This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)

Well, she was going to give him one.

THE ADDRESS HER BROTHER had inked was still damp on the page when Lavinia’s reverie was interrupted.

“He calls you Vinny?”

She looked up and felt her cheeks flush. It was Mr. William Q. White, leaning against the shelves. Of all the people to intrude at this moment. She’d thought the conversation had been quiet. She’d thought him safely ensconced back in the finance section, behind five shelves of books. Obviously she’d been wrong on both counts.

How much had he overheard? How embarrassed ought she to be at playing out that ridiculous drama in front of this serious man? Had she said anything stupid? And how absurd was it that, despite all that had transpired in the last half hour, her heart raced in pitter-patters because Mr. William Q. White had actually started a conversation with her?

As she always did when she was nervous, she began to babble. “Yes, he calls me Vinny. It’s a pet name for—”

“I know your Christian name, Miss Spencer.” His gaze did not move from hers. Instead, he walked across the room to her and stepped behind the counter. He stood too close. If she’d been sitting in a regular chair, she’d have had to crane her neck. Seated on a stool, her feet swinging well above the ground, she still had to lean her head back to look him in the eyes.

He smiled at her, a long, slow grin. In giddy excitement her stomach turned over. That dangerous curve of his lips was a new expression for him. Assuredly new. She would have remembered another one like it. Lavinia swallowed.

He set his hand deliberately atop hers.

Oh, she knew she should pull away. Pull away, and slap him for taking liberties with her person. But her brother had left her so cold—and his hand was so warm—and by all that was holy, after a year of encouraging Mr. William Q. White to do more than just look at her, she was not about to raise objections to a little liberty.

“I know what Vinny is short for. As it happens, I prefer Lavinia.” He leaned over her.

He said it as if he preferred her, not just her name. Lavinia’s lungs seized. She could smell the starch of his cravat. He’s going to kiss me, she thought. Her ni**les pressed, painfully peaked, against her stays. His thumb ran along her wrist, down the curve of her fingers. Lavinia felt her lips part. She might even have arched up toward him, just a little. She focused on the pink of his mouth, so close to hers.

He’s going to kiss me, and I am going to let him.

Instead, he released her hand. She could still feel the imprint of his fingers against hers as he stepped away.

“Miss Spencer, I do believe we’ll talk tomorrow.” He smiled. Before she could point out that tomorrow was Sunday, and the lending library would therefore be closed, he tipped his hat at her and set it on his head. “Come find me at one.”

And then Mr. William Q. White strode away, the tails of his coat flapping at her. The bell jingled. The door shut. Lavinia raised her burning hand to her unkissed lips and looked down.

It was only then she realized he hadn’t been angling for a kiss at all.

He’d taken the slip of foolscap containing the address of the man who’d cheated James.

CHAPTER TWO

LAVINIA WOKE TO A CLOUD of thick, choking smoke. Her first panicked thought was that the books downstairs had somehow caught fire, that their livelihood, half owned by creditors, was going up in flames. But then her conscious mind caught up to her racing fears and she correctly cataloged the smell.

It was the more mundane—and rather more unpleasant—scent of burning porridge.

Frowning, Lavinia pulled a wrapper over her nightdress and padded out into the front room.

James, his hands blackened with soot, was juggling a pot. The vessel let off billows of gray smoke, its sides streaked black.

“Ah,” he said essaying a weak smile. “Lavinia! I made breakfast for you.”

She didn’t dare respond, not even with so little as a raised eyebrow.

He peered into the pot, frowning. “There’s still some white bits in here. Isn’t it odd that porridge turns yellow when it burns? I’d have thought it would go directly to black.” He prodded the mass with a spoon, then shrugged and looked up. “Want some?”

Over fifteen years, Lavinia had become quite fluent in the foreign tongue known as Younger Brother. It was a tricky language, mostly because it employed words and phrases that sounded, deceptively, as if they were proper English.

For instance, the average woman off the street would have thought that James had just offered her burned porridge. Lavinia knew better. What James had actually said was, “Sorry I stole your money. I made you breakfast by way of apology. Forgive me?”

Lavinia sighed and waved her hand. “Give me a bowl.”