Page 39 of Doxy for the Ton
The question is—how much of a fool amI?
Chapter Ten
By the timethe seamstress had gone, armed with measurements and a book full of sketches, the rain had ceased. The sun had traversed the sky, plunging the parlor into shadow, and Mimi moved to the drawing room at the back of the house, which contained a square pianoforte and overlooked the garden—if a stretch of ill-kept grass could be called agarden.
Perhaps she could ask Wheeler to hire a gardener to tidy it, plant a few rosebushes to bring a splash of color.
Then she checked herself. By the time the roses bloomed, she’d be gone.
But she would have the means to purchase her own house—complete with rosebushes—rather than the house procured by the man who now owned her.
The man who had not yet deigned to visit her.
Where is he?
As if in answer, she heard a knock on the front door. She placed herself on the chaise longue by the window and lifted the book of poetry she’d been reading over breakfast.
Footsteps approached, and to her shame, Mimi felt a pulse of longing. She inhaled and counted to five, focusing on the book in her hand. She let her gaze wander over the lines of verse without reading them, then the footsteps paused outside the drawing room door and her heart gave a jolt of anticipation.
The door opened and Charles appeared.
“You have a visitor, ma’am.”
Mimi set the book aside and smoothed down the front of her dress. “Please send him in, Charles.”
“Oh, b-but…” he said as he moved aside to reveal the newcomer.
A lady, dressed in pale lilac silk.
The cut of her gown lacked the ostentation of the women at the modiste’s, but its simplicity reeked of elegance. She wore a plain pearl necklace, each bead a perfectly formed sphere with a subtle sheen of iridescence.
Her features were too unremarkable for her to be described as a beauty, except for the curiously intense expression in her emerald eyes.
“Th-the Duchess of Whitcombe,” Charles stammered.
Mimi’s gut twisted as she rose to her feet.
Aduchess—come to look down her nose, perhaps instruct Mimi to leave Town, lest she taint it with her presence.
Mimi wiped her hands on her skirt, then dipped into a curtsey. “Your Grace,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The duchess frowned. “My husband is a friend of the Duke of Sawbridge. I understand Sawbridge was a friend of your late husband? I brought this for you.”
She held out a package, her hand trembling.
Surely the duchess wasn’tnervous?
Mimi took the package and opened it. Nestled together among thin sheets of paper were a number of sweets fashioned into flowers, in delicate shades of orange and pink.
“Marzipan,” Mimi whispered.
Her stomach clenched as a distant memory crawled to the surface of her mind—her nine-year-old self creeping down the stairs, drawn to the sound of voices and laughter, her parents’ drawing room filled with bright colors, silken gowns, and the soft music of Bach—and a lady with gray hair and kind eyes who glided across the room to present her with a piece of marzipan, holding her finger to her lips.
She bit her lip to shatter the memory.
“Forgive me,” her guest said. “Do you like marzipan?”
Mimi’s mouth watered at the prospect of tasting the sweets. “It’s been a long time,” she said. “Would you like tea?”
