He let himself into his room, pleased to find Kit was snoring gently in the cradle.
“A pony it is, then. A fat little piebald who’ll jump anything, provided you’ve set a course for the barn. You shall call him something presuming, Bucephalus, or Orion, but he’ll have a pet name when you’re private.”
Vim tidied himself up in a few brisk movements, lifted the cradle, and returned to Sophie’s room.
He built up her fire, wrung out a flannel, and hung it on the screen to warm while trying not to contemplate what his pet names for Sophie would be.
Love. My love. He’d called her that already. Sweetheart. My dear.
When he parted the bed curtains, he half expected her to be asleep, but she lay on her back, regarding him solemnly in the shifting firelight. Vim moved the covers off her carefully and started swabbing at the stickiness drying on her belly.
“This is intimate.” She spoke quietly, her gaze following the movements of his hand. “But we could have been more intimate, couldn’t we?”
Vim tossed the cloth in the general direction of the privacy screen. “Women are the braver of the two genders.” He climbed under the covers and settled on his back. “They will discuss anything quite openly, while men go to war to avoid the near occasion of these discussions. Come here.”
She cuddled along his side, her head on his shoulder. “Not all men are such cowards.”
“It isn’t cowardice, exactly. We’re just formed differently. It’s manly reserve.”
Her hand drifted over his abdomen, counting his ribs and threatening his manly reserve. There was a quality to Sophie Windham’s touch he hadn’t encountered before, as if her hand were attached to her thinking brain, sending it information in some form other than words and images.
It was a lovely touch—tender, sweet, soothing and arousing at once.
“We did not quite…” She drew in a breath. “You did not want to join with me.”
“For God’s sake.” He buried his lips in her hair, wanting to both laugh and… something else. Throw something breakable, perhaps. Several somethings. “Of course I wanted to. I want to this very moment, but such behavior has consequences, Sophie. Sometimes those consequences are permanent, such as the consequence now slumbering in that cradle by the hearth.”
She was quiet, placated, he hoped, though she was female, and silence could mean all manner of things where they were concerned.
“I care for you, Sophie. I care for you far more than I want a passing moment of oblivion in your arms.” It came out irritably, but he felt her smile against the bare skin at the side of his chest. A peculiar sensation from a surprisingly sensitive place on his body.
Her hand drifted lower, cupping his stones then closing along his length.
“Go to sleep, Sophie Windham.” But he didn’t move her hand.
“We’ve talked, then?”
“I have talked. Bared my damned soul. Don’t suppose there are confessions you’d like share with me?”
Another smile. “I care for you too.”
“Excellent. Now may we go to sleep?”
“Of course.”
And this was fortunate, because a few more minutes of her casual exploration, her fulminating silence, and Vim’s own conscience hammering away at the remnants of sexual satisfaction, and he might have been telling the woman he loved her, which would not do at all.
He was leaving in the morning, and stirring declarations of heartfelt sentiment weren’t going to make that parting any easier, no matter how true those declarations might be.
* * *
Sophie was coming to the conclusion that a wish half granted was worse than a wish denied.
Vim cared for her. He would not lie about such a thing, but it was tantamount to saying he did not love her. There had been a little ironic satisfaction in giving the words back to him, but only a little.
And more than a little misery too. The physical glories he’d shown her had been magnificent, though contemplating such behaviors on a casual basis left Sophie bewildered. Such a thing could never be casual to her, and she wished—such a troublesome word—they could never be casual to Vim, either.
“Though the whole business means nothing to you, does it?” She lifted Kit from the sofa, where she’d seen to his nappy after a big breakfast of porridge with apples and stewed carrots. “Will you miss him too?”
Kit swung his tiny paw in the general direction of Sophie’s nose, catching her chin.
“That much? You don’t want him to go, either, do you?” She hugged the child to her, feeling foolishly comforted. The baby would be leaving too, though she would wait to face that loss until her brothers showed up.
Her brothers, who were already overdue.
“What has you looking so solemn?” Vim appeared in the parlor doorway, his traveling satchel in hand. He did not look solemn; he looked rested and ready to be on his way.
“I am concerned for you. I doubt the coaches are running clear to Kent.”
“I’ll find one leaving the city then hire a horse if I have to. For all we know, the storm was fairly local, and the going might get easier south of Town.”
“You will be careful?”
My goodness, she sounded like a wife—fussing for form’s sake when there was really no need to fuss. Vim set his satchel down and closed the parlor door behind him.
“Sophie Windham, put that child down and come here.”
“You are forever telling me to come here,” she replied, but she put the baby on the floor amid his blankets.
“And now I am going away, so humor me.” He held out his arms, and she went into his embrace. “I will not forget you, Sophie. These few days with you and Kit have been my true Christmas.”
“I will worry about you.” She held on to him, though not as tightly as she wanted to.
“I will keep you in my prayers, as well, but, Sophie, I’ve traveled the world for years and come to no harm. A London snowstorm will not be the end of me.”
Still, she did not step back. A lump was trying to form in her throat, much like the lumps that formed when she’d seen Devlin or Bart off after a winter leave. She felt his chin resting on her crown, felt her heart threatening to break in her chest.
“I must go to Kent,” he said, his hands moving over her back. “I truly do not want to go—Kent holds nothing but difficult memories for me—but I must. This interlude with you…”
She hardly paid attention to his words, focusing instead on his touch, on the sound of his voice, on the clean bergamot scent of him, the warmth he exuded that seeped into her bones like no hearth fire ever had.
“…Now let me say good-bye to My Lord Baby.”
He did not step back but rather waited until Sophie located the resolve to move away from him. This took a few moments, and yet he did not hurry her.
“Say good-bye to Mr. Charpentier, Kit.” She passed him the baby, who gurgled happily in Vim’s arms.
“You, sir, will be a good baby for Miss Sophie. None of that naughty baby business—you will remain healthy, you will begin to speak with the words ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ you will take every bath Miss Sophie directs you to take, you will not curse in front of ladies, nor will you go romping where you’re not safe. Do you understand me?”
“Bah!”
“Miss Sophie, you’re going to be raising a hellion.” He smiled at the baby and leaned down, so his adult beak was in range of Kit’s failing hands. “I cannot leave. I’m about to be taken prisoner.” He spoke with his nose in Kit’s grasp. “I promised the boy a pony when he learns his letters.”
“I’ll see to it. My brothers will aid me in this if I ask it.”
Vim straightened, gently tucking the child’s hand away. “I wish I could be the one providing that aid, Sophie.” He advanced on her, wrapping his free arm around her while he yet held the baby with the other. “I wish a great deal that isn’t very practical.”
She let herself be held for just a moment longer
, for the last statement was marginally of more comfort than being told he cared for her. Sophie took one last whiff of the warmth and male fragrance of him. “Wishes can be quite inconvenient.”
Vim passed her the baby, kissed her cheek, and picked up his satchel. “Don’t see me out, Sophie. Stay here warm and snug, cuddle this baby, and know that I will never forget you.”
She nodded, willing herself not to cry. “We’ll be fine, but thank you so much for… for everything.”
He kissed her cheek again and withdrew, quietly closing the parlor door behind him. A moment later, she went to the window and watched his progress across the snowy expanse of the back gardens. He moved easily, a man used to dealing with the elements, a man very likely relieved to be on his way.
The sun was out, making the snow sparkle with painful brightness. When Vim got to the back gate, he turned amid all that sunshine, and his gaze sought out the parlor window.
Sophie waved, and emulating the idiot gesture of mothers everywhere, raised Kit’s hand in a little wave too. Vim blew them a kiss, slipped through the gate, and disappeared.
She could not stand there, staring at the gate, at the brilliant sunshine, and she could not remain in the parlor that held so many lovely memories. But then, there were memories in the kitchen too, and the bedrooms, and the pantries, and even the bathing chamber.
So she got the baby comfortable in the steamy confines of the laundry, where the windows did not look out on the garden, where she could boil up laundry until her shoulders ached and her hands were red.
Where she could cry in peace.
* * *
“There is no goddamned way we’re going to make London today, possibly not even tomorrow.” St. Just checked his horse’s girth and glanced at his brothers. For men who’d never been on campaign, they traveled well, even under the circumstances.
“Their Graces will worry,” Val said, patting his chestnut’s neck. “Sophie ought to be comfortable enough, though.”
Westhaven’s lips pursed where he sat on his horse. “My backside is not comfortable in the least. I tell myself to be grateful we’re not dealing with rain and mud, but a cold saddle is only a little less miserable.”
“You should have let me fit a sheepskin under the ducal arse,” St. Just said, swinging onto his horse. “Baby Brother wasn’t so proud.”
Val climbed aboard too, settling onto the sheepskin cushion St. Just had fashioned the night before. “It helps with that initial, ball-shriveling shock of cold when your backside first lands in the saddle. You ought to try it, Westhaven.”
“Perhaps tomorrow, if we’re indeed to be traveling another day.”
“We could push it,” St. Just said as they moved away from the inn where they’d eaten a luncheon of bread, cheese, and ale. “But everybody’s tale is the same: move south, and the snow is navigable. Move west, and the drifts are several feet deep in places.”
“So we give it another day to melt and continue working south.” Val’s gaze went to the perfect azure sky making the day appear much warmer than it was. “At least I got a violin out of it. A little Christmas present for having been a very good boy.”
This comment was too worthy of reply to be ignored, so St. Just, cheerfully abetted by Westhaven, spent the next five miles teasing their baby brother about just how good he’d been. This led the way to a lengthy discussion regarding Christmases past, naughty deeds, pranks, and family memories.
St. Just watched the sun sink and gave thanks that this campaign was so much more joyous than others he’d endured in the past. No, they would not make London in the limited daylight available, and they possibly wouldn’t on the next day, either, but he was with his brothers, traveling in relative comfort, and all was right with the world.
“Do you recall the year His Grace thought Sophie should have a pet rabbit for Christmas?” he asked his brothers.
“And Bart told her it was headed for the stew pot. I thought she’d brain him senseless,” Westhaven supplied. “I do believe it’s the only time I’ve heard Her Grace laugh out loud.”
“But we didn’t tease our sisters quite as mercilessly after that,” Val pointed out.
“Sophie has her ways,” St. Just said. “To this day, a man does not cross her with impunity.”
The talk drifted to various neighbors and other sisters before Westhaven was again complaining that his ass had frozen to the saddle, and this was hardly how the heir to a dukedom expected to spend his holidays.
When next they paused to rest the horses, his brothers washed his handsome face with snow for that nonsense.
* * *
All day long, as Vim’s toes turned to distant, frozen memories, the wind chapped his cheeks and nose, and the food Sophie had packed for him disappeared into a bottomless well of cold and hunger, he mentally kicked himself.
He should not have left Sophie to contend with that baby by herself. She was brave and sensible but a novice when it came to babies.
He should have escorted her to the cozy, well-staffed home of some titled acquaintance and set about courting her—a display of his connections in polite society accompanied by discreet indications of his wealth would have been a nice place to start.
He should have waited for better weather to leave Town, weather fine enough that he could take Kit with him to Sidling, where the boy could be raised up secure and safe in any number of useful professions.
He should have told her that whatever her station in life—cook, housekeeper, companion, governess, whatever, it mattered naught to him so long as she exchanged it for the position of his baroness.
And for variety, he’d occasionally curse himself for tarrying in London, at all. If he hadn’t put off going to Kent to the very last minute, he’d be cozy and snug at Sidling right now, listening to his aunt explain the subtleties of chess to a man who’d been letting his wife beat him at the game for half a century.
And finally, when he lost sensation in his fingers, the food was gone, and darkness starting to fall, he admitted he should have made love to Sophie when they’d had the chance. He should have put aside all the rotten memories he carried courtesy of the last female he’d pursued in the Yule season, gotten together his courage, and made such passionate love to Sophie that she couldn’t bear to let him go.
This thought coalesced in his brain just as his foot went sideways beneath him in the snow and he pitched headfirst into a fluffy drift at least four feet deep.
Ten
“Westhaven writes that Valentine is on the trail of some sort of violin, but it will cost them a day’s traveling time.” His Grace passed his wife the letter, a terse, efficient little epistle, via messengers, from a man who’d taken the disarrayed finances of the duchy and set them to rights in about a year flat.
“A violin?” Her brow furrowed as she perused the single page where she sat in serene domestic splendor near the study’s fire. “A Guarneri. No small find. Do you suppose Valentine is happy?”
Women. They were forever pondering the imponderables and expecting their menfolk to do likewise.
“Valentine delights in his music, the Philharmonic is ever after him to give up his ruralizing and come to Town to rehearse them. One must conclude his rustic existence appeals to him.”
Her Grace set the letter aside. “Or being up in Oxfordshire appeals to him, or his wife appeals to him. I think Ellen is yet shy of polite society.”
If their youngest son ran true to Windham form, he was spending the winter keeping his new wife warm and cozy, and perhaps seeing to the next generation of the musical branch of the family.
His Grace reached over and patted his wife’s hand. “We’ll squire her around next Season, put the ducal stamp of approval on Val’s choice. Care for more tea, my love?”
“No, thank you.”
She fell silent, leaving His Grace to go back to a daunting pile of correspondence from his cronies in the Lords. Damned fools were still yammering on about this or that bill, when they ought by ri
ghts to be with their own families, catching all the pretty parlor maids under the kissing boughs.
This thought, for some reason, connected two thoughts in His Grace’s often nimble brain.
“You’re fretting over Sophie,” he said, pushing his chair back from his desk. “This means whatever mischief she’s up to, her brothers will be yet another day in retrieving her from it.”
The slight—very, very slight—tightening at the corners of Her Grace’s mouth told him he’d scored a lucky hit. “For God’s sake, Esther, I can saddle up and fetch the girl home. It’s not that far, and I’m hardly at my last prayers.”
She gave him a look such as a wife of many years gives the man who taught her the true meaning of patience. “It is the depths of winter, Percival Windham, and you would leave me here with four daughters to keep out of trouble by myself when every home in the neighborhood is full of mistletoe and spiked punch. Sophie is the sensible one. She’s doubtless visiting elsewhere in Town, and her letter to us went astray in the bad weather.”
“Very likely you’re right.” For appearances sake, he was compelled to add, “It really would be no trouble, my love. I’ll take a groom or two if you insist.”
She turned her head, giving him a view of her lovely profile as she gazed out the window. “Sophie will be fine. Perhaps I will have a spot more tea after all.”
“Of course.”
Except by now, Sophie would have sent more than one letter regarding her change of plans. His Grace was reminded that all those years ago, when he’d been an impecunious younger son bent on a career in the cavalry, Esther had been considered the sensible daughter too. This had allowed them all manner of ill-advised leeway in their flirting and courtship, and accounted for Lord Bartholomew’s arrival something less than nine months after the nuptials.
It gave pause to a loving papa immured in the country drinking tea, and tempted him to saddle up his charger and head for Town, miserable weather be damned.
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