This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

“That is a good start. I should like to be loved more, however.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, a sweet touch of his lips, when she wanted heat.

“But you asked for my intentions. You must know I intend to ask your father’s permission to call the banns.”

Close to him as she was, his hands still on her waist, she felt a subtle tension fill his body, as if he were wary of her response. As if she had not asked him to marry her already.

Lavinia clucked and shook her head. That wariness grew, and he pulled away from her ever so subtly. She reached up to touch his cheek. His skin was rough with evening stubble. “Do not tell me you barred the door just so that you could steal a mere kiss. Really, William. Is that all?”

A slow smile spread across his face. His hands pressed against her waist and then slid lower, the heat of his palms burning into her hips.

“Is that all?” he echoed. “No, damn it.” His hands inched down to her thighs. “There’s more. There’s much more.”

And then his lips fell on hers again. This time, he exercised no restraint. His body pressed hers. His hands pulled her against him. He kissed down her neck; she threw back her head and let his tongue trail fire along her skin. She felt his warm lips trace her collarbone. He breathed heat against the neckline of her dress. And then he was rearranging her bodice, tugging, persuading, until he caught her breast in his mouth.

A sharp swirl of excitement filled her. But his touch didn’t satisfy her. Instead, it only whetted her hunger. His other hand was on her ankle now, lifting her legs to one side, pushing her skirts up. His fingers fluttered against her damp sex.

Pleasure twined with want.

She desired—she needed—she required. And what she needed she couldn’t have said, except more, damn it, more. But he knew. His body was hard against hers. He fumbled with his breeches—and then he filled her, hard and thick and long.

His hands braced against the desk; her legs wrapped around his waist. And then she could think of nothing but the heat of his skin against hers, the thrust of his body inside hers, his hand on her breast, his lips on her mouth. And then even these thoughts were ripped away from her as she gave herself up to him.

Afterward, her body still throbbing with delicious satiety, his hair slightly damp and spiking from his exertions, he held her close. His breath was warm against her cheek.

“I am,” he said in her ear, “completely, utterly and devotedly yours. If you will have me.”

She leaned her forehead against his chest. “I suppose I shall.” His arms were around her shoulders now, his hands caressing her. She inhaled. He smelled of starch, of salt, and of…of burning cloves?

Lavinia pulled back and sniffed the air in puzzlement. A complex, bitter scent had wound its way into the room. It had just the faintest hint of sulfur to it. But the disturbing smell did not waft from William. Instead, it was coming from upstairs.

Lavinia disentangled herself from his embrace. She jumped off the table and patted her gown into place. Quickly she bounded across the room and yanked the chair from its spot under the door handle. She was running up the stairs, her footfalls heavy, before she could even imagine what was going on.

Her brother stood by the hob, his hands full of heavy cloth. He held a pot that emitted clouds of dark steam.

“Ah,” James said with a smile. “Lavinia. I’m mulling wine.”

“Wine? Where did you get wine? How did you purchase the spices?” And then, seeing what sat on the table, Lavinia gave a little shriek. “A goose? However did you obtain a goose?”

James shrugged. “I sold mother’s pearl pendant. She gave it to me, and I thought…well, I thought she would want us to have this.” He shrugged, and then continued brightly. “Besides, what with my making mistakes in the shop, and your getting married, we could use a little extra money now.”

Behind her, Lavinia could her William’s footsteps as he ascended the stairs.

“How did you know I was getting married? I just found out.”

James fixed Lavinia with his most serious look. “Next time,” he said, “if you are trying to keep secrets, you might consider writing something other than ‘Mrs. William Q. White’ in the margin of the account books when you test your pen.”

She stared at her brother, her cheeks burning in embarrassment. “James—please—he’s coming up the stairs now. I haven’t done that in almost a year. Don’t tell him.”

Her brother shook his head in gleeful amusement. William reached the upstairs landing and hesitated, as if not quite sure whether he would be welcomed into the family.

James cast one pointed glance over his shoulder to the desk where the books lay, pages spread open, telltale margin scribbles and all. But instead of teasing Lavinia further, he gestured with the pot he held in his hands. “Did you know,” he asked William conversationally, “that wine can burn? I hadn’t thought it possible, as it’s a liquid—but look at this. The pot is completely scorched.”

Epilogue

London, precisely thirteen years later

“MR. WHITE.”

William looked up from his desk. He had served Gareth Carhart for many years now. First he’d served the Viscount Wyndleton. But in the past year the man had taken on the mantle of Lord Blakely. And William’s duties had been correspondingly increased.

“A year ago,” the new marquess said, “you told me you could assist with the management of the marquessate. I allowed you the chance to temporarily prove yourself.”

William knew better than to interject his own commentary into the brief pause that followed. Lord Blakely disliked being interrupted, and the thread of the conversation would resume at his leisure.

“You have. Congratulations. You may consider the position, and the salary, permanent.”

“Thank you, my lord.” It was hardly a surprise. He’d served Lord Blakely well, and curt as the man was, he was always fair.

Another awkward pause ensued. Finally his lordship glanced at a clock. “Well?” The time showed seven past three. “Isn’t it past time for you to be on your way tonight?”

In the thirteen years that William had worked for the man, he’d learned to interpret these curious pronouncements. Bad news Lord Blakely announced directly. Good news he cloaked in disdain. Outright gifts—like dismissing his man of business a full three hours early on Christmas Eve—he hid in…roundaboutation.

White stood and reached for his things. “My lord.” He walked to the door. On the threshold, he paused. “My lord, if I may—”

“No,” interrupted Lord Blakely. “You may not. I’ve no desire to hear your insincere wishes for the happiness of my Christmas.”

White inclined his head. “As you wish. My lord.”

Unlike his predecessor, who had descended on the hapless clerks in the Chancery Lane office like a one-man plague of locusts, the current Lord Blakely preferred that William White—his manager, man of business and otherwise facilitator of marquesslike behavior—present his reports in his Mayfair town home. He was harsh, demanding—and eminently fair. It also meant that at the end of the day, William’s walk back home—now a tall town house in a respectable part of town—was substantially shortened.

As soon as he opened the door, he smelled cinnamon and citrus wafting in the air, tangled with a hint of bitter wine. But something was missing. It took him a moment to ascertain what was wrong. The house was quiet. It was astonishingly quiet.

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He found Lavinia, sitting in a chair, twisting a lock of her hair around one finger as she read. Not a novel—a finance circular. A shawl, woven through with gold thread, covered her shoulders. For a long minute he watched her read. Her eyes darted intelligently across the page. Her tongue darted out to touch her finger, and she turned a page. She was, he thought, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

She looked up. She did not jump or evince the least surprise that he’d arrived hours before he was expected.

“Let me guess,” she said. “You conveyed my invitation to Christmas dinner to the marquess and he sacked you for the effrontery. Ah, well. It doesn’t matter.” She smiled at him, so he would know she was not serious. “In any event, I made more money last quarter than you, so we shall make do.”

Lavinia may have been the only woman in all Christendom to invest the excess from the household accounts in railways. He walked over to stand by her.

“You also spent more money last quarter than I did,” he said, laying a hand on the imported silk of her shawl. He took the excuse to stroke her shoulder.

“This? Oh, no. This was quite inexpensive. Now, tell me—am I going to have a marquess appearing at dinner tomorrow?”

“No, thank God. I did intend to ask him—truly I did—but he stopped me before I dared. It was probably for the best.”

“He is the most dreadfully lonely man.” She shrugged. “But I suppose it is his choice.”

“Speaking of lonely. Or what is far more interesting to me, let us speak of being alone. I notice that something—or rather, some ones are missing.”

“James has the boys. He shut the shop early today and he’s taken them all out to see the Italian players.”

That would explain the unearthly quiet.

“Mrs. Evans is in the kitchens. And I’ve sent the maids to the market. I don’t believe anyone will come into the sitting room. Not for hours.”

William smiled and extended his hand. “Mrs. White,” he said slyly, “I think that your very expensive shawl would look far lovelier and more expensive on this floor.”