One Wicked Sin. Nicola Cornick
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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.”
CHAPTER TWO
LOTTIE 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’