This Wicked Gift (Carhart 0.5)(6)

“Mrs. Entwhistle is gone for the week to celebrate Christmas with her granddaughter.” He raised his gaze to her. It ought to have been cold; his every word came out in a puff of white in the chilled air. But his eyes were hot, and suddenly, so was Lavinia.

“Mary Lee?” she asked in a squeak.

“Given the week off. Come in before you catch your death.”

Her imagination gave those words a wicked quality—as if he’d asked her to catch something else instead. It was that accent again, that lilt in his voice that she just couldn’t place. It made her think of unspeakable things, no matter how innocent his intentions.

But no, it was not just her imagination. It was a terribly wicked notion to enter a home alone with a young, attractive—very attractive—partially clothed man. Why, he might take liberties. He might take lots of them.

He smiled at her, a mischievous grin that unfolded across his face. Maybe it was her imagination again, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“I can’t come in. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“I give you my word,” he said carefully, “that I shall not do anything to you without your permission.”

As reassurances went, this lacked some basic quality of…assurance.

“Your word as a gentleman?”

His lip curled slightly. “I’m hardly that.”

Well, then. “What do you mean, without my permission? I could easily give permission to—”

She stopped herself before she could complete the sentence. Not only because she was embarrassed by her unintended admission, but because if she started cataloging the things she might let him do, given the proper persuasion, she would never stop with a mere peck on the cheek. He was a mere twelve inches from her, on the threshold. She could see him complete her sentence. His pupils dilated. His gaze slipped down her body, a caress that was almost palpable. His Adam’s apple bobbed, once.

Still he didn’t say anything. It was one thing to have him look the other way when she wished him a merry Christmas, or asked him what he’d thought of the Adam Smith he returned. It was quite another to admit she wanted a kiss, and to have him remain silent.

“Say something,” Lavinia begged. “Say anything.”

He moved closer. “Come inside with me.” His voice enfolded her like warm velvet. And still he looked at her, those dark eyes boring into her, then settling against her lips like a caress.

No. She was past the point of fooling herself. Whatever Mr. William Q. White had done with the address, she had little doubt that if she followed him inside, she would likely be kissed quite thoroughly indeed. She’d known it all along. Perhaps, even, that was why she’d come. And this time he’d said aloud what she’d always imagined. Come inside with me.

He was going to kiss her. There was nobody about to see her lapse. Even the cat had disappeared. It was nearly Christmas, and Lavinia didn’t suppose she would get any other gift this year. She was cold, and his breath was warm.

She untied her bonnet strings and followed him inside.

The entry was cold and dark and empty, and Mr. White didn’t even stop to take her things. Instead, he hustled her up two flights of stairs. The halls of the second landing lacked the soft, feminine furnishings that Mrs. Entwhistle employed downstairs. Instead, they had a Spartan, military look. The walls were the stark yellow of age-faded whitewash.

Mr. White glanced at her, his lips pressed together, and then turned down a silent hall into a back room. The furniture was austere wood. From ceiling to baseboard, there was not even a hint of color on the unadorned walls. A white washstand bore a white pitcher and—a sign that she was in territory that was undeniably masculine—a black-handled razor. A single window looked out over a desolate, gray yard. A solitary tree, stripped to its bare branches by winter, huddled sullenly in the center.

And Lavinia was looking everywhere but in the corner, where there was a bed. It was as cold and forbidding as the rest of the room, made perfectly, without the smallest wrinkle in the white linens.

Abed. This visit was becoming most improper indeed.

Mr. White pulled up a chair—the lone chair in the room, a straight-backed wooden affair—for Lavinia. She sat.

He walked over to a small table and picked up a piece of paper.

“I’ve purchased your brother’s promissory note,” he said stiffly.

She hadn’t quite known what to expect. “I hope you didn’t pay the full ten pounds for it,” she said. “Why would you do such a thing?”

He sat on the bed and fiddled with his rolled-up cuffs. She could see the blue lines of veins in his wrist. His fingers were quite long, and Lavinia could imagine them touching her cheek, a gentle tap-tap, in tune with the ditty he beat on his palm now. She wondered whether Mrs. Entwhistle often visited relatives, and if so, whether Mr. White regularly entertained women in his quarters.

But no. He was far too ill at ease. A practiced seducer would have plied her with brandy. He would have made her laugh. Certainly he would not have made her sit in this hard and uncomfortable chair. And he would not have said so little.

“Why do you suppose,” he said, “I’ve asked to talk with you rather than your brother?”

“Because I’m more reasonable than him?”

“Because,” he said uneasily, not quite meeting her eyes, “you—or rather, your body—is the only currency that can persuade me to part with that note.”