Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish tdd-1

by Grace Burrowes

  “You invite everybody and their granny, Esther. Don’t expect him to come.”

  She said nothing while His Grace could hear her female mill wheel grinding facts together with intuition and maternal concern.

  “Do you suppose Sophie has come to enjoy Mr. Charpentier’s company?”

  He thought his daughter had done a great deal more than that, given the nature of Westhaven’s note. Will explain in person usually meant the news was too bad to be committed to writing.

  “Charpentier has the courtesy title now, has had it since his grandfather died all those years back.”

  “A title.” Her Grace appeared to consider this. “Sophie has never been much impressed with titles.”

  “He’s only a baron.”

  They could hope. They could hope he was a handsome, charming, single baron who had a penchant for quiet, spinsterly types given to charitable causes and taking in strays.

  Christmas was the season of miracles, after all. His Grace downed his tea in one brave swallow and regarded his wife. “I believe you should invite the boy to the party, after all. It will make for an interesting evening.”

  “I will, then. It will be nice to see Essie and Bert, but you are not to get up to any tricks, Percival Windham. More tea?”

  His Grace passed over his cup and saucer. “Of course, my love. Nothing would please me more.”

  * * *

  “We can stop for lunch at Chester,” Vim said. “I’ll split off a few miles the other side of town, or you can come with me to Sidling.”

  Beside him, Westhaven shifted in the saddle. “St. Just? You’re the head drover. What do you say?”

  “I’m the head nothing,” Lord Valentine interjected, nudging his horse up beside Vim’s. “I say we get out of this weather as soon as we can. Sophie’s lips are blue, and I don’t like the look of that sky.”

  St. Just looked up from where he’d been adjusting his greatcoat. “I say we move on and make that decision when Sindal’s fork in the road appears. The baby seems fine, though the damned clouds look loaded with more snow.”

  “It’s my turn to take him.” Vim shifted his horse to pull up beside St. Just.

  “The lad’s fine where he is.” St. Just spoke mildly, while Vim endured a spike of frustration. He might be seeing the last of the child in the next two hours; the least St. Just could do was let a man have some—

  “Unless you’d rather?” St. Just quirked a dark eyebrow. Vim was tempted to refuse on general principles, but something in St. Just’s green eyes… not pity. A retired officer wouldn’t offer insult like that, but maybe… understanding. “I have a stepdaughter, Sindal. Less than a day in her company, and I would have cheerfully cut out my heart for her. My younger daughter wasn’t even born before I was making lists of reasons to reject her potential suitors.”

  He spoke quietly enough that his brothers could pretend they hadn’t heard him. Vim accepted the child and ensconced the bundle of infant inside his greatcoat.

  “Why are we stopping?” Sophie’s cheeks were not pink; they were red. As her great beast trudged into their midst, Vim was relieved to see her lips were not truly blue, though they no doubt felt blue.

  “Reconnoitering,” Westhaven said. “The baron has offered us shelter before we travel the last few miles to Morelands.”

  “Is Kit managing?”

  Four men spoke as one: “He’s fine.”

  “Well, then.” She urged her horse forward. “If we’re to beat the next storm, we’d best be moving on.”

  She rode past Vim without turning her head. Even mounted on one of her pet mastodons, she looked elegant and composed, for all the cold had to be chilling her to the bone. He regretted mentioning his aversion to holiday gatherings, suspecting she’d spoken of it to her brothers and gleaned the details of his youthful folly.

  For years, he’d tried to refer to it that way, my youthful folly, but completely losing one’s dignity before every title and tattle in the shire—and Kent was rife with both—was more than folly. It was enough to send a man traveling around the world for years, enough to cost him his sense of home and connection with the people who’d known him and loved him since birth.

  “In my head, I’m composing a new piece of music.”

  Vim turned to see Lord Val riding along beside him. “It will be called, ‘Lament for a Promising Young Composer Who Died of a Frozen Bum-Fiddle.’ I’ll do something creative with the violins and double basses—a bit of humor for my final work. It will be published posthumously, of course, and bring me rave reviews from all my critics. ‘A tragic loss,’ they’ll all say. It could bring frozen bum-fiddles into fashion.”

  “You haven’t any critics.” St. Just spoke over his shoulder, having abdicated the lead position to his sister. “Ellen won’t allow it, more’s the pity.”

  “My wife is ever wise—”

  “Oh, famous.” Westhaven’s muttered imprecation interrupted his idiot younger brother.

  Lord Val leaned over toward Vim. “There’s another word, a word that alliterates with famous, that his-lordship-my-brother-the-heir has eschewed since becoming a father. Famous is his attempt at compromise.”

  “I’ll say it, then.” St. Just sighed as another flurry drifted down from the sky. “Fuck. It’s going to snow again. Beg sincere pardon for my language, Sophie.”

  She did not so much as shrug to acknowledge this exchange.

  They got the horses moving at a faster shuffle, but it occurred to Vim as they trudged and struggled and cursed their way toward Sidling, that Sophie’s brothers—passing him the baby, making inane small talk with him, and even in their silences—had been offering him some sort of encouragement.

  Would that her ladyship might do the same.

  Inside Vim’s coat, Kit gave a particularly hearty kick, connecting with the rib under Vim’s heart.

  While the snow started to come down in earnest.

  * * *

  From a distance, Sidling looked to be in decent repair. The oaks were in their appointed locations, lining the long, curving driveway; the fences appeared to be in adequate condition; the half-timbered house with its many mullioned windows sat at the end of the drive, looking snug and peaceful in the falling snow.

  “It’s lovely.” Sophie drew her horse to a halt and crossed her wrists on her knee. “It looks serene, content. You must have missed it terribly.”

  “It has a certain charm.” Which at the moment was completely lost on Vim.

  Would the hall be tidy enough for visitors? Would there be sufficient sheets for their beds? Would Uncle’s antediluvian hound have chewed all the carpets to rags? Would Aunt be drifting about in dishabille, making vague references to friends no longer alive?

  “You’re very quiet, my lord.”

  He was anticipating more seasonal humiliation already. “My aunt and uncle are elderly. I’m hoping I haven’t overestimated their capacity for hospitality.”

  “I daresay my brothers could enjoy each other’s company before a campfire with naught but horse blankets and a short deck of cards between them.” She sent her horse forward, leaving Vim no option but to do likewise.

  “Is that what all this bickering is about? Enjoying each other’s company?”

  “Of course.” She peered at him, looking lovely, the snow clinging to her scarf, the cold putting a ruddy blush on her cheeks. “Isn’t it the same for you? You come home for the holidays, and it’s as if you never gave up your short coats. The feelings of childhood and youth are restored to you just like you never left.”

  “God, I hope not.”

  She fiddled with her reins. “Perhaps this year can give you some memories to replace the ones you find uncomfortable. Tell me about your aunt and uncle.”

  And now he’d hurt her feelings, which was just… famous, as Westhaven would have said. Bloody, famously famous.

  “Sophie.” He reached over and covered her hand with his own for just a moment. Her brothers were allowing them some privacy
by dropping back a few dozen yards, probably because the entire party was in full view of the house. “I will treasure the memories I already have of this holiday season for all the rest of my days.”

  She urged her horse to a slightly faster walk, which meant Vim had to drop his hand or look as ridiculous as he felt. What had he been thinking, to offer hospitality to a litter of full-grown ducal pups who’d be used to only the best of everything?

  He’d been thinking of spending just a few more hours with Sophie, of giving her another day or night before she had to face parting with Kit.

  “Pretty place.” Lord Valentine rode up on Vim’s right. “I like the old-fashioned manors myself. I just finished restoring a lovely old place out in Oxfordshire. Don’t suppose you have a piano on the premises?”

  “It will likely need tuning.” Unless the rats had chewed the thing to kindling.

  “I always bring my tools with me. Soph! Wait up. St. Just and Westhaven have been picking on me without ceasing, and I want you to scold them properly.”

  He trotted up to his sister, only to be replaced by Westhaven and St. Just on either side of Vim’s horse.

  “It’s wonderful to see Valentine back to his old self,” Westhaven said. “The man was getting too serious by half.”

  “We all were.” St. Just’s observation was quiet as he watched Val steer his horse right into the flank of Sophie’s larger mount, then threaten to drop his sister in the snow as he helped her dismount. “Her Grace was right to summon us home, even if means we don’t see our wives until Twelfth Night.”

  “Maybe it was His Grace doing the summoning.”

  Before they could wax maudlin over that, as well, Vim spoke up. “I will apologize in advance for the state of the household here at Sidling. We’ll keep you safe from the elements, but I can’t vouch for the particulars my aunt and uncle might be able to offer.”

  Westhaven cocked his head when his horse came to a halt. “Like that, is it? Always a bit sticky taking over the reins from the old guard. I wrested a power of attorney from His Grace not long ago.” He swung down easily. “In hindsight, I’m not sure His Grace put up more than a token fight. Be a good lad and distract dear Sophie while I rub some feeling back into my abused fundament.”

  Vim dismounted, his frozen feet and ankles suffering agonies when they hit the driveway. “I have never heard so much about a grown man’s miserable backside in all my days. How do your brothers put up with you?”

  Westhaven paused in the act of running his stirrup irons up their leathers. “I do it for them, mostly.” Westhaven’s voice was low and devoid of humor. “They fret I’ll become too much the duke. I won’t ever be too much the duke if it costs me my siblings’ friendship.”

  Vim was puzzling out what reply to make to such a confidence when his uncle’s voice boomed from the main entrance. “Vim Charpentier, get yourself into this house this instant lest your aunt fly down these steps and break her fool neck welcoming you!”

  “And you.” Vim’s aunt emerged from the house, wearing only a shawl to protect her from the elements. “You get back into this house, my lord, before you blow away in the next breeze. Come in, Wilhelm, and bring your friends.”

  His aunt pronounced his name in Scandinavian fashion: Villum. It was a small thing, but others typically used the English version: Will-helm.

  “Come along.” His uncle gestured to the assemblage. “Let’s get this pretty young lady ensconced before a fire so your aunt can quiz her properly. And you fellows can use a mug or two of wassail, I’ll warrant.”

  His uncle sounded the same: bluff, gruff, and quite at home in his own demesne. When Aunt Essie presented her cheek for Vim to kiss, she bore the scent of lemon verbena, just as she had from his infancy.

  Maybe things weren’t so bad.

  “Merciful powers!” Aunt Essie took a half step back. “Who have you got there in your coat, Vim?”

  Presenting Kit upstaged the introductions, but Aunt and Uncle assumed a neighborly familiarity with Sophie’s brothers, and even with Sophie herself.

  By the time coats, hats, and gloves had been passed off to various footmen, Uncle Bert was holding the baby and bellowing for refreshments in the library. Kit nearly kicked the old man’s chin, while Aunt Essie surrendered her shawl to swaddle the cooing, chortling infant.

  “He’ll need a change,” Sophie said quietly. “He’ll need to eat and romp, as well.”

  And she was telling him, not conveying it to her host or hostess. “I’ll see to it.”

  He felt a slight pressure to his hand, a brief warmth where Sophie’s fingers closed around his. She was smiling at his uncle, a gracious, soul-warming smile, but she’d kept her hand in Vim’s for a palpable moment.

  The tightness in his chest that had started growing the moment he’d realized weeks ago he couldn’t avoid this trip eased a bit. Perhaps he might yet avoid disaster, despite the holiday season, despite the looming separation from Sophie and Kit, despite the disarray and trouble here at Sidling. Christmas was the season of miracles, after all.

  * * *

  That Sophie hadn’t done any of her brothers bodily injury was miraculous.

  “They mean well, the lot of them,” Sophie fumed as she lifted a naked, happy Kit from a laundry tub of warm water.

  “Gah-bu-bu!”

  “They’re getting as meddlesome as His Grace, leaving me to ride by myself for most of the journey, dodging about so Vim must take me in to dinner, then shuffling around with the subtlety of elephants so he sits beside me, as well.” She rubbed noses with the baby. “The worst part was deciding to spend the night here when Morelands is just a few miles farther down the road, and all without consulting me, of course. And Vim, ever so polite through it all.”

  “Ba-ba-ba.” Kit grinned, and as soon as Sophie laid him on a folded-up bath sheet, he started kicking and squirming.

  “You are no help at all, but you want to romp, don’t you?”

  Kit made no reply but applied himself assiduously to the task of rolling onto his stomach. Sophie’s sitting room was cozy and well appointed, though the curtains and carpet were both a trifle faded. Lady Rothgreb hadn’t batted an eye when Sophie had requested to keep the baby with her, but had directed one of the footmen to find a cradle among the furniture stored in the attic.

  A soft tap on the door had Sophie hoping Vim was stopping by. It didn’t matter that he’d be coming to say good night to the baby; it mattered only that she missed him, and that every single word to come out of her mouth today had seemed the wrong thing to say if it was directed at Vim.

  “Come in.”

  “Just me,” the viscountess said. “Don’t get up, my dear. Those young fellows are lingering over their port, and Rothgreb is so glad to have company, he’s going to linger with them. How’s the lad?”

  “Relieved to be somewhere he can stretch his legs, so to speak.”

  Lady Rothgreb braced one hand on the arm of the settee and the other on the edge of the coffee table and slowly lowered herself to the floor. “Old bones,” she said. “Winters are longer when you get old, but the years go more quickly, anyway. Someone should make a study of this. Is your room in order?”

  “It’s lovely. I’m sure Kit and I will be very comfortable here.”

  Lady Rothgreb brushed a veined hand over Kit’s head. “If I’d known how having company would perk up the staff, I’d have sent over to Their Graces for the loan of a few of their grown children.” Kit grabbed Lady’s Rothgreb’s finger and grinned at his hostess. “My, you’re a strong little fellow, and my guess is you’re about to cut some teeth too.”

  “Westhaven mentioned this. I gather it’s something of an ordeal?”

  “They get a little cranky.” She withdrew her finger. “They can also get a cold to go with their fussiness—a runny nose, a touch of congestion.”

  “He had a runny nose last week.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to turn him over to a nursery maid, my dear? Nanny h
as long since retired, but our housekeeper has sixteen grandchildren.”

  “I’m sure your housekeeper is dealing with unexpected guests; that’s challenge enough.”

  “She loves Vim’s visits, rare though they are. We all do.”

  A silence fell, while Kit positioned himself to go a-Viking across the carpet, and Sophie wondered about Lady Rothgreb. Vim had suggested the older woman was growing vague, wandering both mentally and physically, and yet her ladyship had presided over a lively dinner conversation and handled unexpected guests with gracious good cheer.

  “I have a motive for intruding on you, my dear.”

  “It’s not an intrusion,” Sophie said, shifting to sit between the baby and fireplace. “I can’t imagine swilling port with my brothers has any appeal.”

  “Actually, it would—they are charming men, and it would allow me a little more time with my nephew. Rothgreb is entitled to play host, though, so we’ll leave them to it.”

  “I should not have shut myself up with Kit,” Sophie said, feeling defensive without any particular reason, “but he has had a great deal of upheaval lately, and I did not want to impose on—”

  “May I exercise an old woman’s prerogative and be blunt, my dear?”

  “Of course.” Something uneasy in Sophie’s middle suggested this bluntness was going to be painful.

  “You are attached to this child, Lady Sophia.”

  Sophie watched as Kit lurched and crawled and scooted over to Lady Rothgreb. “Anybody would be. He’s that dear.”

  “He’s a baby. Dear is their forte, but he’s not your baby.”

  The old woman spoke very gently. Sophie kept her eyes on the child. “I will find a foster family for him soon.”

  “Vim said you were sensible.”

  Sensible. He’d said she was sensible. Not lovely, intelligent, dear, attractive, or capable of mad, passionate love. Not even an adequate cook, for goodness sake. Sensible. She added Vim to the list of men narrowly escaping bodily injury.

  “I cannot encourage you strongly enough to place this baby with that foster family as soon as possible, my dear. To all appearances, he’s in good health and will make the transition easily now. The longer you put it off, the harder it will be on both of you.”