One Wicked Sin (2 page)

“I’m Irish.” He smiled at her, full of charm. “It’s a long story.”

“An Irishman with a French title?” Lottie said. Something clicked in her mind then, a memory of her drawing room in Grosvenor Square and her bosom bows gossiping over the latest
on dit
, picking at it like crows.

What had they said of Ethan Ryder, the Irish soldier of fortune? She remembered that he was a famed swordsman, a crack shot and the best cavalryman in his regiment. It was rumored that he never lost at games of
chance, that he took risks other men would run from, that he was cold and calculating where others were rash and foolish and so he never made a mistake, but waited and waited and wore his enemies down until they took the false step, made the blunder that gave him the game…. And beneath the stories there were the whispers; that he had killed a man in a duel; that he had escaped from the deepest dungeons; that he could pass unnoticed through an opposing army like a ghost….

Napoleon had weighed Ethan Ryder down with titles and money for his devotion to the French cause. He was a soldier of fortune indeed.

She saw the smile deepen on Ethan’s lips and a certain hard light spring in his eyes, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking and what she was about to say.

“Oh,” she said. “Yes. You are the one who is the bastard son of the Duke of Farne and the circus trapeze artist. You betrayed your father and ran away to France as a boy and joined Bonaparte’s
Grande Armée.
I heard,” she said slowly, “that you had been captured by the British and were a prisoner of war.”

“I am all of those things.” He sounded imperturbable as though mere words, even harsh ones, had long ago lost the power to hurt him. “And you,” he said, “are the divorced former wife of a fabulously wealthy banker, the disgraced
Ton
favorite, now ruined and forced to sell herself to survive.”

The words fell quietly into the hot little room, but Lottie still flinched. It seemed, she thought, that Ethan Ryder was a deal more comfortable with his situation than she was with hers.

“You express my circumstances most graphically,” she said tightly.

He put his head on one side, his blue eyes narrowed on her face. “You don’t like to be described like that, do you, Lottie Palliser?” His tone was soft but it was not gentle. There was no compassion. Lottie wondered if he could look into her soul and see the tarnish there.

“You don’t want to face the fact that you chose to become a courtesan because you preferred survival to starvation,” he went on, “but it is the truth, just as all the things that you said about me are the truth.” His lips twisted in a parody of a smile. “I think that you and I are very alike, Lottie.” His voice was quiet. “We’re both survivors, both adventurers. We don’t believe in martyrdom.”

“We’re both
prisoners,
” Lottie said, unable to erase the bitterness from her voice. She made a slight gesture. “Should you not be locked up, my lord?”

He shrugged, supremely elegant and supremely unconcerned. “Plenty of people think so, my father included.”

“And yet,” Lottie said, “you are free.”

This time he shifted in the chair, tension in the line of his shoulders now. “If you call it freedom. I gave my word not to try to escape—my parole—and in return I am penned in a country town in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to do all day, waiting for the war to end.”

“Then what are you doing here in London?” Lottie asked. “Have you broken your parole?”

Ethan shook his head. The candlelight caught the sheen of blue in the deep black of his hair and made
his eyes look deep and fathomless. “All officers are permitted to come up to Town once in a while if they plead urgent personal business.” He gestured around the boudoir. “And what could be more urgent and personal than visiting a Covent Garden brothel?” He smiled at her. “I require a mistress,” he said. “That is why I am here. I have come to ask you if you will accept the role.”

L
OTTIE DID NOT ANSWER
him immediately. Ethan watched her as she got to her feet and walked away from him. The room was small; there was not far for her to go. He sensed her need to escape. She was like a trapped bird in an exotic cage, like the golden canary that sat mutely in the cage by the window.

“You hate this life, don’t you,” he said. It was a statement of fact, spoken without sentiment or gentleness. It was a long time since he had felt sympathy for anyone.

“Yes.” She did not turn back to look at him. Her shoulders were slumped. The saucy transparent negligee she was wearing with its swansdown trimmings was like a mocking reminder of her status. After a moment he saw her reach for a shawl from the bed and wrap it tightly about herself as though she were cold.

“I should not hate it.” She sounded defiant. “God knows why I feel so demeaned. You are right that I chose this life rather than starve.” She turned and looked at him. “And anyway, I used to like sex.” She sounded vaguely surprised. “I used to be rather good at it, too.”

Ethan laughed. Such plain speaking in a woman was refreshing and unusual. He had heard that Lottie Palliser was an unusual woman but he had not expected
her to be quite like this. “That doesn’t mean you would be a good courtesan,” he pointed out. “Nor that you would like the work. When money changes hands it alters matters. It is like being a mercenary soldier. You put yourself up for hire and cannot always be scrupulous about who pays or what you have to do for the money.”

She laughed, a rich throaty sound. “A nice analogy.” The humor fled her voice. “It was naive of me to imagine I could step easily into a role like this.”

There was far more to it than that, Ethan thought. He had heard what had happened to her and knew that the scandal of the divorce and her ruin must have shattered her world and stolen her certainties. No one could remain unchanged by so cataclysmic an experience. Gossip had painted her as a promiscuous harlot, but the woman he saw now was very far from bold. Experienced, certainly, but no shameless whore.

He stood up and walked over to her, taking her chin in his hand and turning her face toward the light. Her skin felt very soft beneath his fingers, but it was difficult to see the real woman beneath the layers of paint.

“Wash your face,” he said abruptly.

Her chin jerked in his hand—evidently she disliked taking orders—but after a moment she freed herself and walked over to the basin, where she poured some water from a big china jug and splashed it on her face. The result, when she came back to his side, was astonishing. Her skin was now bare of cosmetics, a pale creamy color sprinkled with freckles. He let his gaze wander over her. Her face was heart-shaped, tapering to
a neat little chin, and her eyes were wide set and dark brown beneath flyaway brows. Her mouth was pale pink and looked sulky by nature; it also looked shockingly erotic, which sent a spike of lust through him. Desire gripped him, strong and sharp, taking him by surprise. All his tastes were jaded, including his lust for women. He had not expected to want her much. He needed her—he needed Lottie Palliser specifically because of her scandalous history—but he had not calculated on desiring her, as well. He continued with his appraisal, blue eyes narrowed now, aware that his blood was beating a little faster and harder and that he wanted to taste that tempting mouth.

There were fine lines about her eyes. They gave character and a certain world-weary cynicism to her face. The color of her eyes, too, was fascinating, as deep and smoky as strong coffee, rich, shadowed, promising endless pleasures.

He put out a lazy hand and unpinned her hair. It uncoiled in thick dark strands over her shoulders, autumn hair with shades of bronze and chestnut and very dark gold. He ran his fingers through the strands and found it to be soft as sateen. She stood absolutely still beneath his gaze, stiller than a hunted mouse. He pulled the shawl from her shoulders and it fell in a puddle about her feet.

She was naked beneath the sheer lacy robe. At such close quarters Ethan could feel her warmth and smell the faint sweet scent of jasmine on her skin. Her breasts pressed against the lace, rounded and voluptuous, the nipples dark through the transparent white. Ethan’s body stirred again. Their eyes met. That lush mouth
had a tiny smile lifting the corners now. She knew he wanted her and it pleased her. He felt another kick of lust. He leaned forward, kissed her.

She made no move to twine about him or press her body against his as a more accomplished courtesan might, skillful and eager to please. She stood quite still, her lips warm and soft, slightly parted, beneath his.

He stepped back wanting her all the more.

“How old are you?” he asked abruptly.

Her smile vanished and he saw a flash of expression in her eyes—calculation?—but she answered readily enough. “I am eight and twenty.”

“I had heard,” he said, “that you are three and thirty.”

She did not trouble to hide her annoyance. She stepped back from him and scooped up her shawl, once again wrapping it close about her, hiding her nakedness from him.

“If you knew, why did you ask?” she snapped.

“Why bother to lie?” he countered.

“Because, as Mrs. Tong has not scrupled to point out to me,” she said bitterly, “I do not have many more years left before I will end on the street. If I can steal a few back then why not?”

Ethan felt a curious stirring of sympathy. So it was more than hurt pride. She was fearful for her future. He suspected that it would make her more inclined to accept his terms. She was desperate to escape the tyranny of the whorehouse and the threat of a life as an old doxy, eking out an existence in the gutters. How low she had sunk.

He resumed his seat, settling back, watching her.
“So what do you think of my proposition?” He asked. “Do you accept—or not?”

She sat down on the edge of the bed, her feet in their swansdown-trimmed slippers, swinging.

“How blunt you are,” she said, watching him with those brown eyes.

Ethan smiled. “It is a simple proposal,” he said easily. “I am aware that you dislike this new life upon which you have embarked. I’ll not force any woman to my bed. So—” he shrugged “—if the offer is not to your liking then I shall go elsewhere.”

She took her time thinking about it. He respected that. He had not expected her to be clever. Surely no intelligent woman would have got herself into the situation Lottie Palliser was in, cast out by family and friends, destitute because the sum of money her former husband had been obliged to pay her on their divorce had apparently been spent on settling dressmakers’ and other merchants’ bills. He wondered idly if there could have been more to her downfall than was commonly known and then acknowledged that it hardly mattered. He needed a woman with an outrageous reputation, someone who was scandal personified. Lottie fitted the bill to perfection. He wanted her to accept because she was ideal for his purpose.

“Are prisoners of war allowed to keep mistresses?” she asked mildly. “I would not expect you to be accorded so much freedom.”

“I could keep a pet lion if I wished,” Ethan said, “as long as I could afford to feed and house it. I have every freedom except my actual liberty.” He spoke with more bitterness than he had intended, looked up and saw that
she was watching him with interest but with as little compassion as he had accorded her, as though he were a specimen on a doctor’s slab. It was odd to be watched with the same detachment with which he customarily viewed the world. It made him feel a curious flash of kindred spirit for her.

“And can you?” she asked. “Afford to feed, house and clothe me?” She stretched, her body rippling beneath the negligee. It was consciously erotic and his body reacted instantly even as he knew his response was being manipulated. “I should warn you,” she continued, “that I am more expensive than any pet. My former husband—” dislike colored her tone “—claimed that I cost more to keep than his most valuable racehorse.”

“I can believe that.” Ethan gave her an appreciative smile. “Yes, I am rich,” he added. “I’ve done well for the bastard son of a circus performer.” He took several bags of coins from his pockets and placed them on the table. The money clinked softly and he saw her eyes widen. Some of the gossip had evidently been true then—Lottie Palliser did have a mercenary and acquisitive nature. That was good. It meant that she could be bought if the price was right.

“Those sound like guineas,” she said.

“They are.” He pulled on the neck of one of the bags, allowing the golden coins to spill out across the table and watched the expressions flit across her face. Greed, calculation… “There is sufficient to pay Mrs. Tong for the cost of losing your services,” he said, “and to buy you a new wardrobe and pay your fare to Wantage on the mail coach on Friday.”

“Friday would not give me enough time to purchase
a new wardrobe,” Lottie said. “Such matters are not to be rushed.”

Ethan smiled. “You will have to buy ready-made gowns,” he said.

Lottie frowned. “How cheap and vulgar.”

“But necessary. I have to return to Berkshire in two days’ time. You will have one day to go shopping before you join me.” He glanced around the gaudy room. “I’ll give you enough money to pay for lodgings until then. I doubt Mrs. Tong would wish you to stay here and I imagine you wish it even less.”

Lottie chewed her lip thoughtfully between straight white teeth.

“Wantage, you say?” She raised her finely arched brows. “I have family living near there. From what I remember, it is the back of beyond.”

“It’s not such a bad little town, though you will find it parochial,” Ethan said. “It is up to you,” he added gently. “You can be a whore in a London brothel, prey to all those men who used to bow respectfully over your hand in your own drawing room, or you can be my mistress in the back of beyond—with enough money at the end of our association to set you up wherever you please.”

Again he watched her as she weighed the benefits and drawbacks of his offer. It was an emotionless negotiation, he thought, which was exactly how one should appoint a mistress.

Lottie slipped off the bed and came over to the table. She cast him a suspicious look and then opened the other two pouches to check the contents. She even bit one of the guineas.

“It is not counterfeit,” Ethan said. “I do not cheat.” He smiled. “Do you not trust me?”

“I do not know.” Lottie gave him a searching look. “There is something about this whole business that does not feel quite right.”

She waited. Ethan kept his expression blank. He was a consummate card player and this was one hand he was not going to reveal. She was right—there was much more to the business than he had told her—but the less she knew the better.

After a moment she laughed. “Don’t tell me—you will be paying me to keep quiet and ask no questions as well as to occupy your bed. Well—” she gave a slight sigh “—I am accounted most frightfully indiscreet but I can try to hold my tongue, I suppose, if there is money in it for me.”

“That,” Ethan said, “would be ideal.”

She nodded. “Why do you want a mistress?” she asked, as blunt as he had been.

Ethan gave her a look that made her blush again. “Why does any man?” he said.

He saw a cynical expression touch her eyes. “There are many reasons why a man likes to boast his sexual prowess,” she said dryly. “Sometimes it is because he is impotent, or he prefers men to women but wishes to disguise the fact….” Her voice faded. She gave a little shrug, inviting his response.

“My motives are not so complicated,” Ethan said. “I am bored. I’m likely to be a prisoner of war for the duration of this conflict and I need to pass the time somehow. What better way than in bed?”

It should have been a convincing enough reason,
but still she hesitated, her dark gaze narrowed on him, as though she knew he was being less than open with her.

“Why me?” she said. “You asked for me specifically.”

“I did,” Ethan agreed. Again she had surprised him in remembering that detail and realizing that it had significance. “I have a certain reputation for scandal,” he said. “If I am to take a mistress then it is only appropriate that she should be the most notorious woman in London.” He took her wrist in a light grip and drew her close. “I want a woman who will be outrageous, ostentatious and—”

“Obliging?” Again she gave that little half smile that quickened his pulse. Something dark and hot shimmered in her eyes. “I used to be all of those things.” She sounded almost wistful.

Ethan laughed. “So I heard.” He traced a finger along her full lower lip and felt her body hum with the echo of his touch. His body was already tight and primed and hard, wanting her.

“So, Lottie Palliser,” he said. “You have had enough time to decide now. What do you say?”

“Y
ES
,” L
OTTIE SAID
. She did not hesitate. She knew that perhaps she should, for there was something about Ethan Ryder’s story that did not ring true, some element that struck a note of warning within her. But then there were the bags of gold, so many guineas, the like of which she had not seen for months, years even. And she liked the element of danger and recklessness that
burned in Ethan Ryder. It kindled excitement in her blood for the first time in months.

“I would be an abject fool,” she added, “to refuse the offer of so rich a man in order to stay here and be subject to the whims of a multitude of poorer ones.”

She saw his teeth gleam in a smile. “An admirably pragmatic approach.”

Lottie gestured doubtfully to the gaudy bed. “Do you…would you like…”

She could hear the uncertainty in her own voice. The brief flash of confidence was already failing her. She knew she must seem gauche as a virgin debutante. There had been a time when seduction had seemed so easy. She thought bitterly of James Devlin, her final
affaire
. That was where it had all started to go wrong. She had fallen hopelessly in love with Dev, and it had been the single most stupid thing she could have done. When he had ended their association she had been utterly distraught, searching for comfort and solace with other men, whilst at the same time desperately trying to hide her hurt. It was difficult; she lived her life in the goldfish bowl of
Ton
society, forever under scrutiny. She could see now, with the benefit of time and hindsight, that in her grief she had become careless and too indiscreet. What she had thought had been secret had become common knowledge. And Gregory’s patience had snapped.