ll not be wanting tea.”
The footman bowed then exited the parlor.
“I understand your disapproval of me, Viscount Purley,” Jemima said, “but I hope, for your father’s sake, we can be civil to one another.”
Mayhew fixed his pale-gray gaze on her and curled his lip into a smile, triumph glittering in his eyes.
“How wrong you are, Miss King,” he said.
A ripple of nausea clawed at her as he flicked his tongue out and moistened his lips.
“Surely a little civility…” she began, but he raised his hand.
“I meant in your address,” he said, “not your pathetic attempt at cordiality.”
“Viscount Purley, I—”
“Viscountno more,” he said, stepping toward her, his teeth gleaming in the sunlight, and Jemima’s gut twisted with fear. “You address me as Earl Mayhew.”
