This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

“Lavinia?” His voice.

She turned, her stomach churning in anticipation at the sound of her name on his lips. He stood, four feet away from her, his form barely visible through the fog. She jumped down from her uncomfortable perch on the windowsill, and would have run into his arms—but he’d crossed them in a most forbidding manner. Instead, she walked slowly toward him, her heart pounding.

“You must be freezing.” His words reeked of disapproval. “Thank God I couldn’t sleep again. Thank God you didn’t meet anyone on your way over. If you were my—”

She had come close enough that she saw the scowl flit over his face at that. He shut his mouth and turned away, walking into the house.

She followed. “If I were your wife,” she threw at his retreating back, “I wouldn’t need to risk all this fog just to see you on a morning.”

He didn’t respond. But he left the door open, and she went after him. This time, he had not climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. He was headed down a narrow cramped hall into the back of the house. Lavinia sighed and closed the door behind her.

She was not his wife. She was not even anything to him so clean and uncomplicated as his sweetheart. She was the woman who’d made his life miserable. Still, she followed him down the hall. The narrow passage gave way to a tiny kitchen in the back of the house. Without looking at her, he pulled a chair out from under a narrow, wooden table and placed it directly by the hearth. She sat; he stoked the fire and then placed a kettle on the grate.

For a long while he only stared into the orange ribbons that arched away from the flames. The dancing light painted his profile in glimmering yellow. His lips pressed together. His eyes were hooded. Then he shook his head and stabbed the coals with a poker. Bright sparks flew.

“If you were my wife,” he finally said, “this moment would be a luxury—enough coal of a morning to heat the room.”

He shook his head, set the poker down and turned away. William moved about the tiny room with the efficiency of a man used to dealing for himself. He set out a pot and cups, and then turned back to her. “If you were my wife, you’d take your bread without butter. You would mend your gloves three, four, five times over, until the material became more darn than fabric. And when the babes came, we’d have to remove from even these tiny and insupportable quarters into a part of London that is even less safe than this address. We’d have no other way to support a family.”

“When the babes came?” Those words sent a happy thrill through her.

He turned to contemplate the fire again. “I am not such a fool as to imagine they wouldn’t. Lavinia, if you were my wife, the babes would come. And come. And come. I couldn’t keep my hands off you. I pray one is not already on the way.”

It was not her fog-dampened cloak that left her chilled. He spoke of putting his hands on her as if she were one more bitter sip from a cup that was already starkly devoid of happiness.

“It would be worth it,” she said quietly. “The gloves. The bread. It would be worth it to me for the touch of your hands alone.”

“Is that why you came here this morning?” He spoke in tones equally low to hers. “Did you come here so that I would touch you?”

Yes. Or she’d come to touch him—to see if she could salvage the moment when he’d thought himself dishonored. He’d said once he had no notion of love. She’d wanted to show him.

“Did you come thinking I would kiss your lips? That I would undo the ties of your cloak and let my hands slide down your skin?”

Her body heard, and it answered. The heat of the fire flickered against her neck; she imagined its warm touch was his hands. She imagined his hands tracing down her cheek; his hands cupping the curve of her bodice and warming her breasts; his hands coaxing her nipples into hard points. She ached in tune with his every word. Her breath grew fast.

He knelt on the floor in front of her, one knee on the ground. With that frozen, almost supercilious expression on his face, his posture seemed a gross parody of a proposal of marriage.

“In the year since I first saw you,” he said, “I have imagined your giving yourself to me a thousand times. If these were my wildest dreams, I’d have you now. On that chair. I would spread your legs and nibble my way from your thigh to your sex. I’d slip inside you. And when I’d had my way with you, I would thank the Lord for the bruises on my knees.”

As he spoke, her legs parted. Her sex tingled. His breath quickened to match hers. Do it. Yes, do it.

He reached out one hand and laid it on her knee. It was the first time he’d touched her all morning, and her whole body thrilled in wicked recognition of his. She leaned forward. For one eternal second, she could taste his breath, hot and masculine, on the tip of her tongue. She stretched to meet him. But before her lips found his, he stood.

“Lavinia.” His words sounded like a reproach. “I can’t have you in dishonor. I can’t have you in poverty. And so I will not be marrying you.”

She stared up into his eyes. Those dark mahogany orbs seemed so far away, so implacable. She had to fix this. But before she could speak, a hissing, sputtering noise intruded from her left, and he turned away from her.

It was the kettle, boiling with inappropriate merriment over the fire. He found a cloth. For a few minutes, he busied himself with the kettle and teapot, his back to her.

When he finally turned back, he held a cup in his hands.

“Here,” he said. “The very nectar of poverty. Five washings of the leaves. I believe the liquid still has some flavor.” He handed it to her. “There’s no sugar. There’s never any sugar.”

She took the cup. He pulled his hand away quickly, before she could clasp it against the clay. In her hands, the warm mug radiated heat. Tiny black dots, the dust of broken tea leaves, swirled in the beverage.

“You don’t speak like a poor man.” She darted a gaze up at him. “You don’t read like a poor man, either. Malthus. Smith. Craig. The Annals of Agriculture.”

He turned away from her to pour his own cup of tea. He did not drink it. “When I was fourteen, my father, a tradesman who aspired to be more, engaged in some rather risky speculation. A friend of his had lured him in. He promised to see me through my schooling, and to settle some significant amount on me should the investment fail.”

William lifted the mug to his mouth. But he barely wet his lips with the liquid. “The investment did fail—quite spectacularly. My father shot himself. And his friend—” he drew that last word out, a curl to his lip “—thought that a promise made to a man who killed himself was no promise at all. What little property remained was forfeit when my father was adjudged a suicide. And so down I went to London, to try and make shift for myself.”

“Where did all this take place?”

“Leicester. I still have the edge of their speech on my tongue. I’ve tried to eradicate it, but…”

He looked down, moving his cup in gentle circles. Perhaps he was trying to read his own tea leaves. More likely, Lavinia thought, he was avoiding her gaze.

“So you see, I am in fact the lowest of the low. I am the son of a suicide. I make a bare eighteen pounds a year. I was once a member of that unfortunate class that your lovely books label the deserving poor. After I had you—after I took to my bed a woman I could not afford to marry—I don’t qualify as deserving any longer. Even if I had the coin to take you as my wife, I don’t t

hink I’d have the temerity.”

Lavinia stood, the better to knock sense into his head.

But already he was setting down his tea, stepping away from her.

“It’s getting on toward morning,” he said. “I’d best get you home.” And then he turned toward the hall and left her.

Chapter Five

WILLIAM WALKED DOWN THE HALL. He had made the matter as plain as he dared to her. She’d wanted to argue—he’d seen it in her eyes. Her words could have tied him in knots. And having to watch her deliver those arguments—having to hold his distance from her when every fiber in his being yearned toward her—had been almost impossible. But she had no way to debate straightforward gestures. He hid behind those unarguable motions now. He got his coat. He walked to the door. He opened it, and stood there in silence until she came from the kitchen.

Even then she stopped by his arm and looked up at him. Her blue eyes seemed to see right through to the contents of his soul. So what if she took the measure of that sorry item? After all, he’d set it out for her to see, a standard tattered past the point of all repair.

He walked outside, into the chill of early morning. She followed, her eyes liquid, her skin seeming to light with an incandescent glow against that mass of white fog. He wasn’t sure he could bear another fifteen minutes in her presence—but whatever depths he’d plumbed, he had not sunk so far as to send a woman alone into the maw of that dampening mist. Least of all Lavinia.

Outside, Norwich Court was a silent sea of mist. Tendrils of white curled around the gaslight on the corner and combed long, thin fingers through the tangled branches of the trees. Lavinia came up behind him. He could feel the warmth of her body radiating through the fog. She was mere inches away from his embrace. She’d never felt so distant.

“I rather think,” she said, “that I should be the one to decide if you’re deserving.”

He hunched his shoulders deeper and drew his coat about him. “I don’t wish to speak about this at present.”