Page 34 of Doxy for the Ton
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 youknowher?”
“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 beher.
“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’rereallylike beneath that pretense at kindness.
“I’m disappointed that yourfriendmust 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 whilenotbeing 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?”
