Page 90 of Doxy for the Ton
“I am Lady Rex, the—”
“Very well,” he said, grasping her by the shoulders. “Whowereyou?”
Fear flared in her eyes, and she looked away.
“No doxy plays Bach,” he said, “and no doxy carries herself across the ballroom with the dignity you displayed tonight.”
“A good whore can play any role, Your Grace,” she said. “You should be pleased I’m giving you value for your coin.”
“Mimi, I—”
“Or perhaps you wish to take your pleasure in here, Your Grace?”
“Damn it, woman, will you desist?” he demanded. “I’d be the worst sort of fool if I didn’t see that you have the breeding and demeanor of one born into privilege. There’s no shame in it—your history is shared by countless women fallen on hard times. I cannot bear the thought of your having to—”
“Please!” she cried, her eyes glistening with moisture. “Speak no more of it. I am what you pay me to be, nothing more. There is no history for you to concern yourself with. There’s only the future—your future, with your reputation restored so that you might continue to enjoy the pleasures afforded by a man of your rank.”
He pulled her close, and she drew in a sharp breath as she tilted her head up to meet his gaze.
“Do you not understand?” he asked. “I cannot bear the notion of your having suffered a downfall. Too many women are born into privilege then forced to endure a life of destitution.”
“So you care nothing for women born into destitution?” she said. “Nothing for those who did not have the start in life that you take for granted—that I once…” She bit her lip and closed her eyes.
“I find that Idocare, Mimi,” he said. “I first came to care when I saw the marks on your body—the scars of hardship. I came to care when I saw the marks on your hands—your beautiful hands.”
He lifted her hands to his mouth and brushed his lips against her calloused knuckles, his body tightening with want.
“But I will never care as much for those women—unfortunate though they may be—as I have grown to care for you.”
Her eyes snapped open, and his chest tightened at the raw need he saw in them, the desire that darkened their color until they were almost black—black with tiny sparks of silver in their depths, as if her soul cried out to him.
Then he lowered his mouth to hers. For a heartbeat her body softened and his soul soared with hope as she parted her lips with a whimper. Then the whimper turned into a cry and she pushed him back.
But she had revealed something of herself—the tiny part that wanted him as much as he craved her. He lifted her into his arms, and she relaxed, wrapping her arms about his neck as he carried her out into the hallway and climbed the stairs. His heart ached at how she feared the intimacy of a kiss, yet willingly yielded her body for his pleasure.
He strode along the upstairs landing toward the first door, which he pushed open.
“Not in there,” she said.
The bedchamber was as he remembered it—welcoming shades of blue and yellow, softened by the dancing firelight. He paused, inhaling the scent of rose, and his body surged with desire.
“Please, no,” she whispered, the pain in her voice filling the air.
He caught his breath to fight the deep yearning. She was his—bought and paid for—yet the joy of having her willing surpassed any gratification in having her at his mercy. Gritting his teeth, he turned and carried her to the chamber across the hallway, the one where she took him each time he visited.
But tonight, the deep reds and dark wood gave the chamber an air of debauchery that lessened the pleasure to that of mere physical gratification. He might gain release from it, but the thirst in his soul would remain unquenched.
He set her down, and, at once, she reached behind her gown and began untying her sash, while he undid his cravat. She pushed him toward a chair, where he sat and watched her peel each garment off, her face an impassive mask, as if she were performing a dull household task—first her gown, which she draped over a chair by the dressing table, then her petticoats and chemise, until, at last, she stood beside him, naked save her stockings.
He had always taken pleasure in removing a woman’s stockings—the feel of the skin of her thigh against his hands as he caressed the tops of her legs, and the soft silk as he hooked his fingers beneath the top, then the slow reveal of her flesh as he peeled each stocking down. The way her skin tightened as he brushed his fingers along her leg, tracing a path toward her ankle—the little creases in the silk as the stocking bunched around her ankles, then the rush of pleasure as he held each stocking up, suspending it in the air, before letting it fall to the floor. That pleasure, since he’d taken Mimi into his life, had swelled into the most potent ecstasy, such that he was in danger of spending each time he touched her stockings.
But that pleasure was yet to come. Wordlessly, she approached him, and he feasted his eyes on her body—the slender neck, those sweet breasts that grew heavy in his hands when he caressed them, her delicate waist, and the flare of her hips, with the triangle of curls above the tops of her stockings. Then she reached for him, the movement lifting those delicious teats, and removed his jacket. Her nimble fingers untied his shirt laces, and she peeled away each layer until, no longer the Duke of Sawbridge, he had become what he yearned to be in her eyes…
A simple man in love.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, running the tips of his thumbs across her collarbone, then he dipped his head for a kiss, but she turned away. She took his hands and stepped toward the bed, where she lay back. He reached for her stockings and peeled them off, unable to resist placing a kiss on each ankle. She stiffened, but did not push him away. Encouraged, he placed his hands on her thighs and parted them, inhaling the sweet, sharp scent of her need. He dipped his head and brushed his lips against the inside of one thigh, and she caught her breath. He glanced up to see her eyes closed, hands at her sides, fisting the bedsheet, and the scent intensified.
She was not playing a role. Her body wanted him—shewanted him.
