This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

William opened his mouth to say he’d do it. The words filled his mouth, bitter as rancid lard, but they would not come out. I’ll do it, he thought. I’ll do it.

He conjured up the thought of Lavinia—but he could not imagine how she would forgive him, promise of money or no. And with the money…if he agreed to this scheme, he’d not be able to wash the stench of this bug of a solicitor from his skin. How could he beg for her absolution if he could not even face himself?

How could he have her at all, if he did not accept this desperate possibility?

What he finally said was, “Tomorrow. I’ll decide tomorrow.”

THE LIBRARY BUSTLED with customers that Monday evening—six of them, to be precise—and they kept Lavinia very busy indeed, as none were willing to browse on his own. She was reaching up, up for the newest set of Byron’s poetry when she heard the shop door open behind her.

A blast of cold air greeted this newest arrival. Yet it was not the temperature that had Lavinia’s skin breaking out in gooseflesh. Without looking, she knew it was him. She froze, hand above her head. Her heart raced. But she could not react, not in this room, not with all these people here. And so she retrieved the leather-bound volume and handed it to Mr. Adrian Bellows before she allowed herself to turn.

Mr. William Q. White was as tall and taciturn as ever. This time, though, he caught her glance and ducked his head, coloring.

Oh, how the tables had turned. Two days ago she’d been the one to blush and turn away. Two days ago she had wondered, in her own giddy and foolish way, what he thought of her.

But then yesterday they’d come together, skin against skin. He’d had her; she’d had him.

Today the question on her mind was: What did she think of him?

It was not a query with an easy answer. He dawdled until the others trickled out, one by one. Even then he did not approach her. Instead, he studied a shelf of Greco-Roman histories so intently, she wondered if their spines contained the secrets of the universe. When she walked toward him, he turned his back to her. He bent, ever so slightly, as if he carried a great weight in his jacket.

Lavinia supposed he did.

“I am sorry,” he said, still faced away from her. “I ought not to have come. If my presence distresses you, say so and I shall leave at once.”

“I am not easily distressed.” She kept her voice calm and even.

He turned toward her and looked in her face, as if to ascertain for himself whether she was telling the truth. “Are you well?” His voice was low, lilting in that accent that he had. “I could not sleep, thinking of what I had done to you.”

She had not slept, either, reliving what he had done, touching herself where he had touched. But the expression on his face suggested that his evening had not been spent nearly so pleasurably.

“I am very well,” she said. And then, because he looked away, his eyes tightening in obvious distress, she added, “Thank you for asking.”

Politeness didn’t seem enough after what had passed between them, but she was unsure of the etiquette for this occasion.

“Miss Spencer, I know I can never hope for forgiveness. I dishonored you—”

“Strange,” Lavinia interjected, “that I do not feel dishonored.”

He frowned as if puzzled, and then started again. “I ruined you—”

“Ruined me for what? I am still capable of working in this shop, as you see. I do not believe I shall turn toward prostitution as a result of one afternoon’s pleasure. And as for marriage—William, do you truly think that any man worth having would put me aside for one indiscretion?”

“Put you aside?” His gaze skittered down her br**sts to her waist, and then traveled slowly up. “No. He would take you any way he could have you.”

She was not one bit sorry that she’d given herself to this man, however foolish and impulsive the gift had been.

“As I see it,” Lavinia said carefully, “you are feeling guilty because you attempted to coerce me into your bed. Then, believing I was forced, you took me anyway.”

He flinched, looking away again. “Yes. And for that, I ought to be—”

“I was not forced, and so you did not dishonor me.”

“But—”

“But,” Lavinia said, holding up one finger, “you believed I was, and thus you dishonored yourself.”

His expression froze. His eyes shut and he put his hand over his face. A shaky breath whispered through his fingers. “Ah.” It was not a sound of understanding or agreement, but one of despair. “You are very astute.”

There was nothing to say beyond that, but he looked so unbearably alone that she reached out and placed her hand atop his.

He shut his eyes. “Don’t.” His hand bunched into a fist underneath hers, but he did not pull away. Apparently, “don’t” was William Q. White for “keep touching me.” Lavinia pressed her hand against the heat of his knuckles.