He stood as William stared after him in shock.
“Come along,” he said. “I believe you have your resignation to tender.”
BY TWO IN THE AFTERNOON, William and his new employer had barred the old marquess from his grandson’s personal finances. The viscount’s first purchase had been a coach and four. They’d obtained money for changes, and his new employer had been on his way. William went to Spencer’s circulating library.
He made it there by three. The building was lit with a dim glow; the door, when he tried it, was unlocked. Good. She hadn’t yet closed the shop for Christmas Eve.
He opened the door. She was sitting at her stool again, winding a strand of hair through her fingers. Up. Down. Soon those would be his fingers there, stroking her hair. Rubbing her cheek. There was a thread of melancholy to her movements.
She glanced up and saw him, but her face did not light. Instead, it shuttered in on itself. Lavinia, the woman who smiled at everyone who entered her shop, pressed her lips together and looked away. It was not the best of beginnings.
William advanced on her.
She spoke first. “I have a Christmas gift for you.” Still she kept her eyes on the desk in front of her. Her hands lay on the table—pressed flat against that solid surface, not relaxed and curved. Her fingertips were white.
“I don’t want a gift, Lavinia.”
Still she didn’t look at him. Instead she pulled open a drawer—the quiet protest of wood against wood sounded—and she rummaged inside. When she found whatever it was she was looking for, she lobbed it in his direction. As she still hadn’t looked at him, her aim was poor. He stretched to catch what she’d thrown. It was a pouch barely the size of his hand. The container was light. It might well have been empty.
“I told you,” she said quietly, her eyes still on her hands. “I told you, you wouldn’t want to know what I would have to do to pay back your ten pounds.” Her voice was small.
His heart stopped. “I don’t want ten pounds from you.”
Finally she lifted her chin to look in his eyes. “I know,” she whispered. “But I want you to have it.”
There was the faintest tinge of red at the corner of her eyes. His hand contracted around the fabric. She’d had options. But William’s original ten pounds had disappeared. That left…No. She couldn’t have agreed to marry another man. She wouldn’t have.
Would she? She sat, pale and stricken. She looked miserable.
“Don’t do it, Lavinia,” he warned. “Choose me. I came here to tell you—you wanted me to find hope. I’ve found another position, a better one. I can afford you now.”
She jerked back as if she’d been slapped. “You can afford me, William? You coerce me to your bed. You lie to me and say you don’t love me. And you think I was waiting for you to gather the coin to purchase me?”
William bit his lip. If he’d been a better man—if he’d been worthy of her from the start—if he hadn’t coerced her into intercourse, and then hurt her to drive her away from him not once, but twice—perhaps he might have had her. He’d as good as told her to give up hope this morning. Now she had.
“I’m sorry,” he said simply.
She raised her chin. “I never wanted your apology.”
“I know,” William said. “It’s all I have.”
She didn’t say anything. Instead, she bit her lip and looked away. Once, he’d tried to steal her choice back from her. He’d not do it a second time. He let out a deep breath.
“Merry Christmas, Lavinia,” he whispered.
Somehow he managed to find the door. Somehow he managed to wrest it open and walk through it with some semblance of grace. He even managed to stumble down the street. Halfway to the crossroads he realized he was still holding that damned bag she’d thrown at him, with its ten bloody pounds. He balled it up in his hand and squeezed in frustration—and stood still.
If he had bothered to think about such a thing, he would have supposed that the sack felt light and deflated because it contained a single bank note, folded into quarters. But instead of the crisp, malleable shape of a paper rectangle he felt a single circle press against his palm.
A circle? There was no such thing as a ten-pound coin. Besides, he realized as he ran his hands over the cloth, coins were not hollow in the middle. And this one was barely the diameter of a sixpence, but three times as thick.
Breath held, he opened the pouch and pulled out the object inside. It was a plain, round circle of gold—a ring too dainty to ever be intended for a man’s finger. He stared at it in frozen wonder. She’d had other choices besides marrying another man. I could have pawned my mother’s wedding ring.
But she hadn’t pawned it. She’d given it to him.
LAVINIA HAD WATCHED THE DOOR where William had left.
Her choices were few. Should she humiliate herself and run after him? Should she at least wait a decent amount of time before hunting him down and making him pay in kisses? Or should she kick the desk in frustration and give up on Mr. William Q. White ever figuring out how to express the concept of love without reference to funds?
Lavinia sat down at her desk and put her head in her hands. She didn’t dare cry—not now, not when she needed to head upstairs to see her father. It was Christmas Eve and tonight the family needed to laugh. She needed to pretend Christmas had come without mulling wine or roasting goose. What she didn’t need to do was cry over the man’s sheer perversity.
The bell rang.
The door opened.
Lavinia lifted her head from her hands. Her heart turned over. William stood, framed by the doorway against the dark of the night. Little wisps of snow covered his collar and kissed the brim of his hat. He took off his coat, folding it and setting it on the low table to his right. Then he turned and shut the door. She heard the snick of a key turning in the lock, and she swallowed. He did not say anything, but he drank her in, top to bottom, his eyes running languidly down her form.
“Does that door behind you lock, as well?”
She shook her head.
“Pity.” He lifted a chair off the floor and strode past her.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m rearranging your furniture.” He tilted the chair at an angle and wedged it under the door handle.
“There. This time we shan’t be bothered by intruding little brothers.” He turned to her. She was still seated on her stool. Her toes curled in her slippers as he walked forward. He towered before her. Then he bent and picked her up. His arms around her were warm and strong.
The doors were barred, so nobody could save her. For that matter, with the books piled in front of the one tiny window, nobody could see her. Thank God. She melted into his arms.
He straightened. But she had only a few bare seconds of his warm embrace before he set her on the desk. He did not move away from her. Her thighs parted, and he stepped between her legs. She was still looking into his eyes. He rested his forehead against hers, and she shut her eyes.
“I collect,” William said, his hand reaching up to cup her cheek, “that you want me to give your ring back.”
She opened her mouth to answer, but all that came from her vocal cords was a pointless squeak. Instead she nodded.
“You can’t have it.” His eyes bored into her. His fingers whispered down the line of her jaw, to rest against her chin. He tipped her head back.
“You can’t have it,” he repeated, “unless you wear it for me.”
She nodded again.
“I also collect,” he said, “that when I came in, I should have said something rather more like—”
He leaned forward.
“Like?” she prodded.
His lips touched hers.
He tasted like cinnamon and cloves, like the Christmas she no longer dreaded facing. His lips roamed over hers, tasting, testing. His hands slid from her jaw down to her waist. And she was touching him, his shoulders pulling the hard length of his body against hers. She was catching fire, yearnin
g to consume him. Her hands ran through his silky hair, pulling his head toward hers. But however intimate the touch of his tongue against hers, however insistent the press of his hard erection through the layers of her skirts, his hands remained virtuously clasped on her waist.
He pulled away from her. She’d rearranged his hair into a tangled and adorable mess.
“Well,” he murmured, smiling at her.
“Mr. William Q. White,” Lavinia said, “I should like to know your intentions.”
“I intend to love you as you deserve.”
“That is a good start. I should like to be loved more, however.”
He leaned in and kissed her again, a sweet touch of his lips, when she wanted heat.
“But you asked for my intentions. You must know I intend to ask your father’s permission to call the banns.”
Close to him as she was, his hands still on her waist, she felt a subtle tension fill his body, as if he were wary of her response. As if she had not asked him to marry her already.
Lavinia clucked and shook her head. That wariness grew, and he pulled away from her ever so subtly. She reached up to touch his cheek. His skin was rough with evening stubble. “Do not tell me you barred the door just so that you could steal a mere kiss. Really, William. Is that all?”
A slow smile spread across his face. His hands pressed against her waist and then slid lower, the heat of his palms burning into her hips.
“Is that all?” he echoed. “No, damn it.” His hands inched down to her thighs. “There’s more. There’s much more.”
And then his lips fell on hers again. This time, he exercised no restraint. His body pressed hers. His hands pulled her against him. He kissed down her neck; she threw back her head and let his tongue trail fire along her skin. She felt his warm lips trace her collarbone. He breathed heat against the neckline of her dress. And then he was rearranging her bodice, tugging, persuading, until he caught her breast in his mouth.
A sharp swirl of excitement filled her. But his touch didn’t satisfy her. Instead, it only whetted her hunger. His other hand was on her ankle now, lifting her legs to one side, pushing her skirts up. His fingers fluttered against her damp sex.
Pleasure twined with want.
She desired—she needed—she required. And what she needed she couldn’t have said, except more, damn it, more. But he knew. His body was hard against hers. He fumbled with his breeches—and then he filled her, hard and thick and long.
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.”
Epilogue
London, precisely thirteen years later
“MR. WHITE.”
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.”
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