Page 124 of Doxy for the Ton
“Hush,” he whispered, his voice a soft caress. “I care not what he says. All that matters is you.”
“But I… His father…”
He kissed her hair. “There’s no need to tell me anything, Mimi. I care not for your past—I care foryou. Here and now.”
He took her head in his hands and tilted her face up. Pain flickered in his eyes when she winced.
“I-I need to tend to…” she began, gesturing to her throbbing cheek.
“Let me take care of you.”
He took her hand and led her to the chaise longue beside the window. Shortly after, Charles entered carrying a tray.
“Lady Rex!” he cried. “What’s happened? Are you hurt?”
“Just bring the tray like I asked, and stop fooling about,” Alexander growled.
“I’ll be all right, Charles,” Mimi said. “I was…” She hesitated at the memory of Mayhew’s snarling face and the fear of his overpowering her. “I-I was…”
“You weremagnificent,” Alexander said, brushing a stray tendril of her hair behind her ear. “Charles, set the tray here and fetch a brandy for your mistress.”
The footman obeyed then exited the parlor.
Mimi closed her eyes, beset with shame and nausea. She heard a movement and caught the soft scent of herbs. Then a cool cloth was pressed against her cheek. She opened her eyes to see Alexander staring at her.
“Be still,” he whispered. “This will help with the bruising.” Then he smiled, his eyes shimmering in the afternoon light. “I learned from the best, did I not? Ah—the brandy.” He turned as Charles entered with a glass. “Thank you, young man,” he said, taking the glass. “Forgive me for speaking harshly earlier. I was concerned for your mistress.”
The footman bowed and exited the parlor.
Alexander held the glass to Mimi’s lips.
“I can take care of myself,” she said.
“I know, my love,” he said. “But, just this once, I would beg you accept the care of another—he who loves you.”
She reached for the glass, and her hand trembled. He took her hand and guided the glass to his lips, kissing each finger.
“There’s no shame in being tended to after the ordeal you’ve just endured,” he said. “Here, drink the brandy—it’ll help.”
Her heart threatened to yield at his earnestness, and she nodded. Silently, he tilted the glass until the liquid trickled into her mouth. She caught her breath as the fiery liquor warmed her throat.
“There!” he said, in the manner of a nursemaid coaxing a sick child. Then he continued to dab her face with the cloth. “Better?” he asked.
“A little.”
He pushed her gently back, and she resisted.
“You’re still shaking,” he said. “Take some rest. I’ll be here—unless you wish me to leave?”
The hope in his eyes melted her heart, and she held out her hand, suppressing her shame at how violently it trembled.
“Stay,” she whispered.
He kissed her hand again, then nodded. “As long as you need me.”
He reached for her shawl from the back of a chair and draped it over her. Then he kneeled beside her and caressed her forehead with a light, gentle touch that belied his huge hands—hands that had, not ten minutes before, pummeled her assailant to the floor then thrown him out onto the street. Gentle hands capable of protecting her—of loving her.
She relaxed under his touch and sank back.
