Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish

Fifteen

“Here you go.” St. Just offered Vim a peculiar sort of smile as he handed over a carrying candle. “You’ll want to light your uncle up to his room, won’t you?”

He would? “Of course. Uncle, I’m sure Aunt is wondering what’s become of you.”

“She knows damned good and well what’s become of me,” Rothgreb said, tottering to his feet. “Haven’t had so much fun swilling port and telling stories since I last rode to hounds.”

“And you’ll introduce me to Dutch’s Daughter in the morning,” St. Just said, shaking a finger at the viscount. “I’ve seen her offspring under saddle and coveted her bloodlines.”

“No doubt about it, my boy, you’d be a lucky man to get your hands on such as her.” The viscount winked and turned to his nephew. “Onward, young Vim. My bride awaits me.”

Vim caught looks from Westhaven and Lord Val suggesting Rothgreb might need a steadying hand on the stairs, but when he accompanied his uncle into the corridor, the old man’s step was brisk.

“Moreland sired some decent sons,” Rothgreb remarked. “And that’s a pretty filly they have for a sister. Not as brainless as the younger girls, either.”

“Lady Sophia is very pretty.” Also kind, intelligent, sweet, and capable of enough passion to burn a man’s reason to cinders.

“She’s mighty attached to the lad, though.” His uncle shot him a look unreadable in the gloom of the chilly hallways. “Women take on over babies.”

“He’s a charming little fellow, but he’s a foundling. I believe she intends to foster him. Watch your step.” He took his uncle’s bony elbow at the stairs, only to have his hand shaken off.

“For God’s sake, boy. I can navigate my own home unaided. So if you’re attracted to the lady, why don’t you provide for the boy? You can spare the blunt.”

Vim paused at the first landing and held the candle a little closer to his uncle’s face. “What makes you say I’m attracted to Lady Sophia? And how would providing for the child endear me to her?”

“Women set store by orphans, especially wee lads still in swaddling clothes. Never hurts to put yourself in a good light when you want to impress a lady.” His uncle went up the steps, leaning heavily on the banister railing.

“And why would I want to impress Lady Sophia?”

“You ogle her,” Rothgreb said, pausing halfway up the second flight.

“I do not ogle a guest under our roof.”

“You watch her, then, when you don’t think anybody’s looking. In my day, we called that ogling. You fret over her, which I can tell you as a man married for more than fifty years, is a sure sign a fellow is more than infatuated with his lady.”

Vim remained silent, because he did, indeed, fret over Sophie Windham.

“And you have those great, strapping brothers of hers falling all over themselves to put the two of you together.” Rothgreb paused again at the top of the steps.

Vim paused too, considering his uncle’s words. “They aren’t any more strapping than I am.” Except St. Just was more muscular. Lord Val was probably quicker with his fists than Vim, and Westhaven had a calculating, scientific quality to him that suggested each of his blows would count.

“They were all but dancing with each other to see that you sat next to their sister.” Rothgreb pushed away from the banister and headed off toward his room, Vim trailing a step behind him. “What are you about, boy? I know where my own room is. Lady Sophia’s in the green guest bedroom.”

The room right across from Vim’s room. “I would not disrespect a guest in this house, Uncle.”

“Youth! It’s a wonder the aristocracy hasn’t perished for sheer lack of brains. I’m not suggesting you disrespect anybody. Wish her a pleasant good night. Won’t take but a minute, and I’m sure your aunt neglected this courtesy.”

Vim passed his uncle the candle. “Good night, Uncle. Thank you for the suggestion.”

The old man pointed with a gnarled finger. “Her room’s that way, and for God’s sake, don’t wake the baby while you’re wishing her good night.”

Valentine stepped over the hound drowsing on the hearth rug in Lord Rothgreb’s study. “I can spend hours tuning that piano. Once I start on the harpsichord, we might be here all day.” He settled onto the sofa beside Westhaven.

“That’s fortunate,” St. Just said from the other end of the couch. “Trying out the mare’s paces was only going to take all morning, and that’s assuming nobody in the stables moves faster than the staff here at the house.”

“Which leaves me to do what?” Westhaven groused.

Valentine wedged himself a little lower on the sofa and propped his feet on a hassock. “You’re a clever lad, being the heir and all, you’ll think of something.”

Sophie put down her hairbrush, not even sure she’d heard a tap on the door. “Come in.” She said it very softly, in deference to the baby sleeping in the cradle near the hearth.

Valentine was fearless to the point of recklessness. He would be the one foolish enough—

“I hope I’m not intruding?” Vim closed the door quietly behind him.

“You’re not.” Sophie gathered her wrapper around her a little more closely. It was borrowed from Lady Rothgreb’s closet, a voluminous old thing more comfortable than attractive.

“Kit’s asleep?”

She nodded and watched as Vim moved a few steps into the room. “You have everything you need, Sophie? I’m not sure the staff has had to contend with visitors since the last time I passed through.”

“I’m quite comfortable. How long has it been since you came to visit?” She picked up the brush with every intention of resuming her evening toilette. It would not do to fall upon the man as if she were starving for the sight of him, for the sound of his voice, for the exact shade of blue in his eyes.

“Shall I braid your hair for you?” He rose from where he’d been kneeling by the cradle and prowled over to the vanity.

Or maybe it just looked to her like he was prowling, because her mind was in such a muddle. He took the brush from her grasp, and shifted her shoulders gently with his hands so she was facing the mirror.

“I want you to do something for me.” Sophie spoke quickly, lest she lose her nerve.

“Anything within my power, of course.” He used both hands to scoop her hair over her shoulders so it flowed down her back, a sweet, soothing caress that made Sophie’s insides melt.

“Are you familiar with the curate’s family?”

“I am not.” He started brushing her hair, long, slow strokes down the length of it. “Why?”

“Your aunt suggested they might be willing to take in a boy child. They have only girls and would likely dote on Kit.” Or work him to death. She didn’t say that. She closed her eyes lest Vim see the indecision she was wrestling with.

“Curates tend to move around, Sophie, at least until they gain a vicar’s living. Are you sure that’s what you want for Kit?”

She shook her head, and behind her, Vim went still.

He said nothing, not one word, while Sophie’s mind fumbled around for some coherent phrases to explain something so difficult to express. “I am not sure, which is why I’m going to ask you to interview these people and see if they might suit Kit.”

He hunkered at her side, so they were at eye level. Sophie forgot she wanted to do him bodily injury, forgot he’d been excruciatingly polite over dinner, forgot everything except the kindness once more in his eyes.

“You ought to be the one to make this decision, my dear.” He did not touch her, but his voice touched her heart. “You love that baby as if he were your own, and this is too important a decision to make secondhand.”

“But I can’t…” She swallowed and looked away, emotion welling. “I simply cannot.”

He rose and tugged her by the wrist over to the bed, then sat beside her holding her hand. “I will be your emissary, but you must tell me what my marching orders are.”

She wanted to throw her arms around him in gratitude—or in some excess of emotion—but he was being so… reserved. She marshaled her dignity, though it was a struggle.

“You simply go and look the family over. See if their circumstances are adequate to take on another mouth, offer them whatever coin you think they’ll need to provide for Kit. My pin money is lavish, and I’d spend it all to see Kit comfortable. Make sure the house is warm and the larder stocked. Look over their livestock and their root cellar, see if their children have shoes and warm clothes.”

His arm came around her shoulders.

“And look to make sure the roof isn’t leaking, and that the doors all close snugly. It would be nice if they had some toys… no, they must have toys. Sturdy toys a boy can’t break by playing with them too vigorously, not just pretty things and dolls for little girls. And something musical. I don’t expect a piano, but a guitar doesn’t cost much, or even a wooden flute…”

She trailed off and pressed her face to Vim’s shoulder as an awful thought occurred to her. “They’ll change his name.”

This struck her as more monstrous even than taking Kit on simply for the free labor he’d provide. To toss his very name aside, as if he were just a beast, a dog, an old horse passed from owner to owner…

“You can insist they address him as Kit, my dear, but for him to have a different last name from his family would raise uncomfortable questions.”

She nodded against his shoulder, it being impossible to wedge words past the lump in her throat.

“I’ll go first thing in the morning, if this is what you wish.”

It wasn’t what she wished. She wished she weren’t Lady Sophia Windham. Wished she were just some goodwife and Vim her yeoman, able to take on another baby to go with their own brood. She wished she could provide Kit family—brothers and sisters to tease and grow up with and still be his people when Sophie was dead and gone.

She wished…

She pulled away from the sturdy comfort of Vim’s body. Wishing never got anybody anywhere.

“I must do what’s best for Kit.” She untangled her fingers from Vim’s. “I meant it about the money. Westhaven is very generous with us, and I have enough frocks and bangles and bonnets to last a lifetime.”

She got up from the bed and returned to her vanity but didn’t sit down.

To her relief, he remained on the bed. “I have never seen you in a bonnet, never seen you wear a single item of jewelry, never seen you in a dress that wasn’t five years out of fashion.”

“What has that to do with anything?” She picked up her hairbrush, and lest she throw it, started swatting at her hair.

“Sophie, I cannot help but think you should take more time with this decision.”

He did move off the bed, then, and Sophie flipped her hair over the other shoulder so she wouldn’t have to look at him.

“Time will only make it harder on both of us. It’s been little more than a week, and already I grow confused about what should be a simple decision.”

He was close enough that she could catch a whiff of the bergamot scent of him, close enough she could feel the tempting, muscular bulk of him looming near, and still she merely brushed her hair.

“I will wish you good night, then, Lady Sophia.”

She paused and peered up at him. “I do not need to be Lady Sophia to you when we are private.”

“Yes, you do.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead, lingering near for so long Sophie was tempted to throw her arms around his neck and beg him to stay, to hold her, to love her, to talk her out of this awful decision regarding Kit.

“Sweet dreams, Lady Sophia. I will be about your errand directly after breaking my fast.”

And then he was gone, and Sophie had no one to talk her out of anything, not even the errand of placing her wonderful baby in the care of complete strangers.