Nicola Cornick - One Wicked Sin

“I did not realize that you spoke such good French,” Ethan said, as he and Lottie turned the stair. “Were you a studious child?”

“That seems unlikely, doesn’t it,” Lottie said. “No, I was no bluestocking. In fact my governess, Miss Snook, despaired of me. But my grandmother was French and my mother spoke to us a great deal in that language so I learned almost despite myself.”

“Us?”

“My brother, Theo, and I.” Lottie hesitated and Ethan saw a shadow touch her eyes. “He is … away.”

Ethan took a guess. “Fighting the French?”

He saw her mouth turn down at the corners. “Yes. I have not heard from him in months. I am not sure.” Her voice trailed away and he knew what she meant.

I am not sure if he is even still alive….

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged. Her expression was bright and hard and she looked uncaring, but Ethan was starting to know her a little now. He knew this was one of the things that hurt her. Matters might have been very different had her brother been present to help her when she needed him.

“It is of no consequence,” she said lightly. They walked slowly along the upstairs corridor. It was dark and quiet here, but from the floor below wafted the scents of food and the roar of the racing crowd.

Lottie cast him a sideways glance. “How did you learn your French?” she asked.

Ethan smiled. “I had to learn quickly when I joined Napoleon’s cavalry otherwise I would have been cantering left when everyone else was galloping right.” He shook his head ruefully. “I did not have your facility with languages, though. I found it ridiculously hard. If I had not had such a talent with horses I think they would have thrown me out on my ear.”

“How old were you?” Lottie said.

“Seventeen,” Ethan said. “I was fifteen when I ran away from home, seventeen when I joined the Grande Armée.” He squared his shoulders. He could still see the youth he had been, brash and tough—or so he had thought—already hardened by experience and yet still a boy underneath, and a scared one at that.

“Very young,” Lottie said, echoing his thoughts. “I was wed at seventeen,” she added quietly.

Their eyes met and once again Ethan felt that disturbing tug of affinity between them. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach and behind it an overwhelming urge to take Lottie and hold her tightly and lose himself in her so that the world and its intolerable conflicts might be held at bay a little longer. He hesitated a moment, a part of him rebelling against his need for her, rejecting the intimacy. But his instincts could not be denied. He took a step toward her, pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

She made a soft sound as his mouth touched hers, though whether it was from pleasure, surrender or something else he could not be sure. Her lips were as plush and smooth as the richest satin and he wanted to plunder them, but he held back, exerting control, wooing where he wanted simply to take. He felt hesitation behind her response. She seemed shy, almost innocent. It was such a contrast with the almost-feral passion she had shown in the carriage. Yet there was nothing feigned about her uncertainty. Once more she was the vulnerable woman he had glimpsed amidst the brazen setting of Mrs. Tong’s Temple of Venus.

He drew her into his room, closed the door quietly and stood with his back to it, looking at her. The hood had fallen back on her tousled brown curls. She looked young and pale and ravishing. How was it possible for such a hardened wanton to look so very appealing?

Why did he even care? The desire in him kindled to a deeper, hotter wanting. He had to have her now.

“Now, where were we?” he said.

FOR THE LIFE OF HER, Lottie could not repress a little shiver. Ethan saw it and paused, his eyes narrowing on her.

“What is it?” he said. “In the carriage—”

“I know!” Lottie burst out. She could not help herself. She was too anxious to keep quiet and pretend to a sexual sophistication she no longer possessed. She knew he wanted an accomplished mistress. He had said as much when they had descended from the carriage. A pity, then, that he had bought a fake.

“I was furious with you in the carriage,” she said. She glanced at him from under her lashes. He was watching her closely, and she could see from the heated intent in his eyes that he wanted her—but he was very still, very controlled, concentrating on her words rather than her body. She felt a tiny breath of relief that he was not a man to pounce on her, force himself on her, as some had tried to do.

“It was good to be angry,” she said. “It meant that I was not thinking. But now I am no longer angry and I cannot.” She made a little, hopeless gesture. “The truth is that I have lost my confidence, my lord. Every time I see a bed now it makes me feel nervous rather than amorous. And I don’t think it’s funny!” she added, seeing that Ethan was laughing at her. Suddenly she wanted to cry. Torn between laughter and tears, furious with herself, she scrubbed viciously at her eyes with the back of her hand.

Ethan shook his head, the wicked smile still curving his lips. “Of course not,” he soothed. “Of course it is not amusing.” His lips twitched. “I had no idea you were so conventional, though. I had thought your amorous adventures must have taken place in vastly more exciting places than a mere bed.”

He came toward her and eased the cloak from her shoulders. His hands were warm on her bare skin. He stroked her upper arms gently, as though she were a skittish animal. It was comforting. Lottie started to relax, allowing herself to be quieted.

“As I see it, we have two alternatives,” Ethan continued softly. “Either we can make each other angry again—which should be all too easy to do given our somewhat volatile relationship—or.” He paused. “I can help you try to overcome your aversion to beds as furniture and to regain your confidence. What do you say?”

Lottie’s heart was suddenly racing again. Her breath hitched in her throat. There was no escape. She knew there was not. She had taken his money and now she would have to pay his price. Even so, her lack of confidence flaying her, she sought excuses.

“I am not certain,” she said, “that you are the right person to help me.”

Ethan looked quizzical. “You think my technique will be inadequate?”

“No,” Lottie said, smiling despite herself. “How like a man! I think your technique is too good. I need someone who is not too skillful or experienced so that they don’t expect too much or become impatient with me—”

“No you don’t.” Ethan was caressing her again in gentle strokes, up her bare arms, down again. It was extremely pleasant and distracted Lottie from all her worries. “You need me,” he continued. “You need to be seduced.”

Seduced. The word hung in the air between them. It sounded tempting. Lottie shivered a little with nerves and anticipation.

“You see this as a challenge,” she said.

Ethan smiled. “Perhaps there is an element of that in it,” he said. His smile faded. His gaze keen and hard rested on her. “Make no mistake, Lottie,” he said. “I bought a mistress and now I want what I have paid for.” Heat kindled in his eyes. He ran one finger down the curve of her arm, making her shiver. “To have to work for the pleasure is quite exciting,” he added. “If you had planned this as a harlot’s trick you could not have read me better. I hate a conquest to be too easy.”

Another shiver rippled down Lottie’s spine, awareness mingled with apprehension. “How ridiculous,” she said, a little unsteadily, “to need to seduce your mistress. It isn’t too late,” she added quickly, as Ethan bent his head to feather a kiss across her collarbone. “You could find another mistress. One you do not need to coax like a virgin.”