Free This Wicked Gift by Courtney Milan Page B

to her. She’d wanted to argue—he’d seen it
in her eyes. Her words could have tied him in knots. And
having to watch her deliver those arguments—having to hold his distance from
her when every fiber in his being yearned toward her—had been almost
impossible. But she had no way to debate straightforward gestures. He
hid behind those unarguable motions now. He got his coat. He walked to the
door. He opened it, and stood there in silence until she came from the kitchen.
    Even then she stopped by his arm and
looked up at him. Her blue eyes seemed to see right through to the contents of
his soul. So what if she took the measure of that sorry item? After all, he’d
set it out for her to see, a tattered standard past the point of all repair.
    He walked outside, into the chill of early
morning. She followed, her eyes liquid, her skin seeming to light with an
incandescent glow against that mass of white fog. He wasn’t sure he could bear
another fifteen minutes in her presence—but whatever depths he’d plumbed, he   had not sunk so far as to send a woman
alone into the maw of that dampening mist. Least of all
Lavinia.
    Outside, Norwich Court was a silent sea of
mist. Tendrils of white curled around the gaslight on the corner and combed
long, thin fingers through the tangled branches of the trees. Lavinia came up
behind him. He could feel the warmth of her body radiating through the fog. She
was mere inches away from his embrace. She’d never felt so distant.
    “I rather think,” she said, “that   I   should be the one to decide if you’re
deserving.”
    He hunched his shoulders deeper and drew
his coat about him. “I don’t wish to speak about this at present.”
    “Not at present? Very
well.”
    He was surprised—and perhaps a touch
disappointed—at the grace with which she accepted his pronouncement. Silence
enfolded them. They walked in darkness. William counted to thirty slowly, one
number for every two steps, and then she spoke again.
    “How about now,
then?”
    He was staring straight ahead as they walked, the better to ignore her. But there wasn’t much to
see on an early, foggy morning. A bakery had just come to life, the light from
its windows diffusing gold through the mist. As they passed, the smell of the
first baking of cinnamon-and-spice bread wafted out.
    But the scent of those warm ovens was soon
left behind, and there was nothing else he could focus on in the swirling fog.
He felt a muscle twitch in his jaw.
    “Very well,” Lavinia said. “You don’t need
to say anything.”
    That muscle twitched, harder.
    “I shall supply both halves of the
conversation. I’m rather good at that, you know.”
    He had to admit, her proclamation came as
no great surprise.
    “Besides,” she said slyly, “you’re very
handsome when you’re taciturn.”
    Oh, he was not going to feel pleased. He
was not going to look toward her. But damn it, he was delighted. And his head
twisted toward her—until he caught himself and converted the motion into a
shake of his head.
    “That   gesture,” Lavinia
said, “must be William Q. White for ‘Dear Lord, she’s given me a rabid
compliment! Run away before it bites me!’”
    He ruthlessly suppressed a traitorous
grin.
    “I shall imagine,” she said, “that what
you really meant to say was, ‘Thank you, Lavinia.’”
    William lifted his chin. He set his jaw
and looked ahead.
    “And that impassive, stony look,” Lavinia
continued, “is William Q. White for ‘I must not smile, or she’ll figure out
precisely what I am not saying.’ Really, William, is this silence the best you
have to offer me on the way home? You’ve said all there is to say, and you have
not one question to put to me?”
    They were almost to her home now. William
stopped walking and turned to her. He looked into her eyes—a   dire mistake, as she smiled at him,
and then his blood refused to do anything so sensible
as flow demurely through his veins. It thundered instead,