One Wicked Sin. Nicola Cornick

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.

      She fumbled with the ribbon on her robe but Ethan’s hand closed over hers, warm and firm, stilling her shaking fingers.

      “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t. Not here.”

      Lottie closed her eyes briefly. She felt a curious mixture of relief and chagrin. It was so foolish to be irritated that he did not appear to want her when she was also relieved that she did not have to play the whore for him here and now. Perhaps he was another, like Gregory, who preferred men. Perhaps it was only the pretense of a mistress he wanted, the appearance of being as other men. Gregory had wanted a wife to act as hostess, but more importantly he had wanted the camouflage that she gave him. Yet she doubted that of Ethan. When he had kissed her she had felt the need in him as hot and sharp as a whetted knife. She had known that he wanted her.

      His fingers released hers. He stepped closer to her so that his breath stirred her hair. His lips brushed the line of her jaw, sending little shivers of awareness along her skin. She looked into his eyes and saw again the hard glitter of desire.

      “They are watching and listening,” he said softly, “to make sure that you do your job properly this time.”

      Lottie spun around, her gaze searching the paneled walls of the boudoir. Of course they would be watching her through spy-holes, keyholes, peepholes, the whole prurient range of the brothel’s trade. Perhaps Mrs. Tong had even taken John Hagan’s money on the promise that he could watch her with Ethan before Hagan had her himself. She felt sick, hot and naive not to have thought of it before.

      “I don’t perform for crowds,” she said defiantly.

      Ethan smiled. It deepened the lines at the corners of his eyes and made a crease appear down one lean cheek. He had a crease in his chin, too. It did not soften his looks. In fact it gave even more resolution to a face that already had no gentleness in it.

      “If it comes to that,” he said, “neither do I.” He moved away. “Put some clothes on. We’re leaving.”

      Lottie let out her breath on a sigh. “Thank you.”

      Ethan held her eyes for a long moment. A smile still tilted his lips. Heat shimmered between them, robbing Lottie of breath. She felt flustered, taken by surprise. Then he turned away and scooped up the bags of guineas. “Don’t thank me,” he said. “I’m simply protecting my investment.” He sounded impatient now. “That old procuress would only rob you blind if I left you alone to deal with her. I don’t want you costing me more than is necessary.”

      Lottie scrambled in the wardrobe for a gown and shoes. Most of the clothes Mrs. Tong had provided her with were unpleasantly cheap quality as well as cut to enhance every asset she possessed and to fall off at the slightest touch. There was not a single tasteful garment among them other than the one gown and spencer that she had brought with her from home, from her lost life. She bundled them up under her arm. The cupboard smelled of stale scent. With a pang of loss she remembered the bottles of perfume she had once bought at Piver’s and at Rimmel’s in the Strand. Flower-scented gloves had been one of her favorite indulgences in the old days.

      “Are you ready?” Ethan still sounded impatient. How long did he think it took a woman to dress? She did not even have a maid to help her. She opened the cupboard again and dragged a cloak about her shoulders then grabbed the canary’s cage from its hook.

      “Is that your bird or are you stealing it?” Ethan raised one black brow.

      “It’s mine.” It was the only thing she had taken with her from Grosvenor Square. She looked around and raised her chin. “I don’t want anything else from this godforsaken place.”

      “An understandable sentiment,” Ethan said, “but not very practical. I am not prepared to pay to dress you from scratch.”

      Grumbling, Lottie gathered up some underclothes, stockings, gloves, a shawl, two fans, a feathered headdress, a couple of gowns and a parasol, and threw them into a small bandbox she had found at the back of the cupboard.

      Ethan took her hand. His touch made her tremble. She felt disturbed. Misgivings stirred for the first time; more stark choices; stay in this hellhole or go with a virtual stranger. He slanted a look down at her, his gaze sardonic.

      “Scared?”

      She wished he could not read her so easily. It seemed extraordinary—and deeply inconvenient—that he could. She looked up and met his eyes boldly.

      “No, of course not.”

      “Liar.” A smile curled his lips. There was a hard light in his blue eyes. “It is your choice, Miss Palliser.”

      “You are the lesser of two evils,” Lottie said.

      His smile deepened, sending a quiver of awareness like a lightning bolt through her. “Or perhaps the devil you know?” He murmured.

      “I don’t know you,” Lottie said.

      “But you will,” Ethan said. “You will.”

      It sounded like a dangerous promise.

       CHAPTER THREE

      THE GREEDY BAWD had taken him for almost every guinea he had on him. Ethan was not surprised but he was wondering if it was worth it.

      He sat opposite Lottie Palliser in the hackney carriage and watched her as the shadows skipped across her face in bars of light and dark. She was not at all what he had expected. How many times had he thought that this evening? How many times had he had the opportunity to change his mind, discard her and choose another, more biddable and accomplished woman for the role of mistress? How had he, the most cold and calculating man in the kingdom, ended up with a courtesan who seemed almost as nervous as a virgin, accompanied by a canary that could not sing? He shifted with irritation, with himself, with her, with the damned canary. This was too important a mission he was engaged on; he could not afford to ruin it all on a whim because for some inexplicable reason he preferred Lottie Palliser to another more compliant mistress.

      And yet Lottie Palliser was no shrinking innocent. Despite the ordeal of her divorce and disgrace there was spirit in her still, a little crushed, perhaps, but he could see the ghost of the woman she had once been. That was the woman he needed, the scandalous, hedonistic pleasure-seeker who would outrage the populace of a small market town and keep their attention firmly on her, leaving him to pursue his business away from their prying eyes. He needed a decoy, a distraction. Lottie Palliser was going to be that woman.

      The first part of the jigsaw was now in place. Mrs. Tong had been suitably shocked and furious to lose the services of the most notorious jade in London—even if she had been hopeless as a whore—but had been unable to resist the lure of the money. The madam would undoubtedly tell the world and his wife how the scandalous Ethan Ryder had walked into her brothel and paid a king’s ransom to walk out with Lottie Palliser as his mistress. Everyone would be talking about it from London to Land’s End, which was exactly what Ethan desired. Before she even arrived in Wantage, Lottie would be the most infamous mistress in the country. She would set the town by the ears.

      “London by night.” Lottie was sitting forward, holding the curtain back so that she could look out of the carriage window. “I have missed its amusements.”

      There was something wistful in her tone, a regret