Page 89 of Doxy for the Ton
It was coming from number sixteen.
Was it Bach? He’d overheard Mimi enthusing about the composer, and Thorpe had remarked on it.
What would a doxy know about Bach?
And what doxy would know how to dance? Her accent had slipped within a day of their meeting, indicating that she was no ordinary doxy. But tonight, she’d shown that she was no ordinary woman. The natural daughter of a duke, perhaps? It would explain why she’d taken such a liking to that Drayton puppy.
It was nothing but pure savagery that had compelled Alexander to set upon young the boy—a beast challenging a rival for ownership of his mate.
But he didn’t own her.
The melody stopped, then resumed, more slowly. Alexander climbed the steps and knocked on the door. Shortly after, it opened to reveal Charles.
“Oh.” The footman glanced over his shoulder. “Y-your Grace, her ladyship isn’t expecting you.”
“May I come in, Charles?” Alexander asked.
“The mistress is in the drawing room, if you’d like to wait in the—”
“Not particularly,” Alexander said, brushing past the footman. “I know the way.”
He strode along the hallway, toward the music, which stopped as he opened the door at the end.
Mimi was sitting at a pianoforte. She still wore the purple gown, but she’d removed her gloves, which lay folded on the top of the instrument. She rose, pushing back the piano stool.
“I didn’t know you played,” he said.
“I don’t,” she replied, reaching for her gloves.
“Leave those.” He stepped forward and caught her hands, relishing the fizz of need at the feel of her soft skin beneath his fingers.
“You left the ball early,” she said.
“After I danced with Lady Portia,” he replied. “I wanted nothing more than to be with you, but had no wish to shame her.”
The corner of her mouth lifted into a smile. “Perhaps there’s hope for you after all.”
He gestured toward the pianoforte. “You play beautifully.”
She let out a snort and tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it firm.
“Let me withdraw my last remark,” she said. “I prefer honesty.”
“Where’s the dishonesty in admiring music?” he asked. “Whether executed with proficiency or not, to me, the music I heard was beautiful. Not because you have mastered the technique, but because it wasyouplaying it.”
“Now you seek to flatter me,” she said. “Flattery in a man does not become him—at least not when he’s come to visit the whore he purchased.”
“Don’t say such things,” he said, his gut twisting with guilt. “You’re not a whore.”
“Then for what purpose have you visited me?” she asked. “I doubt you came to discuss Bach.”
“I came here to talk.”
“You’re not paying me totalk, Your Grace. Would you like a brandy before we retire to the bedchamber?”
Guilt needled at him at the resigned note in her voice, and he shook his head.
“Who are you, Mimi?”
