Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish (8 page)

“They won't have to ask. In my position, I can't be keeping somebody else's castoff—” She stopped, hating the hysterical note that had crept into her voice and hating that she might have just prompted the man to whom she was clinging to ask her what exactly her position was.

“Kit is not a castoff. He's yours, and you're keeping him. Maybe you will foster him elsewhere for a time, but he'll always be yours too.”

She didn't quite follow the words rumbling out of him. She focused instead on the feel of his arms around her, offering support and security while she parted company temporarily with her dignity.

“You are tired, and that baby has knocked you off your pins, Sophie Windham. You're borrowing trouble if you try to sort out anything more complicated right now than what you'll serve him for dinner.”

She'd grown up with five brothers, and she'd watched her papa in action any number of times. She knew exactly what Vim was up to, but she took the bait anyway.

“He loved the apples.”

This time when Vim offered her his handkerchief, she took it, stepping back even as a final sigh shuddered through her.

“He loves to eat,” Vim said, “the same as any healthy male. What were you thinking of baking today?”

Another seemingly innocuous question, but Sophie let him lead her by small steps away from the topic of Kit's uncertain future.

“I was going to make stollen, a recipe from my grandmother's kitchens. I make it only around the holidays, and my brothers will be expecting it.”

“May I help?”

She was certain he'd never intended to offer such a thing, certain he'd never done Christmas baking in his life. “There's a lot of chopping to do, depending on the version we make. Do you like dates?”

They discussed Christmas baking and sweets in general, then various exotic dishes Vim had encountered on his travels. Sophie had to brush the white flour off Vim's cheek when he offered to take a turn kneading the dough, and Vim snitched sweets shamelessly. Sophie scolded him until he popped a half a candied date in her mouth, and when she would have scolded him for that, he fed her the other half.

While the baby, oblivious to the adults laughing and teasing and even getting some baking done around him, slept contentedly in his cradle.

***

“Now this is odd.”

Percival Windham folded the copy of
The
Times
he'd been enjoying with his late afternoon tea and peered at his duchess.

“What's odd, my love?” He topped off her tea and passed her the cup.

“Murial Chattell has written to say they just made it out to Surrey before the storm struck London, and the weather is being blamed for her daughter's early lying-in.”

“Popping out another one is she? Old Chattell will be bruiting that about in the clubs until Easter.”

His bride of more than three decades gave him the amused, tolerant look of a woman who could read her husband like the proverbial book. “Don't fret, Husband. Devlin and Valentine are both putting their shoulders to the wheel, so to speak. There will be more grandbabies soon.”

And Emmie and Ellen were mighty fetching inspiration for a man to pull his share of the marital load. Her Grace, as always, had a point.

The point she'd been trying to make belatedly struck him. “Sophie was supposed to be spending time with Chattell's middle girl, wasn't she?”

Her Grace took a placid sip of tea. A deceptively placid sip of tea. “That was Sophie's plan.”

“That girl takes entirely too much after her mother, if you ask me.”

“Oh?”

What a wealth of meaning a married woman could put into one syllable.

“You, my love, are subtle. A braver man might even say devious when you want to achieve your ends. You agreed to Sophie's plan to linger in Town with friends because the Chattells boast a houseful of empty-headed sons whom Sophie could wrap around her dainty finger, were she so inclined.”

“But Sophie is not with the Chattells, Percy.” A small frown creased Her Grace's brow. Had they been anywhere but His Grace's private study, she wouldn't have given even that much away. “Muriel mentions how crowded the traveling coach was with the two younger girls and all their winter finery, and she goes on and on about the difficulty of traveling in such bad weather. She does not mention Sophie.”

His Grace enjoyed very much the machinations necessary for parliamentary schemes. He enjoyed advising the Regent on national and foreign policy when that overfed fellow deigned to listen. His Grace enjoyed very, very much the company of his grandchildren, and there was no greater joy in his life than his marriage.

He did not always precisely enjoy being a father, much less a father ten times over, much
much
less the father of five single females, all of whom were arguably of marriageable age.

“If Sophie were a boy, we would not worry,” he pointed out.

“Yes, we would.”

They'd buried two grown sons. Yes, they would worry. They would always worry.

“Shall I go back up to Town, my love? People always exaggerate descriptions of inconvenient weather. I'm sure the roads can't be as impassable as all that when there are only a few inches of snow on the ground hereabouts.”

“No, you shall not.” Her Grace put a little scold in her words. “We have three strapping sons who are on their way to collect Lady Sophia as we speak. If Sophie is up to something unsound, better her brothers sort her out at this stage than her parents.”

“You're sure?” Something had shifted in Her Grace's relationship with their sons in recent months, possibly as a function of all three acquiring wives. If she was delegating management of Sophie to the boys, then it was only because Her Grace was well and truly not concerned about the girl.

“Percival Windham, you are proposing to go haring off in the dead of winter with a storm of biblical proportions raging just to the north and west, while I sit here and do what? Worry about you in addition to the four of our offspring who are not now under our roof ? I think not.”

“Just making sure, my love. More tea?”

She smiled at him, his reward for helping her make up her mind. If Sophie were up to mischief, His Grace was privately of the opinion it was about damned time, provided the mischief involved a suitable swain. Sophie was wasting her youth tending to the halt and the lame when she ought to be about snabbling a handsome specimen to help provide her dear parents with some chubby little… to help her fill her nursery.

His Grace opened the paper to the financial section. An attempt to read the contents thereof was about as soporific as a tot of the poppy, but it was a fine excuse to let his mind drift off to which young men of his acquaintance he might consider worthy of his most sensible daughter.

If any.

***

Some vital male brain function had been impaired during the few minutes Vim had held Sophie Windham in his arms. Badly impaired—impaired as if some part of him had been aching sorely for a long time, though it had taken the feel of that one woman in his embrace to make him aware of his own hurt.

And now he could not focus on much else.

He liked her, was the problem. Or part of it. The other part was he desired her, which made no sense. Of course he desired her the way any healthy male would desire any attractive woman, but this was… different.

Vim had been a sexual friend to any number of women, and they'd been happy to return the favor. Romping was merely… romping. A wink and a smile, and both parties could be on their way, an itch having been adequately scratched for the nonce.

Sophie was not a woman to romp with. She was a woman a man could spend years learning to cherish.

“You can put those in the batter now.” She gestured with her wooden spoon as if to remind Vim they were trying to put the baby's nap to some use besides encouraging Vim's rampant sexual fantasies. He picked up the cutting board and shifted to scrape a pile of finely chopped dates into the bowl of pale batter.

Baking was an activity designed to part a sane—and mildly aroused—man from his wits. Sophie had him pouring things into her bowls, standing right beside her, brushing arms and bodies and hands. She asked him to taste the batter, putting a spoonful of sweetness right into his mouth before he could protest or move away.

While they worked, she gently interrogated him, and he let her, because it gave him something to think of besides the sensation of her soft, full breast pressing against his arm when she leaned across him to retrieve the cinnamon.

“Didn't you miss your family on all those long journeys?”

He accepted the tin of cinnamon back from her, their fingers brushing again as he did. “They are my half siblings, though we were all raised together. I missed them, but there was a sense too of not wanting to impose. The estate in Cumbria is theirs, not mine.”

She stopped stirring for moment and frowned at him. “My oldest brother and sister suffer from this same affliction. It's as if Devlin in particular must always remind himself that he's half our brother, and therefore half not our brother. He has nigh broken my mother's heart with this nonsense. Nutmeg next.”

“Broken your mother's heart, how?” He passed her the nutmeg, enjoying the little heat that sparked where their hands touched. He'd done it deliberately that time, and she wasn't exactly storming off with indignation.

“Mama loves Devlin, but she's not his mama, so she's kept her distance out of respect for his feelings for his real mama. It's gotten better since Dev married. Do you suppose there's such a thing as too much spice?”

Interesting
question
. “I don't know. We'll have to have a little taste.”

Before his better judgment could interfere, Vim took Sophie's hand in his, dragged her index finger through the batter, and brought her finger to his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the end of her finger and withdrew it slowly from his mouth.

“Seems perfect to me.” He kept her hand trapped in his own, abruptly aware that what he'd done was about as blatantly sexual as if he'd just dropped his breeches and started stroking himself before her very eyes.

She smiled at him, withdrew her hand, and passed him the nutmeg. “Then it's time to put it in the oven. Tell me about your home.” She turned to pour the batter into a greased pan, and the moment passed, which was both a relief and a disappointment.

A relief, because her self-possession hinted she might have some experience, and an experienced woman was fair game—as housekeeper, companion, lady's maid, or whatever she was, Sophie might have allowed herself some discreet sexual recreation.

And she might allow herself just a little more.

The disappointment was because he'd like at that very moment to sit her up on the sturdy counter and step between her legs until those legs were wrapped around his flanks, urging him into her heat. He watched her bending down to put the—what was it they'd been making?—into the oven, and yet more lascivious images crowded into his mind.

She'd asked him something, though. Something about…

“I'm not sure I have a home.”

She straightened and closed the oven door. “Surely you dwell somewhere when you're not on your travels.” The look she sent him was far too serious for the concentration he could muster.

“I have properties. There's a lovely old place in Surrey where I spend a few weeks most years. I suppose that qualifies.”

She began putting things away. “You travel all the time?”

Something in her manner suggested she wasn't finding the topic pleasant.

“I used to spend some of my winters up in Cumbria with one of my sisters. I've occasionally bunked in with my brother here in Town, and I often check in with my younger sister wherever she's governessing, but as I've mentioned, my sisters are married now and starting families.”

Vim brought a kettle of hot water from the pot swing in the fireplace and poured half the contents into the dishpan, then added some cool water as Sophie began stacking dirty dishes by the sink.

Standing beside her, he tried to fathom what emotion was radiating from her and failed.

“Then what is this travel to Kent about?” she asked. “You seem quite intent on it.”

Was that the bee in her bonnet?

“Kent is the family seat on my father's side. When my mother remarried, I went with her to Cumbria. I'm not sure my uncle was comfortable with the arrangement, but he never protested. Shall I wash while you dry?”

“I will not refuse a man's offer to wash dishes in my kitchen.”

She still did not sound precisely happy.

“Tell me of your home,” Vim suggested, using a rag to start washing the mixing bowl in the warm, soapy water.

“It's beautiful. Big but cozy. It will always be home.”

“Do you miss it?”

She accepted the clean bowl from his hand, frowning as she did. “There comes a point where the familiar can feel more like a prison than a haven, though in truth it's neither. It's a home, a place laden with memories, nothing more and nothing less.”

Vim stared at the water. “A place with obligations too.”

“What sort of obligations?”

Now why had he brought up this mare's nest of unpleasant associations?

“My uncle is getting older, and he refuses to hire new staff. My aunt has never been a traditionally practical woman, and their daughters are no help whatsoever.”

“Do you worry for them?”

“Oh, of course.”

Something in his tone must have given him away. Sophie put a hand on his sleeve. “What aren't you saying? If you worry about them, you must love them.”

“I hardly know them, Sophie. They're my only paternal family, but I've never…”

She was standing right beside him, her big green eyes holding a world of compassion Vim did not want directed at him. He did not deserve it, certainly not from her.