This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

“Yes, you do. When you first applied for a subscription, I asked your name, and you told me, William Q. White. I may be a little giddy, and perhaps I might lose my head when you look at me, but I could not have manufactured such a thing out of whole cloth.”


A memory asserted itself. He’d saved two years to make the initial fee for the subscription. When he’d walked into Spencer’s library on High Holborn, he’d thought of nothing but books and self-improvement. And then he’d seen her, lush and lovely and briskly competent. He had suddenly known—he would be reading a great deal more than he had imagined. He’d been quite stupid that day.

Well. He’d never really stopped.

“Ah. I had forgotten. That Q.” He smiled, faintly, and looked away.

“No, no. You cannot keep silent. You must tell me about the Q. I am all ears.”

He glanced back at her. “All ears? No. You’re a good proportion mouth.” The grin he gave her slid so easily onto his face. “When I first applied for a subscription you asked my name. And I said, ‘William White.’”

“No, you—”

He held up a hand. “Yes, I did. And you didn’t even look up at me. You sat there, nib to paper, and you said, ‘William White. Is that all?’” He folded his arms and gave her a firm nod.

Now it was her turn to frown in perplexity, as if his explanation were somehow insufficient.

“So you made up a middle initial rather than simply saying yes.” Lavinia frowned. “The only thing I gather is that I am not mad. You are.”

“Absolutely.” His voice was low. “Have you any idea what a declaration of war those words are? You’re a lovely woman. You can’t just look at a man and ask, ‘Is that all?’ Any man worth his salt can give only one answer. ‘Is that all?’ ‘No, damn it. There’s more. There’s much more.’”

She laughed with delight. “Mr. William Q. White,” she said, wagging a finger, “you sly devil. I’ve been wanting to know the more ever since.”

They were almost to her home, and William could not help but wish he could tease that laughter out of her every day. He held up his hands as if he could ward off their shared happiness.

“But, Lavinia,” he said, “there will be no more. I can never make it up to you, this debt that lies between us. You have already given me more than I can repay.”

The smile on her face faded into nothingness. “Is that how you see matters between us, then? As some sort of grim commerce, where the transactions are ones of personal worth and desert?”

“I took your virginity,” he said baldly. “I took it, believing you had no choice—”

“Oh!” She reared back and kicked him in the leg.

He barely felt it—she’d not been aiming to hurt him—but she hopped briefly on one foot as if her own toes stung with the blow.

“No choice? Even if the promissory note had been real and enforceable, I had a choice. I could have pawned my mother’s wedding ring for the funds. I could have let James take his chances with the magistrate and debtor’s prison. I could have married another man—I’ve had offers, you know, from well-to-do gentlemen who wouldn’t blink at paying ten pounds in pin money. Do not think me such a poor creature as to be confined so easily without choice. I chose you, and I would choose you again and again and again.”

It was sheer torture to hear those words, to look into those blazing eyes and not take her in his arms.

“And, as we are speaking of debts,” she said grimly, “what of my debt to you?”

“What debt?

“Ten pounds. You paid ten pounds to save me from having to choose between those unpalatable options. And do not tell me you did it to force me into your bed—because you and I both know that if I had said no, you would never have enforced the note. I am deeply in your debt.”

“You’re talking nonsense. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Bread with no butter? Tea, persuaded to give up its flavor seven or eight times? Don’t tell me ten pounds means nothing to you, William. I know you better than that. Tell me—with all the uses to which you could have put that windfall, did you even hesitate to dedicate it to my service?”

“It certainly doesn’t signify,” he continued. “Mere money, in comparison with what you’ve given me.”

“So it’s nonsense, what I owe you. But what you owe me is a tremendous burden, one that can never be repaid? Love is not about accounting. It’s not lines on a ledger. You cannot store up credit and redeem yourself at some later date, not with gifts or deeds or any number of coins, no matter how carefully you bestow them. You repay love with love, William.”

She watched him expectantly. All he had to do was move forward, into the space she claimed. His hands would find hers; her lips would naturally lift to his. And she would be his. His partner—but in this game of better or worse, and sickness or health, all he could offer her was poorer and poorer and yet poorer again.