This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

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.”

“Not at present? Very well.”

He was surprised—and perhaps a touch disappointed—at the grace with which she accepted his pronouncement. Silence enfolded them. They walked in darkness. William counted to thirty slowly, one number for every two steps, and then she spoke again.

“How about now, then?”

He was staring straight ahead as they walked, the better to ignore her. But there wasn’t much to see on an early, foggy morning. A bakery had just come to life, the light from its windows diffusing gold through the mist. As they passed, the smell of the first baking of cinnamon-and-spice bread wafted out.

But the scent of those warm ovens was soon left behind, and there was nothing else he could focus on in the swirling fog. He felt a muscle twitch in his jaw.

“Very well,” Lavinia said. “You don’t need to say anything.”

That muscle twitched, harder.

“I shall supply both halves of the conversation. I’m rather good at that, you know.”

He had to admit, her proclamation came as no great surprise.

“Besides,” she said slyly, “you’re very handsome when you’re taciturn.”

Oh, he was not going to feel pleased. He was not going to look toward her. But damn it, he was delighted. And his head twisted toward her—until he caught himself and converted the motion into a shake of his head.

“That gesture,” Lavinia said, “must be William Q. White for ‘Dear Lord, she’s given me a rabid compliment! Run away before it bites me!’”

He ruthlessly suppressed a traitorous grin.

“I shall imagine,” she said, “that what you really meant to say was, ‘Thank you, Lavinia.’”

William lifted his chin. He set his jaw and looked ahead.

“And that impassive, stony look,” Lavinia continued, “is William Q. White for ‘I must not smile, or she’ll figure out precisely what I am not saying.’ Really, William, is this silence the best you have to offer me on the way home? You’ve said all there is to say, and you have not one question to put to me?”

They were almost to her home now. William stopped walking and turned to her. He looked into her eyes—a dire mistake, as she smiled at him, and then his blood refused to do anything so sensible as flow demurely through his veins. It thundered instead, insistent and demanding. He wanted to learn the curve of her jaw, every lash on her lids. He wanted to run his hand down her cheek until he’d committed the feel of her skin to memory.

“I do have one question, Miss Spencer.”

He should not have spoken. Her eyes lit with such hope. If he’d remained silent, perhaps she’d have realized he had nothing to give her—nothing but his eighteen pounds a year. And even that was subject to the arbitrary and rather capricious whims of Lord Blakely.

But instead, her lips curled upward in anticipation. “Ask. Oh, do ask.”

He ought not. He should not dare. But he did.

“Why do you call me William Q. White?”

Her eyes widened. Her mouth opened in discomfited surprise. Clearly, she’d not been imagining anything along those lines. “Oh,” she said on an inrush of breath. “I know it’s too familiar. You’ve never actually given me permission. I ought to call you Mr. White. But I thought, perhaps, after—you know—the formality seemed somehow wrong, after we—after we—after we—” She paused, took a deep breath as if for courage, and then said the words aloud. “After we shared a bed.”

Good God. She thought he was objecting to the use of his Christian name? “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh,” she said. “I know I sound mad. Completely mad. I can’t help but be a little mad when you’re looking down at me. You make me feel foolish, right to the bottom of my toes.”

William ruthlessly suppressed the thrill that ran through him at her words.

“It is not the familiarity I object to,” he said slowly. “I am rather more curious as to why you persist in placing a Q in the middle.”

“Because I don’t know what the Q stands for. Quincy?”

He must have looked as baffled as he felt, because she forged bravely onward.

“Quackenbush? Quintus? Come, you must tell me.”

Finally he managed to put words to his befuddlement. “What Q?”

“Your middle initial. What other Q would possibly come between William and White?”

He blinked at her in continued bewilderment. “But I don’t have a middle initial.”