Page 70 of Doxy for the Ton
“Haven’t you stirred that enough?”
She set the spoon down and sipped her tea. Then he saw it—the slight shake of her hand.
He’d rattled her, though she hid it well, behind the veil of the heartless doxy.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Your Grace?” she asked.
He gestured toward her gown. “There was no need to change on my account. That gown’s pretty enough, but I’ve seen you in your whore’s garb before.”
The teacup rattled on her saucer and she clapped her hand over it.
“Do you lethimgive you pleasure?” he asked.
She set the cup on the table. It rolled off the saucer and fell onto the floor, spilling its contents on her skirts.
She let out a cry, and Alexander leaped forward.
Sweet heaven—had she hurt herself?
“Mimi, are you—”
“I’m fine,” she said. “It’s nothing I can’t deal with. I’m capable of laundering a gown, you know.”
“I-I meant, did you hurt yourself?”
He reached for her hand, and his skin tightened at the feel of her slim fingers curling around his. Oh, how he’d missed her touch! He lifted her hand to his lips, but she snatched it free.
“I’m not hurt,” she said, the expression in her eyes belying her words.
“Where were you today, Mimi?”
“Or rather, whom was I with?” she replied. “There were three of them for most of the time—at one point I had five in the room with me. Is that what you wish to hear?”
“Did”—he swallowed, yearning, but also unwilling to hear the answer—“did you take pleasure today?”
She rose to her feet, her eyes bright.
“Yes,” she said. “Today gave me much pleasure. What do you say to that?”
“What if I threw you out like a cheap whore?”
He flinched at his words, but she remained impassive.
“Think of your reputation, Your Grace,” she said, her voice laced with ice. “How would your friends react if even a cheap whore such as myself couldn’t stomach your company? If you wish me to leave, then gladly I shall—but not before I have my money.”
“There we have it,” he said. “Money. Is that all your care for?”
“It’s easy for you to have contempt for that which you’ve never been without,” she scoffed. “I daresay you have contempt for that young man who lit this fire—though you’re incapable of lighting it yourself. But if you didn’t have people to cater to your every whim—to feed and clothe you, to maintain the roof over your head, to light the fires that keep you warm—you’d not survive a single day.”
Her words pricked at his conscience. She had sketched a portrait of a pathetic creature, unable to fend for himself.
Unable, even, to prevent his best friend from getting killed…
He reached for the decanter, refilled his glass, then drained it in a single swallow.
“Y-you’re a liar,” he said, his voice catching as the liquor burned his throat.
“No more than you,” she said. “I’ll admit I’ve played a role in the past—every woman in my profession must, if she’s to survive. But I have never lied to you—neither have I broken faith, despite what you wish to believe.”
