Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish (9 page)

“Sophie, I want to kiss you.”

He'd meant to state it as a problem, a small, troubling matter she needed to take into consideration when she stood so close. It came out sounding like a prayer, like the most fervent wish hoarded up in a tired, lonely heart that had long since lost the courage to wish.

She set aside the towel in her hand while Vim watched her mouth in anticipation of a gentle, even kind, rebuke.

And then the baby let loose with a loud, indignant squall.

***

Sophie didn't want to kiss Vim Charpentier; she wanted to gobble him up like a holiday sweet, to gorge herself on the feel and taste and scent and sound of him.

Which was… disquieting. She'd been kissed before, fondled, groped, pulled into dark alcoves and promised all manner of outrageous pleasure when it became apparent she wasn't entertaining offers of marriage.

Some of it she'd found… intriguing, but not intriguing enough to risk the consequences.

Thank God for fussy babies. They gave a woman time to recover her balance and assess what it meant when a man did not kiss a lady but announced that he wanted to.

“Let me try.” Vim took the small spoon from her hand—no flirtation there—and addressed himself to the baby. “If you refuse your victuals, young Kit, we will spank you soundly and send you to bed quite hungry indeed. I will eat them up myself, in fact. Yummy warm porridge with plenty of juicy apple mashed into it. How can a man—even such a wee man as you—refuse such ambrosia?”

“We will not spank you,” Sophie interjected. “Not until you are at least as big as Vim.”

When the baby spat out another mouthful of his dinner, Vim sat back, a puzzled expression on his face. “The boy is in a mood about something. We can try again later, and he'll probably eat a double portion.”

He tried putting the baby back in the cradle, which provoked more fussing and kicking.

Sophie took Kit from Vim's arms. “He wants cuddling.”

By the time darkness had fallen, they'd both had turns holding the infant, rocking him, and distracting him with trips to the window. While Sophie took the last of the cakes and muffins from the oven, Vim toured the kitchen with the baby in his arms.

“You never did tell me about your family seat,” Sophie said. Thanks to Kit's fussiness, there had been no opportunity to revisit Vim's startling pronouncement regarding that other business.

That business about kissing her. About
wanting
to kiss her.

“It's a pretty enough place,” Vim said. “The main part is a Tudor manor with sprawling grounds. My aunt is quite the landscaper. Uncle likes to fish, so we have two ornamental lakes and several ponds.”

“And you will inherit this property?”

“For my sins, yes.”

She paused in the middle of wrapping the bread in muslin. “Do I take it you have bad memories of this place?”

He touched noses with the baby, which Sophie accounted a stalling tactic.

“I have few memories one way or the other. My father died when I was quite young, and then we removed to Cumbria. I spent a few holidays in Kent when I was at University, but my uncle didn't issue many invitations. My siblings in Cumbria seemed to need some looking after, so I bided there more than anywhere else. That bread smells heavenly.”

“When it cools, we'll have some. Kit seems quieter.”

“Shall we try to feed him again?”

It was a good suggestion. Sophie didn't for a minute believe Vim had told her more than a superficial glossing over of the truth, but concern for the child won out over her curiosity.

Then too, if she pried too closely into Vim's situation, he might feel entitled to pry into hers, which would not serve in the least. A man might announce a desire to kiss a housekeeper or other domestic, but he'd never risk offending a duke's daughter with such forwardness.

Fortunately, the child ate prodigiously, as Vim had predicted. Sophie cut fat wedges of bread for her and Vim, added a dish of butter to the tray, and followed Vim and the child down the hallway to the servants' parlor.

They put the baby on his nest of blankets, and while Kit seemed to enjoy the change of scenery, he made no move to get up on all fours but stayed on his belly or his back, content to watch as Sophie and Vim ate their buttered bread.

“I should have made you a proper dinner,” Sophie said. “I wonder how women with large families ever get anything done.”

Vim looked over from where he was letting Kit gnaw on his finger. “You're from a large family.”

“My mother had scads of help. Does that child's diaper need changing?”

Vim inhaled through his nose. “Not yet. Will you be all right when I leave tomorrow, Sophie?”

She was glad he'd brought it up, but she would not ask him to stay. Men of a certain ilk could sit still only so long before all around them suffered for it.

And what difference would one more day make? Whether Vim knew it or not, she was still Lady Sophia Windham, with a baby to find a decent home for, and he was a man whom she was convinced never bided any one place long enough to call it home.

“We'll manage.” She started tidying up the remains of their meal. “My brothers will show up in a day or so, and two of them are parents.”

“I do believe His Highness is yawning.”

Subject changed. He'd wanted reassurances that she'd be able to manage, nothing more. Well, she wanted some things from him too.

“Let's see if we can't read him to sleep,” Sophie suggested. She went to the bookshelves and pulled down a volume of Wordsworth's poetry. There was a copy in the library as well, but that version would not have dog-eared pages or a spine cracked and creased with frequent readings.

She didn't realize Vim was standing behind her until she bumped into him when she turned around.

“Steady.” His hands closed around her upper arms then dropped away. “What have you found for us?”

“Poetry. Nice, calm, pastoral poetry to read a fussy young man to sleep.”

“What sort of household is this, Sophie, that the servants read poetry?”

“A proper English house. Bring My Lord Baby to the sofa.” She sat a little left of the middle of the sofa, so Vim would have to sit either near her or very near her. He scooped Kit up in a blanket and obligingly took the place to her left, right next to her, which allowed him to prop his elbow on the sofa's armrest.

“I vote you read and we fellows will listen in rapt silence.”

“And thus Kit is indoctrinated into the conspiracy to which all males belong,” Sophie muttered.

“And you ladies don't have conspiracies of your own?” He brought the child to his shoulder and started rubbing Kit's little back. The sight sent odd tendrils of warmth drifting through Sophie's insides.

“We women are cooperative by nature; that's different from conspiratorial.”

She chose a poem at random, not so much to have the last word as to distract her thoughts from the man beside her. Vim was holding Kit with just as much affection and care as if the baby were his own child.

Which he was not. Kit wasn't her child, either. She must not forget this. Sophie paused, blinked, and tried to recall her place. She had most of the book half-memorized, which meant it was little help when notions of parting from Kit came stealing relentlessly into her brain.

While she was making a pretense of choosing another poem, something warm settle on the back of her neck.

Vim's hand. He'd said nothing. His body hadn't shifted. He still held the child in the crook of his arm, but he was touching Sophie too. His thumb was making slow circles on her nape, sending a melting warmth down her spine and up into her brain.

“Read more slowly, Sophie. I think Kit's dropping off.”

She nodded carefully so as not to dislodge the wondrous gift of his hand on her person. When she read again, she could barely focus on the words, so drunk was she with the sensation of Vim Charpentier's touch on the bare skin of her neck.

She'd wished for things from him before he left, things no decent woman admitted to wanting, things she could never have asked for in words.

And this slow, sweet touch was part and parcel of what she'd wished for.

***

There was something fundamentally aberrant about a man who could sit with an infant propped in one arm and still have erotic thoughts about the woman encircled with the other arm. Though they weren't truly erotic thoughts.

They were more the kind of thoughts that noticed the way firelight brought out red highlights in Sophie Windham's hair, or saw how graceful the curve of her cheek was, or heard the sheer cultured beauty of her voice as she did Wordsworth proud. The poetry made Vim miss the Lakes, from whence the poet drew inspiration, where Vim's younger siblings were gathering for the holidays.

A man could breathe in Cumbria. He could ramble for hours on the fells with no company but the land, the sheep, the gorgeous sky, and his own thoughts. Mental images of the Cumbrian countryside had sustained Vim on many a journey, but they filled him now with a peculiar kind of loneliness.

Beside him, Sophie fell silent.

“He's asleep.” Vim whispered the words, unwilling to disturb the child or the moment. When Sophie made no move to leave the sofa, he stroked his hand along the side of her head, reveling in the feel of her warm, silky hair.

She put the book aside, and the next time Vim caressed her hair, she sighed and turned her face into his shoulder. They stayed like that for a long time, while the fire burned down and both thought of what might have been and what could never be.

Sophie woke to the feel of Vim's thumb tracing along the curve of her jaw. She didn't move, but he must have sensed her waking, because he uncurled his arm from her shoulders.

“You take the baby,” he said quietly. “I'll bank the fire and collect his cradle. We'll have you both upstairs before he wakens.”

That hand caressing her neck was to be a tacit touching, then. Better than nothing but little more than a memory. A pleasurable memory but not quite a happy one.

Sophie stood and took the baby from Vim, making no effort to avoid the slide of her hand along his abdomen as she did. Vim was warm and muscular, and sitting in the circle of that warmth had been a gift Sophie could not openly acknowledge. She had the sense as she cradled the child to her chest she was going to miss Vim Charpentier's warmth for a long time after she'd managed to wish him safe journey on the morrow.

He did a thorough job of banking the fire and securing the hearth screen, but he did it quietly too. He took the cradle under one arm, picked up a single candle in his free hand, and led Sophie through the cold house to the family wing.

“Let me light your candles,” he said, stepping back to follow her inside her bedroom. The room was wonderfully warm because Vim had kept the fire going all day.

“This is a nice room,” he said, glancing around. “It looks both well appointed and comfortable.”

Perhaps he was thinking it was a fancy room for a woman who had yet to acknowledge her relationship to the Duke of Moreland, but Sophie made no reply. When Vim set the cradle by the hearth, Sophie laid the sleeping baby down and tucked the blankets around him.

“He seems worn out,” she said. Vim lit the candle by her bed then came over to light the two on each end of her mantle.

“You seem worn out, Sophie Windham. Kit can stay with me tonight, if you like.”

“Not when you have to travel tomorrow. You need your rest, while I can nap when the baby does. Good night, Vim, and thank you.”

He set his candle on the mantle and peered down at her, moving close enough that his bergamot scent tickled her nose.

“What I said earlier?”

She nodded. He'd said a lot of things earlier, but she knew exactly which handful of words he referred to.

“I can't offer you anything, Sophie. I'm dealing with problems in Kent I can't easily describe, but it's urgent that I tend to them. Even if I weren't being pulled in that direction, I have obligations all over the empire, and you're a woman who—”

She stopped him with two fingers to his mouth.

“I want to kiss you too, Vim Charpentier.”

He looked briefly surprised, then considering, then a slow, sweet smile graced his expression. He lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.

A kiss, then. She'd at least have a kiss to keep in her heart. Sophie rose up on her toes and wrapped her arms around him while he slid his hands along her waist to steady her by the hips. His hold was careful, gentle even, and utterly secure. When she thought he meant for them to share something just a tad more than chaste, that hold shifted, bringing her flush up against his body.

She made a sound of longing in the back of her throat, and his hold shifted again. She realized a moment too late he was anchoring her for the real kiss, for the press of his open mouth over hers, for the startling warmth of his tongue insinuating itself against her mouth.

She'd heard of this kind of kissing, wondered about it. It hadn't sounded nearly as lush and lovely as Vim Charpentier made it. He didn't invade, he explored, he invited, he teased and soothed and sent an exotic sense of wanting to all quadrants of Sophie's anatomy.

He made her, for the first time in her female life,
bold
. She ran her tongue along that plush, soft space between his bottom lip and his teeth.

He growled, a wonderful, encouraging sound that had her tongue foraging into his mouth again, even as she laughed a little against his lips. The kiss became a battle of tongues and lips and wills, with Vim trying to insist on gentleness and patience, and Sophie demanding a complete melee.

Her hands went questing over the muscles shifting and bunching along his spine then up into the abundance of his golden hair. Bergamot stole into her senses too, a smoky Eastern fragrance that made her want to seek out the places on Vim's body where he'd applied the scent.

She undid his queue and winnowed her fingers through his hair, even as she felt Vim's arms lashing more tightly around her.

Against her stomach she felt a rising column of male flesh, and it made her wild to think she'd done that, she'd inspired this man to passion.

“Vim Charpentier…” She breathed his name against his neck, finding the pulse at the base of his throat with her tongue.

“Sophie… Ah, Sophie.”

Her name, but spoken with such regret. It might as well have been a bucket of cold water.

The kiss was over. Just like that. She'd been devouring him with her mouth and her hands and her entire being, and now, not two deep breaths later, she was standing in his embrace, her heart beating hard in her chest, her wits cast to the wind.

“My dear, we cannot.”

Vim's voice was a quiet rumble against her body. He at least did her the kindness of not stepping away, though his embrace became gentle again, and Sophie felt him rest his cheek against her hair. Her mind drunk and ponderous, she only slowly realized what he was saying. He'd contemplated taking her to bed—and rejected the notion. In her ignorance, she'd been so swept up in the moment she'd given no thought to what might follow.

What could have followed.

If only.

She tried to tell herself “if only” was a great deal closer to her wishes and desires than she'd been one kiss ago. There was “if only” in Vim's voice and in the way he held her, as if she were precious. It was a shared “if only.”

It was better than nothing.

She realized he'd hold her until she broke the embrace, another kindness. So she lingered awhile in his arms, breathing in his scent, memorizing the way her body matched up against his much taller frame. She rested her cheek against his chest and focused on the feel of his hand moving over her back, on the glowing embers of desire slowly cooling in her vitals.

He'd experienced desire, as well—desire for her. His flesh was still tumescent against her belly. Before she stepped back and met his eyes, Sophie let herself feel that too.

If
only
.

***

Vim drifted to awareness with jubilant female voices singing in his head. “Arise! Shine! For thy light is come!”

Too much holiday decoration had infested his dreams with the strains of old Isaiah, courtesy of Handel.

Though somebody was most definitely unhappy.

He flopped the covers back and pulled on the luxurious brocade dressing gown before his mind was fully awake. In the dark he made his way down the frigid corridor and followed the yowling of a miserable infant to Sophie's door.

“Sophie?” He knocked, though not that hard, then decided she wasn't going hear anything less than a regiment of charging dragoons over Kit's racket. He pushed the door open to find half of Sophie's candles lit and the lady pacing the room with Kit in her arms.

“He won't settle,” she said. “He isn't wet; he isn't hungry; he isn't in want of cuddling. I think he's sickening for something.”

Sophie looked to be sickening. Her complexion was pale even by candlelight, her green eyes were underscored by shadows, and her voice held a brittle, anxious quality.

“Babies can be colicky.” Vim laid the back of his hand on the child's forehead. This resulted in a sudden cessation of Kit's bellowing. “Ah, we have his attention. What ails you, young sir? You've woken the watch and disturbed my lady's sleep.”

“Keep talking,” Sophie said softly. “This is the first time he's quieted in more than an hour.”

Vim's gaze went to the clock on her mantel. It was a quarter past midnight, meaning Sophie had gotten very little rest. “Give him to me, Sophie. Get off your feet, and I'll have a talk with My Lord Baby.”

She looked reluctant but passed the baby over. When the infant started whimpering, Vim began a circuit of the room.

“None of your whining, Kit. Father Christmas will hear of it, and you'll have a bad reputation from your very first Christmas. Do you know Miss Sophie made Christmas bread today? That's why the house bore such lovely scents—despite your various efforts to put a different fragrance in the air.”

He went on like that, speaking softly, rubbing the child's back and hoping the slight warmth he'd detected was just a matter of the child's determined upset, not inchoate sickness.

Sophie would fret herself into an early grave if the boy stopped thriving.

“Listen,” Vim said, speaking very quietly against the baby's ear. “You are worrying your mama Sophie. You're too young to start that nonsense, not even old enough to join the navy. Go to sleep, my man. Sooner rather than later.”

The child did not go to sleep. He whimpered and whined, and by two in the morning, his nose was running most unattractively.

Sophie would not go to sleep either, and Vim would not leave her alone with the baby.

“This is my fault,” Sophie said, her gaze following Vim as he made yet another circuit with the child. “I was the one who had to go to the mews, and I should never have taken Kit with me.”

“Nonsense. He loved the outing, and you needed the fresh air.”

The baby wasn't even slurping on his fist, which alarmed Vim more than a possible low fever. And that nose… Vim surreptitiously used a hankie to tend to it, but Sophie got to her feet and came toward them.

“He's ill,” she said, frowning at the child. “He misses his mother and I took him out in the middle of a blizzard and now he's ill.”

Vim put his free arm around her, hating the misery in her tone. “He has a runny nose, Sophie. Nobody died of a runny nose.”

Her expression went from wan to stricken. “He could die?” She scooted away from Vim. “This is what people mean when they say somebody took a chill, isn't it? It starts with congestion, then a fever, then he becomes weak and delirious…”

“He's not weak or delirious, Sophie. Calm down.” It took effort not to raise his voice, not to get angry with the woman for overreacting so egregiously.

Except the same fear gnawed at Vim's guts: the baby was warm, he was unhappy, his nose was running more than a little… God in heaven, no Mayfair physician was going to brave this weather in the middle of the night to come tend a tweenie's bastard foundling.

“He's quieter now, Sophie,” Vim said, injecting as much steadiness as he could into the observation. “Why don't you sing to him?”

“I can't sing when he may be dying.”

She'd lost brothers. One of them at this same time of year… Something was nibbling at the back of Vim's mind. Something to do with colicky babies and why panic wasn't warranted, but he couldn't focus on retrieving whatever it was with Sophie near tears, the baby fretting, and no one at hand to help.

“Then I'll sing, though that will likely have the child holding his ears and you running from the room.”

This, incongruously, had her lips quirking up. “My father isn't very musical. You hold the baby, I'll sing.” She took the rocking chair by the hearth. Vim settled the child in his arms and started blowing out candles as he paced the room.

“He shall feed his flock, like a shepherd…”

More Handel, the lilting, lyrical contralto portion of the aria, a sweet, comforting melody if ever one had been written. And the baby was comforted, sighing in Vim's arms and going still.

Not deathly still, just exhausted still. Sophie sang on, her voice unbearably lovely. “And He shall gather the lambs in his arm… and gently lead those that are with young.”

Vim liked music, he enjoyed it a great deal in fact—he just wasn't any good at making it. Sophie was damned good. She had superb control, managing to sing quietly even as she shifted to the soprano verse, her voice lifting gently into the higher register. By the second time through, Vim's eyes were heavy and his steps lagging.

“He's asleep,” he whispered as the last notes died away. “And my God, you can sing, Sophie Windham.”

“I had good teachers.” She'd sung some of the tension and worry out too, if her more peaceful expression was any guide. “If you want to go back to your room, I can take him now.”

He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to leave her alone with the fussy baby; he didn't want to go back to his big, cold bed down the dark, cold hallway.

“Go to bed, Sophie. I'll stay for a while.”

She frowned then went to the window and parted the curtain slightly. “I think it's stopped snowing, but there is such a wind it's hard to tell.”

He didn't dare join her at the window for fear a chilly draft might wake the child. “Come away from there, Sophie, and why haven't you any socks or slippers on your feet?”

She glanced down at her bare feet and wiggled long, elegant toes. “I forgot. Kit started crying, and I was out of bed before I quite woke up.”

They shared a look, one likely common to parents of infants the world over.

“My Lord Baby has a loyal and devoted court,” Vim said. “Get into bed before your toes freeze off.”

She gave him a particularly unreadable perusal but climbed into her bed and did not draw the curtains. “Vim?”

“Hmm?” He took the rocker, the lyrical triple meter of the aria still in his head.

“Thank you.”

He said nothing. Now that Kit was quiet and Sophie calmer, he could enjoy the pleasure of rocking a sleeping baby, even as he also enjoyed the picture of Sophie Windham, her hair a surprisingly long, dark braid over one shoulder, her natural form patently obvious through the soft flannel of her nightclothes.