This Wicked Gift by Courtney Milan Page A

reaching up, up for the newest set of
Byron’s poetry when she heard the shop door open behind her.
    A blast of cold air greeted this newest
arrival. Yet it was not the temperature that had Lavinia’s skin breaking out in
gooseflesh. Without looking, she knew it was   him.   She
froze, hand above her head. Her heart raced. But she could not react, not in
this room, not with all these people here. And so she retrieved the
leather-bound volume and handed it to Mr. Adrian Bellows before she allowed
herself to turn.
    Mr. William Q. White was as tall and
taciturn as ever. This time, though,   he   caught
her glance and ducked his head, coloring.
    Oh, how the tables had turned. Two days
ago she’d been the one to blush and turn away. Two days ago   she   had wondered, in her own giddy and
foolish way, what he thought of her.
    But then yesterday they’d come together,
skin against skin. He’d had her; she’d had him.
    Today the question on her mind was: What
did   she   think of   him?
    It was not a query with an easy answer. He
dawdled until the others trickled out, one by one. Even then he did not
approach her. Instead, he studied a shelf of Greco-Roman histories so intently, she wondered if their spines contained the secrets
of the universe. When she walked toward him, he turned his back to her. He   bent, ever so slightly, as if he
carried a great weight in his jacket.
    Lavinia supposed he did.
    “I am sorry,” he said, still faced away
from her. “I ought not to have come. If my presence distresses you, say so and
I shall leave at once.”
    “I am not easily distressed.” She kept her
voice calm and even.
    He turned toward her and looked in her
face, as if to ascertain for himself whether she was
telling the truth. “Are you well?” His voice was low, lilting in that accent
that he had. “I could not sleep, thinking of what I had done to you.”
    She had not slept, either, reliving what
he had done, touching herself where he had touched. But the expression on his
face suggested that his evening had not been spent nearly so pleasurably.
    “I am very well,” she said. And then,
because he looked away, his eyes tightening in obvious distress, she added,
“Thank you for asking.”
    Politeness didn’t seem enough after what
had passed between them, but she was unsure of the etiquette for this occasion.
    “Miss Spencer, I know I can never hope for
forgiveness. I dishonored you—”
    “Strange,” Lavinia interjected, “that I do
not feel dishonored.”
    He frowned as if puzzled, and then started
again. “I ruined you—”
    “Ruined me for what? I am still capable of
working in this shop, as you see. I do not believe I shall turn toward
prostitution as a result of one afternoon’s pleasure. And as for
marriage—William, do you truly think that any man worth having would put me
aside for one indiscretion?”
    “Put you aside?” His gaze skittered down
her breasts to her waist, and then traveled slowly up. “No. He would take you
any way he could have you.”
    She was not one bit sorry that she’d given
herself to this man, however foolish and impulsive the gift had been.
    “As I see it,” Lavinia said carefully,
“you are feeling guilty because you attempted to coerce me into your bed. Then,
believing I was forced, you took me anyway.”
    He flinched, looking away again. “Yes. And
for that, I ought to be—”
    “I was not forced, and so you did not
dishonor me.”
    “But—”
    “But,” Lavinia said, holding up one
finger, “you believed I was, and thus you dishonored yourself.”
    His expression froze. His eyes shut and he
put his hand over his face. A shaky breath whispered through his fingers. “Ah.”
It was not a sound of understanding or agreement, but one of despair. “You are
very astute.”
    There was nothing to say beyond that, but
he looked so unbearably alone that she reached out and placed her hand atop
his.
    He shut his eyes. “Don’t.” His hand
bunched into a fist