Page 43 of Doxy for the Ton
Chapter Eleven
Before Alexander reachedthe top of the front steps, the door to number 16 Grosvenor Square opened.
“Ah, Wheeler, isn’t it?” he said to the black-clad butler. “Is Lady Rex receiving visitors?”
“Naturally, sir.”
The butler’s expression revealed little, but Alexander could swear he caught an undercurrent of disdain. Butlers were a different breed—they considered themselves the ultimate guardians of etiquette, even greater champions of propriety than the people they served.
Even dukes.
“You’ll find her in the parlor, Your Grace.”
“Lead the way, then,” Alexander said. “Though I’m paying for this house, this is the first time I’ve set foot in it.”
The butler rolled his eyes, then he escorted Alexander to a door, knocked, and opened it.
“His Grace, the Duke of Sawbridge,” he said, his tone almost apologetic.
Alexander heard a soft “Oh,” then he entered the parlor. Mimi stood, with another woman, beside a table laden with fabric and ribbons.
His blood surged with want as his gaze slid over Mimi’s delectable form. She stared back at him, apprehension in her soft brown eyes, then dipped into a curtsey.
“Your Grace, I wasn’t expecting you today.”
“Weren’tyou?”
She colored, then addressed her companion. “Peg, have you everything you need?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Excellent. Perhaps you’d like to take tea with your cousin before leaving?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am.” The companion gathered the cloths and ribbons, then exited the parlor.
Alexander approached Mimi and held out his hands. After a pause, she took them, and the apprehension in her eyes disappeared, replaced by the hard smile of the doxy.
“Welcome, Your Grace,” she said brightly.
She played her part well. Why, then, did he find it so infuriating? Couldn’t she give him a little of the softness he’d glimpsed before? He was paying her enough to please him.
He glanced at her dress. “I see you have a new gown, though it doesn’t look to be up to Madame Deliet’s usual standard.”
Her smile slipped.
“It’s not a new gown,” she said. “I had it altered to fit while my gowns are being made.”
“You’ve been here almost a week,” he replied. “Hasn’t Madame Deliet finished even one gown? I’m anxious to take you out.”
“Are you?” A flare of hope shimmered in her eyes.
“I want to get my money’s worth.”
The hope faded. “How very prudent of you.”
“Prudence is overrated,” he said. “Madame Deliet’s intelligent enough to understand that if she works quickly, she can command a higher fee. She knows I always pay well for my…possessions.”
She flinched—almost imperceptibly, but enough to confirm that his arrow had hit home.
