One Wicked Sin

“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?”

“YES,” LOTTIE 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.

She had heard that Gregory was to remarry, to one of the Season’s most eligible heiresses. Evidently the scandal that had ruined her name had left him spotless. But then, he had the money and the power to wash his reputation clean. In fact his influence was so great that even had she told the truth of his sexual proclivities, no one would have listened to her. She hoped that his little virgin heiress would not be too shocked. She was afraid that she would be.

She turned back to look at Ethan Ryder. He was good-looking, attractive in that dangerous, devil-may-care way that had once been so appealing to her. Two years ago it would have taken one look for her to resolve that she wanted to take him to bed. Now she felt racked with nervousness. Her whole body was trembling. What on earth had happened to her? She was not sure, only that the court case had left her with not only her reputation in tatters. She had changed. Somewhere along the way all her certainties and all her confidence had been hammered into the ground.