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.
A bed. 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.”
It took her a second to unravel his meaning. He wasn’t hoping for a kiss given out of gratitude. He wasn’t even going to attempt a somewhat awkward seduction. Instead, he was trying to coerce her. There had been something magical about the looks he’d given her, occluded as they’d been with his two-word greetings. She’d felt as if they were uncovering a mutual secret—a world where Lavinia could forget the strain of trying to hold her family together. She could pretend for just one instant that nothing mattered but that she was a young woman, desired by an attractive young man.
But her own wishes were of no importance to him. If he was trying to force her in this ridiculous fashion, he saw nothing mutual at all about their desire. She had the sudden feeling of vertigo, as if the room were spinning about her, the floor very far away. As if she’d added all the lines in the ledger between them, and found that her tally did not match his coins.
Lavinia folded her arms about her for warmth.
“Mr. William Q. White,” she said calmly. “You are a despicable blackguard.”
WILLIAM KNEW HE WAS a despicable blackguard. Only the worst of fellows would have tried to claim a woman he could not marry. But he wanted her enough that he almost didn’t care.
“I suppose you think I should forgive your brother’s debt,” William heard himself say.
“I do.”
“And what would I stand to gain by that?”
She dropped her eyes. “He is not yet twenty-one, you see.”
As if such a fact would have swayed him. Her brother was older than fourteen, and at that age William had first become responsible for his own care. Since then, he’d labored for every scrap of comfort. He’d had nothing handed to him—not a penny, not a kind word, and certainly not a sister who shielded him from every discomfort.
“You will soon learn,” he said, more harshly than he’d intended, “that everything has a cost.” Coal and blankets in grim lodging houses cost pennies. The eye-straining labor of his apprenticeship had cost him his youth. For years, he’d spent his late nights reading business and agriculture by the dim red glow of the fire, not for pleasure or enjoyment, but to keep alive the futile dream that one day he would be asked to take his place managing funds that might have belonged to him. Mr. Sherrod’s will had just stolen that dream from him, too. Oh, yes, William knew everything about cost.
Her color heightened. If he were the sort to engage in self-delusion, he’d imagine that the pink flush on her cheeks was desire. But the breaths that lifted her bosom had to be fear. Fear at his proximity. Fear that a man, intent and closeted alone with her, was looking down at her with such intensity.
But she did not shrink back, not even when he stood and walked toward her. She didn’t falter when he stopped inches from her. She did not quail when he towered over her and peered into the pure blue of her eyes.
Instead, she huffed. “You have not taken my meaning. It is surely in your best interests to collect on the debt owed over time. After all…”
Her voice was husky. Her breath whispered against his lips. He inhaled. Her scent coiled in his veins and joined the throbbing pulse of blood through his body.
“My interest?” His voice was quiet. “I assure you, my only interest is in your body.”
Her eyes widened. Her lips parted. And that long, smooth column of throat contracted in a swallow.
And then, inexplicable woman that she was, Lavinia smiled. “You’re not very good at this, are you? It works better if you give your villainy at least a thin veneer of pleasantry.”
He might have been a blackguard, but he had no intention of being a liar. “Nothing really worth having is free. If the cost of having you is your hatred, I’ll pay it.”
She didn’t shrink from him. Instead, she tilted her head, as if seeing him at an angle would change his requirements. The pulse in her throat beat rapidly—one, two, three, he counted, all the way up to twenty-two, before she raised her chin.
“Am I worth having, then? At this cost to yourself?”
“You’re worth ten pounds.” It was heresy to say those words, heresy to place so low a value on her. It was heresy even to think of someone as low as him touching a woman as incomparable as her. But he was going to be in hell all his life. He wanted one memory, one dream to keep with him in the years of drudgery that would surely follow. He’d have traded his soul to the devil to have her. A little heresy would hardly signify.
She stood. On her feet, she was mere inches from him. “You believe,” she said, her voice unsteady, “that you must purchase the best things in life. With bank notes.”
“I have no other currency to barter with.”
She met his eyes. “Is there anything you want in addition to my body? That is—will once be enough, or will this turn into a…a regular occurrence?”
A regular occurrence. His body tensed at the thought. He wanted everything about her. Her smile, when she saw him; her sudden laughter, breaking like a sunrise in the night of his life. He wanted her, over and over, body and soul and spirit. But that was all well out of his price range. And so he asked for the one thing he thought he might get.
“I want one other thing,” he said. “When I touch you, I want you not to flinch.”
She frowned in puzzlement at this proclamation. As she bit her lip, she reached for the catch of her cloak. She fumbled with the ties, and then removed the wool from her shoulders, folding the cloth into a careful square. The dress underneath was a faded rose, the fabric old enough that it had shaped itself to the curves of her hips. He’d seen her in the gown before, but never while he stood close enough to touch.
She tugged on her left glove, loosening each finger before rolling the material down her arm. He noted, with some distraction, that there was a tiny hole in the index finger. Her fingers seemed impossibly slender.
“Very well,” she said. “I agree.”
He hadn’t really believed it would happen. He had passed
last night, after he’d retrieved her brother’s note of promise, in a delirium of dazzled lust. But up until this moment, he’d expected her to walk away, snatched from him like all his other dreams. She removed her second glove, as slowly as she’d taken off the first, and aligned the two precisely before setting them atop her cloak. He swallowed. When she slid the pins from her hair, letting that coiled mass of cinnamon spill down her back, he realized he was really going to have her. Somehow, this impossible plan had worked.
If he were a gentleman, he’d stop now and send her on her way.
She turned her back to him—not, he realized, to hide her face. No, Lavinia didn’t shrink from him. Instead, she lifted the mass of her hair so that he could unlace her dress.
The gesture gave him a perfect view of the back of her neck. It was slim and long. He could make out the delicate swells of her spine. Up until this point, nothing truly untoward had happened, except in William’s mind. But once he touched her—once he unlaced that gown—it would be too late for them both. If he had any strength of character at all, he’d leave her untouched. But all his strength had turned into pounding blood, thundering through his veins. And if he had any will at all, it was directed toward this—this moment of heaven, stolen from the angel who had haunted his dreams for a year.
He would never find forgiveness if he took her, but then he’d been damned for a decade. All he would ever know of paradise was Lavinia. And so he laid his hands on her waist and claimed his damnation.
She was warm against his palms, and oh, it had been so long since he touched another human being. He leaned in and kissed the back of her neck. She tasted of lemon soap. His arms wrapped around her, drawing her against his body. She nestled against his erection, and by God, she did what he’d asked. She didn’t flinch. Instead, she sighed and leaned back into his arms, as if she enjoyed the feel of his touch.
“Miss Spencer,” he murmured in her ear.
“You’d better call me Lavinia.”
His fingers found the ties of her dress and unraveled them carefully. Then he slid the dress off her shoulders. Long muslin sleeves fell away to reveal creamy shoulders, milk-white arms. When the gown hit the floor, she turned in his arms. She was wearing nothing but stays and a chemise. Her skin was warm against his hands and she arched up toward him. Her lips parted. Her eyes shone at him, as if he were her lover instead of the man who’d forced her into this. She’d looked at him that way, just last night in the library. Surely, then, she hadn’t meant to invite a kiss.
He was not such a fool as to turn down that invitation twice. He kissed her, hard, savoring the feel of her lips against his. She tasted as sweet as a glass of water after a hard day’s labor, felt as welcome as sunshine in the darkness of winter. He pulled her into his embrace roughly. She twitched in surprise when his tongue touched her lips, but she opened her mouth with an eagerness that made up for any apparent inexperience.
He had to remind himself that she’d not chosen this, that he’d ordered her not to flinch from his advances. It was not real, the way she nestled in his arms. It was not real, the way her hands pressed against his back, pulling his thighs against hers. It was not real, the way she opened up to him. It was all a fraud, obtained through coercion.
He was impoverished enough that he’d take her caresses anyway.
She pulled away from him, but only to unlace her stays. As she lifted her arms above her head, a stray shaft of light came through the window and illuminated the outline of her legs through her chemise. She let her stays drop to the ground. She didn’t look up—no doubt suddenly ashamed, aware that William could make out the dusky purple of her areolae through her chemise. A shaft of heat rippled through William, and he could wait no longer.
Without thinking, he walked forward. His hands slid up her waist. She was separated from him by the thinnest layer of cloth. She shivered as he drew her toward him. And then he leaned forward and closed his mouth around the dusky tip of her nipple. Even through her chemise, he could feel it contract, pebbling under his tongue.
“Oh!” Her hand clutched his arm spontaneously.
He licked that hard tip, as if somehow, her response would count as real acquiescence. Maybe, if he was good enough to her, if he brought her to the most trembling peak of pleasure, she would forgive him. Maybe he could give a hint of truth to this lie. He set his leg between hers as he tasted her body, and she ground her hips against him. She was either an incredible actress, determined not to flinch, or she truly wanted him.
He let one hand skim down her body to the edge of her chemise. He pulled it up, up, until his fingers slipped between her thighs.
She was not acting. She was silky wet. There was no space in his mind to encompass the wonder of her desire. He was lost, sliding his fingers through her curls until he found the spot that made her arch her back even more. He pinned her against the wall, pressing, tasting, touching, until she trembled, her breathing ragged. And then he sent her spinning over the edge.
She made a high, keening noise as she came.
A small sense of intelligence returned as she looked up at him. She was breathing heavily. Her skin glowed. Her chemise was rucked up to her waist. Her body pressed into his. He could feel her heart beat against his chest, feel her ribs expand with her every breath.
He was still dressed. His member was hard; his body screamed to sheathe himself deep inside her.
“William?”
No. He couldn’t fool himself any longer. This was not some delicate virgin, submitting to his coarse lusts out of an excess of familial feeling. This was Lavinia. She was robust, and unbreakable. And for some unknown reason, she was not acting. She wanted him.
And he shouldn’t take her. Not like this.
But when he pulled away, she followed. When he hesitated, she set her hands under his shirt. Her fingers slid up his abdomen, over his ribs. Any good intentions that might have entered his mind flared up in smoke, illuminating William’s path to hell. He pulled off his shirt. The air was cold against his bare skin, but Lavinia was warm, and she was caressing him. Her hands slid to his waist. Her mouth found his again, and he could think of nothing but having her skin against his, her flesh pressed naked under his. He pulled his breeches off and pushed her onto the bed.
She landed and looked up at him. And then—time seemed so slow—she lifted off her chemise. Every fantasy he’d ever had compressed into this one moment. Lavinia Spencer was naked in his bed, lips parted, eyes shining. He spread her knees with his hands and leaned over her. He had a thousand fantasies, but only this one chance. He positioned his member against her hot, wet cleft.
He should not have been able to think of anything except the pleasure to come, but she looked into his eyes. Her look was so clear, so devoid of guile, that he stopped, arrested on the edge of consummation.
You don’t have to do this.
He didn’t know where the thought came from—perhaps some long-atrophied sense of right and wrong had exerted itself. The tip of his penis was wet with her juices. Her nipples had contracted into hard, rose-colored nubs and she lay beneath him, legs spread.
The next step would be so easy.
It was not just her innocence he would take. Lavinia’s beauty was not a mere accident that arose from the fall of hair against shoulder, the curves of her breasts, the petals of her sex. No, even now, spread before him like an offering, she glowed with an inner light. Her appeal had as much to do with the innate trust she placed in those around her, in the way she smiled and greeted everyone as if they were worthy of her attention. If he took her, like this, he’d shatter her trust in the world. He would show her that men were fiends at heart, that there was no forgiveness in the world for sins committed by others.
You don’t have to do this.
But men were fiends. And there was no forgiveness. He had never been granted any forgiveness.
He didn’t have to do it, but he did it anyway. He slid into her in one firm thrust, and it was every bit as awful
—and as good—as he’d imagined. It was wonderful, because she was sweet and hot and tight about him. It was wonderful, because she was his, now, in the most primal sense. But it was terrible, because he knew what he destroyed with that single thrust. Her hands came involuntarily between them, and he tensed and stopped.
“William.” She touched his shoulders tentatively, as if he were the one who needed comfort. As if even his vile penetration could not shake her absurd trust in the world. And so he took her, thrusting into her. She clenched around him, the walls of her passage tight around his erection. She brought her hips up to his. And by God, that heat, that pulsing heat that wrapped around him, that cry she gave—it couldn’t have been. She could not have come. But she had, and then he was pumping into her, loosing his seed into her womb, and crying out himself, hoarsely.
As his orgasm faded and his mind cleared of lust, he realized what a despicable man he was. He’d taken her like an animal. Oh, she’d let him—but what choice had he left her? He should have stopped. He should have let her go. Instead, he’d been so intent on himself that he hadn’t cared what she wanted at all. He was as sorry a specimen as had ever been seen.
He pulled out of her and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her.
The mattress sagged as she rearranged her weight. “William,” she said.
He could not bring himself to turn around and see what he’d done. Would her eyes reflect the betrayal of trust?
“William,” she said. “You must look at me. I have something to tell you.”
He knew already what a despicable blackguard he was. He’d taken her virginity, and damn, he’d enjoyed it. But everything had a price, and the price of William’s physical enjoyment would be this: her cold censure, and a speech that he hoped would cut him to ribbons. He deserved worse. And so he turned.
The Carhart Series Page 3