This Wicked Gift (14 page)
His hands braced against the desk; her
legs wrapped around his waist. And then she could think of nothing but the heat
of his skin against hers, the thrust of his body inside hers, his hand on her
breast,
his
lips on her mouth. And then even these
thoughts were ripped away from her as she gave herself up to him.
Afterward, her body still throbbing with
delicious satiety, his hair slightly damp and spiking from his exertions, he
held her close. His breath was warm against her cheek.
“I am,” he said in her ear, “completely,
utterly and devotedly yours.
If you will have me.”
She leaned her forehead against his chest.
“I suppose I shall.” His arms were around her shoulders now, his hands
caressing her. She inhaled. He smelled of starch, of salt, and of…of burning
cloves?
Lavinia pulled back and sniffed the air in
puzzlement. A complex, bitter scent had wound its way into the room. It had
just the faintest hint of sulfur to it. But the disturbing smell did not waft from
William. Instead, it was coming from upstairs.
Lavinia disentangled herself from his
embrace. She jumped off the table and patted her gown into place. Quickly she
bounded across the room and yanked the chair from its spot under the door
handle. She was running up the stairs, her footfalls heavy, before she could
even imagine what was going on.
Her brother stood by the hob, his hands
full of heavy cloth. He held a pot that emitted clouds of dark steam.
“Ah,” James said with a smile.
“Lavinia.
I’m mulling wine.”
“Wine?
Where
did you get wine? How did you purchase the spices?” And then, seeing what sat
on the table, Lavinia gave a little shriek.
“A goose? However did you obtain a goose?”
James shrugged. “I sold mother’s pearl
pendant. She gave it to me, and I thought…well, I thought she would want us to
have this.” He shrugged, and then continued brightly. “Besides, what with my
making mistakes in the shop, and
your
getting married,
we could use a little extra money now.”
Behind her, Lavinia could her William’s
footsteps as he ascended the stairs.
“How did you know I was getting married?
I
just found out.”
James fixed Lavinia with his most serious
look. “Next time,” he said, “if you are trying to keep secrets, you might
consider writing something other than ‘Mrs. William Q. White’ in the margin of
the account books when you test your pen.”
She stared at her brother, her cheeks
burning in embarrassment. “James—
please—
he’s coming up
the stairs now. I haven’t done that in almost a year. Don’t tell him.”
Her brother shook his head in gleeful
amusement. William reached the upstairs landing and hesitated, as
if not quite sure whether he would be
welcomed into the family.
James cast one pointed glance over his
shoulder to the desk where the books lay, pages spread open, telltale margin
scribbles and all. But instead of teasing Lavinia further, he gestured with the
pot he held in his hands. “Did you know,” he asked William conversationally,
“that wine can
burn?
I
hadn’t thought it possible, as it’s a liquid—but look at this.
The pot is completely scorched.”
London, precisely
thirteen years later.
“M
R
. W
HITE
.”
William looked up from his desk. He had
served Gareth Carhart for many years now. First he’d served the Viscount
Wyndleton. But in the past year the man had taken on the mantle of Lord
Blakely. And William’s duties had been correspondingly increased.
“A year ago,” the new marquess said, “you
told me you could assist with the management of the marquessate. I allowed you
the chance to temporarily prove yourself.”
William knew better than to interject his
own commentary into the brief pause that followed. Lord Blakely disliked being
interrupted, and the thread of the conversation would resume at his leisure.
“You have. Congratulations. You may
consider the position, and the salary, permanent.”
“Thank you, my lord.” It was hardly a
surprise. He’d served Lord Blakely well, and curt as the man was, he was always
fair.
Another awkward pause ensued. Finally his
lordship glanced at a clock. “Well?” The time showed seven past three. “Isn’t
it past time for you to be on your way tonight?”
In the thirteen years that William had
worked for the man, he’d learned to interpret these curious pronouncements. Bad
news Lord Blakely announced directly. Good news he cloaked in disdain. Outright
gifts—like dismissing his man of business a full three hours early on Christmas
Eve—he hid in…roundaboutation.
White stood and reached for his things.
“My lord.”
He walked to the door. On the threshold, he
paused. “My lord, if I may—”
“No,” interrupted
Lord Blakely.
“You may not. I’ve no desire to hear your insincere
wishes for the happiness of my Christmas.”
White inclined his head.
“As you wish.
My lord.”
Unlike his predecessor, who had descended
on the hapless clerks in the Chancery Lane office like a one-man plague of
locusts, the current Lord Blakely preferred that William White—his manager, man
of business and otherwise facilitator of marquesslike behavior—present his
reports in his Mayfair town home. He was harsh, demanding—and eminently fair.
It also meant that at the end of the day, William’s walk back home—now a tall
town house in a respectable part of town—was substantially shortened.
As soon as he opened the door, he smelled
cinnamon and citrus wafting in the air, tangled with a hint of bitter
wine. But something was missing. It
took him a moment to ascertain what was wrong. The house was
quiet
.
It was astonishingly quiet.
He found Lavinia, sitting in a chair,
twisting a lock of her hair around one finger as she read.
Not
a novel—a finance circular. A shawl,
woven through with gold thread, covered her shoulders. For a long minute he
watched her read. Her eyes darted intelligently across the page. Her tongue
darted out to touch her finger, and she turned a page. She was, he thought, the
most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
She looked up. She did not jump or evince
the least surprise that he’d arrived hours before he was expected.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You conveyed my
invitation to Christmas dinner to the marquess and he sacked you for the
effrontery. Ah, well. It doesn’t matter.” She smiled at him, so he would know
she was not serious. “In any event, I made more money last quarter than you, so
we shall make do.”
Lavinia may have been the only woman in
all Christendom to invest the excess from the household accounts in railways.
He walked over to stand by her.
“You also spent more money last quarter
than I did,” he said, laying a hand on the imported silk of her shawl. He took
the excuse to stroke her shoulder.
“This? Oh, no. This was quite inexpensive.
Now, tell me—am I going to have a marquess appearing at dinner tomorrow?”
“No, thank God. I did intend to ask
him—truly I
did—but he stopped me
before I dared. It was probably for the best.”
“He is the most dreadfully lonely man.”
She shrugged. “But I suppose it is his choice.”
“Speaking of
lonely.
Or what is far more interesting to
me,
let us speak of being alone. I notice that something—or rather, some
ones
are missing.”
“James has the boys. He shut the shop
early today and he’s taken them all out to see the Italian players.”
That would explain the unearthly quiet.
“Mrs. Evans is in the kitchens. And I’ve
sent the maids to the market. I don’t believe anyone will come into the sitting
room. Not for hours.”
William smiled and extended his hand.
“Mrs. White,” he said slyly, “I think that your very expensive shawl would look
far lovelier and more expensive on this floor.”
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4061-6
THE HEART OF CHRISTMAS
Copyright © 2009 by Harlequin Books
S.A.
The publisher acknowledges the copyright holders of
the individual works as follows:
THIS WICKED GIFT
Copyright © 2009 by Courtney Milan
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places
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