This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

“I’m protecting her now!”


“You leave her in that shop with nobody to call for if she needs help except your father, who is too ill to respond. You send her out to capture your vowels from known ruffians who live near docks where sailors cavort. Don’t tell me you protect your sister. How many times have I found her alone in the library? Do you have any idea what I could have done to her?”

He was angry, William realized. Furious that he’d been allowed to take from her the most precious thing she could give, and angrier still that nobody—least of all Lavinia—was willing to castigate him for it.

“I could have taken a great deal more than a kiss,” he said. “Easily.”

James’s face paled. “You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.”

He had. He would. He wanted to do it again.

It felt good to admit what a blackguard he was, even if he was hiding his confession behind safely conditional statements. “Lock the door and anything becomes possible,” William said. “I could have had—”

James punched him in the stomach. For a skinny fellow, he struck hard. The blow knocked the wind out of William’s lungs and he doubled over. That punch was the first real punishment he’d suffered since he’d had Lavinia. Thank God. He deserved worse.

When he regained his breath and his balance, he looked up. “Don’t tell me you protect your sister. You put everything on her—the burden of caring for your entire family—and give her nothing in exchange. I’ve seen her. I know what you do.”

James stood over him. “If you’re such a blackguard, why are you telling me this?”

“Because I’ll go to the devil before Lavinia kisses a scoundrel worse than me.”

James stopped and cocked his head. In that instant William saw in the boy’s posture something of Lavinia—a chance similarity, perhaps, in the way his eyes seemed to penetrate through William’s skin. William felt suddenly translucent, as if all of his foolish wants, his wistful longing for Lavinia, were laid out in neat rows for this boy’s examination. He didn’t want to see those feelings himself. He surely didn’t want this child sitting in judgment over affections that could never be.

William shook his head. “No.”

Her brother had not said a word, but still William felt he must deny what had gone unspoken. “Don’t look at me like that. I can’t care for her, you idiot, so you’d better start.”

James could not have accrued any substance to his frame in these few minutes. Still, when he lifted his chin, he looked taller. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “I will.”

LAVINIA HEARD her brother’s footsteps fall heavily on the stairs that led to their living quarters. James had seen her embracing a strange man. Half an hour ago he’d followed William outside. Now he was coming back, and she didn’t have answers for any of the questions he might put to her. She didn’t want to defend her virtue tonight. Instead she stared at the account books in front of her. Industriousness would ward off any hard questions.

She forced herself to concentrate on the numbers in front of her. Five plus six plus thirteen made four-and-twenty….

The door squeaked behind James, and then closed.

Four-and-twenty plus twelve plus seventeen was fifty-three.

He crossed the room and stood behind her. She could hear the quiet rush of a resigned exhalation. Still, Lavinia pretended she couldn’t hear him. Yes, that was it. She was so engrossed in the books that she didn’t even notice he was breathing down her neck.

Fifty-three and fifteen made sixty-eight.

“Vinny,” James said quietly. “I don’t think you should always be the one to slave away over these books. Isn’t it about time I began to take over?”

No accusations. It would have been easier if she’d been able to lie to him. Lavinia carefully laid her pen down and turned to her brother. His eyes were large, not with accusation, but with the weight of responsibility. She’d wanted to save him from that.

“Oh, James.” Lavinia arranged the lapels of his damp coat into some semblance of order. “That’s very sweet of you.”

“I’m not being sweet. It’s necessary. I need to be able to manage without you.”

Why? I can do it better.

She caught the words before they came out of her mouth. How many times had James offered to help, in his awkward way? How many times had she refused him? She couldn’t even count.

“After all,” he continued, his voice slow, “you might marry.”

“I’m not getting married.” Her denial came too fast; her light tone sounded too forced. He’d seen her with William. And even though he hadn’t actually caught them kissing, they’d been clasping hands in easy intimacy. How was she supposed to explain to her younger brother she had engaged in such conduct with a man she was not marrying? Best to talk of something else.