Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish

Six

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.

A woman’s feet were personal. A man might take possession of her hand, buss her cheek, slide her arm through his, take her in his arms for the space of a waltz, and otherwise admire her attributes, but he never, ever saw her feet.

Nor she his. Vim glanced down at his own bare toes.

I was out of bed before I quite woke up. Sophie’s words came back to him. Kit had them both trained, and Vim hadn’t even known the child a week.

Thank God and all His angels Vim would be leaving in the morning. If he stayed much longer, no force on earth would be able to drag him away from Sophie or the baby.

Sophie awoke to a wonderful sense of warmth and a heaviness in all her limbs that bespoke an exhausted rest. She nuzzled her pillow, and the scent of bergamot wound through her brain.

She opened her eyes just as her pillow heaved out a sigh.

“My goodness.”

Vim Charpentier slept beside her, his arm around her where she was plastered to his side. Light came through a crack in the window curtains, and a quiet snuffling sounded from the cradle near the hearth.

“He’s awake.” Vim’s voice was resigned. “I’ll get him. It’s my turn.”

“He’s not fussing yet. You have a few minutes.”

Vim sighed gustily, and his hand settled on Sophie’s shoulder. “I do apologize for appropriating half your bed. Just a few more days rest, and I’ll be happy to vacate it.”

There was weary humor in his tone and something else… affection?

“Vim?”

He shifted a little, so Sophie might have met his gaze if she’d had sufficient courage.

“I’ve never awoken with a man in my bed before. It’s cozy.”

“And I’ve never been referred to as cozy before, but the Infant Terrible has reduced me to viewing that state as worthy in the extreme. You’re cozy too.” He kissed her temple, and a sweetness bloomed in Sophie’s middle.

Affection. It was different from passion and different with a man than with, say, a sibling or friend.

It was wonderful.

“Sophie?” The hand that had been petting her back stilled. “I seem to have lost my dressing gown.”

“Have you now?” She let her fingers steal across his flat middle, except they bumped something smooth and warm arrowing up from his groin. She had half gripped its length when she realized—

“My goodness.” She snatched her hand back, her face flaming.

She felt his belly bounce with laughter. “More than you bargained for, hmm? Close your eyes, and I’ll vacate the bed.”

She closed her eyes—almost—though she did not want him vacating the bed. That he could joke and tease about something so… personal. She slitted her eyes in time to see Vim’s long, lean male figure completely naked, his back to her. The adult male fundament was… attractive, she realized. Muscle and naughtiness and masculine beauty, in a way.

And then he turned to rummage for his dressing gown, and Sophie felt her breath seize.

“You’re peeking,” he said, casual amusement lacing his voice. “Shame on you, Sophie Windham.” He shrugged into the dressing gown, taking from Sophie her first and likely only glimpse of an aroused adult male.

But he hadn’t hurried, and she’d seen… God above, it made her mouth go dry, all that virility and power and lazy grace. His male parts were only fascinating for their novelty, the rest of him being sufficiently impressive that Sophie finally understood her sister Jenny’s preoccupation with sketching and painting.

“I’ll be back in a moment, my girl. Put some socks on when you leave that bed.”

He sauntered out, leaving Sophie to glance at the clock.

For God’s sake, the morning was well advanced. She’d never slept this late in her adult life.

Never stayed up half the night with a fussy baby.

Never awoken with an aroused male in her bed.

Never seen an adult male naked and so gloriously unconcerned with it.

And had never before wanted to see more, touch more, taste more…

“You have addled my female wits,” she said, slogging out of the covers and crossing to the cradle. “You and your coconspirator. Men.”

Kit regarded her with blue eyes so guileless it was as if he hadn’t kept both adults up most of the night. His nose was not running, which was more relief than Sophie would have imagined.

“You were in a state last night, my friend. And when you’re in a state, I am in a state. I daresay Mr. Charpentier was in a state too.”

Quite a state. They’d taken turns with the child. Sophie had sung until her throat ached, and Vim had paced and paced and paced with the baby. She only vaguely recalled the man climbing into bed with her, then climbing back out, then climbing back in.

He’d let her sleep, and he was leaving today.

What if he’d left yesterday and Sophie had had to contend with Kit’s bad night all by herself ? What if she’d fallen asleep when the child needed her? What if Kit were truly falling ill?

“My mother raised ten children,” she informed the baby as she changed his wet nappy on the chaise. “No wonder she can handle Papa without ever losing her composure.”

Or raising her voice, or ever, ever disagreeing with His Grace before others. One night with a fussy baby and Sophie was regarding her parents with quite a bit more respect.

A knock on the door heralded Vim’s return. “How is His Highness?”

“He’s quite well rested. Unlike you. You should sleep now, Vim, and I’ll feed the baby.”

His crossed to the window and peered out. Sophie shifted to stand beside him, Kit in her arms. The snow had stopped, though a bitter wind was sculpting enormous drifts in the back gardens. “The paths you and the grooms shoveled yesterday are all but obliterated.”

“I’ll dig some more before I leave. Those duffers in the mews aren’t up to a task this size.”

He was leaving. His arm came around her shoulders as if to silently acknowledge the pain of that reality. “You’ll manage, Sophie. That child could not be in better hands.”

She turned into his body, the child in her arms, and Vim embraced them both.

He said nothing, just held woman and baby while Sophie tried to tell herself she was lucky. She’d been well and truly kissed; she’d been declared cozy; she’d been held and cuddled and given a good start on learning to care for the baby.

But she was not a baby. Held and cuddled was lovely. It was not enough. She’d wished for so much more. Wished for it until she couldn’t wish any more, and then Vim Charpentier had appeared in her life, and the wishing was worse than ever.

“I’ll feed the baby.” She pulled back a little. “If you want to rest, I can wake you when your breakfast is ready.”

Something crossed his features. He hadn’t shaved, and he’d gotten a lot less sleep than Sophie had. He was weary, but also… sad, Sophie decided. That was something, that he was sad too.

“I’ll start on the paths. A hot breakfast would be appreciated once you get Kit fed.”

She slipped from his side. “If you fall asleep in a snowdrift, I will not wake you until spring.”

She was almost to the door before his voice stopped her. “There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go, Sophie.”

She nodded and left, closing the door quietly. He was trying to be kind again, but this time it didn’t feel at all welcome.

Vim shoveled a path to the garden gate then shoveled one across the alley to the mews. That done, he decided a path from the house to the jakes at the bottom of the garden only made sense, and one from the gate to the jakes, as well.

And Sophie would appreciate having her back terrace shoveled off too, so he went about that, trying very carefully to keep his mind blank as he did.

Yes, he was procrastinating his leave-taking.

Yes, he felt guilty for leaving Sophie here to contend with the baby—and the possible consequences of having given shelter to a male stranger while unchaperoned. She might be a mere domestic—or she might be something else entirely—but her reputation would be precious to her in either event.

And yes, he felt an ache at the thought of never seeing her again, never seeing Kit discover the joy of independent locomotion, never hearing the boy chortle with baby-glee at capturing an adult nose in his tiny mitt.

But Vim also felt guilty for staying when he knew those who depended on him—those who had every right to depend on him—awaited him in Kent.

Something prickled along the back of his neck. He looked up to see Sophie standing on the back porch without so much as a shawl over her day dress, her expression puzzled.

He stopped shoveling and crossed the drifted garden to stand a few steps below her. “I didn’t think Higgins and Merriweather would get much done, as cold as it is and as old as they are.”

“You’ve shoveled half the garden out, Vim. Come in and eat something before you leave us.”

He let the shovel fall to the side and wrapped his arms around her waist. Because she was standing higher than he, this put his face right at the level of her breasts. Oblivious to appearances and common sense, he laid his head on her chest.

“You will catch your death, Sophie Windham.”

She wrapped her arms around him for one glorious moment, the scent of spices and flowers enveloping him as she did. She offered spring and sunshine with her embrace, and Vim felt an ache in his chest so painful he wondered if it was the pangs of inchoate tears.

“Come inside.” Sophie dropped her arms and took him by the hand. “You haven’t eaten yet today, and shoveling is hard work.”

She was patronizing him. He allowed it, unable to ask her the mundane questions that might put aside the reality of his impending departure.

Did Kit eat his breakfast?

Will you do more baking today?

Do you need more coal for your fireplace?

Is there anything I can do to delay this parting?

“Drink some tea,” Sophie said when she’d got him out of his outer clothes. “Kit demolished his breakfast, and I’ve already changed his nappy twice. I’ve wrapped up some food to take with you when you leave too, and I’m heating potatoes to stuff in your pockets.”

She remained quiet while he ate toasted bread, a large omelet, a substantial portion of bacon, two oranges she’d peeled for him, some fried potatoes, and a piece of buttered Christmas bread.

And despite all the piping hot tea he washed it down with, fatigue hit Vim like an avalanche when he got to his feet.

“You’re ready to go?” Sophie was kneading dough at the counter, kneading it with ferocious concentration. He watched her punch and fold the dough for a moment before her question registered.

“I’ll get my things from upstairs and be on my way.”

She said nothing, just nodded and kept pummeling the dough. Even watching her do that, he felt some of that ache near his sternum, so he dragged himself up the back steps.

Not two hours earlier, he’d awakened hard as a pikestaff, ready to make love to the first woman to share a bed with him in ages. More than ready—eager, throbbing, and held back only by the knowledge that today was the day he’d leave her.

But God, to have her looking at him like he was some holiday treat… He’d dealt with himself swiftly once he had the privacy to do so, but it hadn’t helped much.

When he got to his guest room, he made short work of packing. His quarters had been commodious in the extreme, providing every comfort a weary traveler might long for. He hung the brocade dressing gown back on a hook in the wardrobe and sat on the unmade bed.

He needed a catnap before he tried to take on winter travel at its worst. Just forty winks, one more little taste of luxury and comfort before he froze his testicles to the size of raisins trying to reach a place he’d never enjoyed being.

Vim toed off his boots and lay back on the bed. His last thought was that he ought to ask Sophie to wake him in another thirty minutes.

He arose to consciousness three and a half hours later, still thinking he ought to ask Sophie to wake him in another thirty minutes.

“What have you done with our baby brother?” Gayle Windham, Earl of Westhaven, put the question casually as he passed St. Just—never was a belted earl more reluctant to use his title—a mug of ale.

“We’re not partaking of the local wassail?” St. Just studied the mug as he settled in beside his brother on the sofa of their private parlor.

“Your damned punch gave me a pounding headache that faded only after an entire pot of strong tea, which tea required a half dozen trips to the blasted freezing privy, each trip specifically designed to make man appreciate another tot of hot grog. All in all, I’d have to say your one day of waiting out the weather has been a trial and a half.”

St. Just set the ale aside untasted. “You’re worried about Anna?”

“Anna and the baby, who, I can assure you, are not worried about me.”

“Westhaven, are you pouting?”

Westhaven glanced over to see his brother smiling, but it was a commiserating sort of smile. “Yes. Care to join me?”

The commiserating smile became the signature St. Just Black Irish piratical grin. “Only until Valentine joins us. He’s so eager to get under way, we’ll let him break the trail when we depart in the morning.”

“Where is he? I thought you were just going out to the stables to check on your babies.”

“They’re horses, Westhaven. I do know the difference.”

“You know it much differently than you knew it a year ago. Anna reports you sing your daughter to sleep more nights than not.”

Two very large booted feet thunked onto the coffee table. “Do I take it your wife has been corresponding with my wife?”

“And your daughter with my wife, and on and on.” Westhaven did not glance at his brother but, rather, kept his graze trained on St. Just’s feet. Devlin could exude great good cheer among his familiars, but he was at heart a very private man.

“The Royal Mail would go bankrupt if women were forbidden to correspond with each other.” St. Just’s tone was grumpy. “Does your wife let you read her mail in order that my personal marital business may now be known to all and sundry?”

“I am not all and sundry,” Westhaven said. “I am your brother, and no, I do not read Anna’s mail. It will astound you to know this, but on occasion, say on days ending in y, I am known to talk with my very own wife. Not at all fashionable, but one must occasionally buck trends. I daresay you and Emmie indulge in the same eccentricity.”

St. Just was silent for a moment while the fire hissed and popped in the hearth. “So I like to sing to my daughters. Emmie bears so much of the burden, it’s little enough I can do to look after my own children.”

“You love them all more than you ever thought possible, and you’re scared witless,” Westhaven said, feeling a pang of gratitude to be able to offer the simple comfort of a shared truth. “I believe we’re just getting started on that part. With every child, we’ll fret more for our ladies, more for the children, for the ones we have, the one to come.”

“You’re such a wonderful help to a man, Westhaven. Perhaps I’ll lock you in that nice cozy privy next time nature calls.”

Which in the peculiar dialect known only to brothers, Westhaven took as thanks for service rendered. The door behind them banged open on a draft of cold air.

“That old bugger in the stables says he knows where there’s a Guarneri, a del Gesù, not five miles from this stinking inn.” Valentine tossed gloves, hat, and scarf on the table as he spoke. “I’ve only seen a couple Guarneris, and by God they are beautiful. One was a viola, by the old master, but this is supposed to be by Bartolomeo Guiseppe Guarneri himself.”

“Guarneri sounds like a dessert.” St. Just passed his ale up to Val, who was making a circuit of the small parlor. “I favor good English apple tarts, myself.”

“It’s a violin,” Westhaven said. “Valentine, are you suggesting you met some instrument dealer in the stables?”

“I’m not suggesting. I’m telling you the old man offered to take me to see this thing and even hinted it might be for sale.”

Westhaven kept his silence, because some things—like older brothers—were occasionally gratifyingly predictable.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Valentine,” St. Just said, “but wasn’t it you who was cursing and stomping about here last night because I suggested we wait one day to see what the weather was going to do?”

“I wasn’t cursing. Ellen frowns on it, and one needs to get out of the habit if one is going to have children underfoot.”

“Doesn’t exactly work that way,” Westhaven muttered. “I’m willing to tarry a day if you’re asking us to, Val. Devlin?”

“The horses can use the rest.”

Val looked momentarily nonplussed at having won his battle without firing a shot then dropped down onto a sofa. “So, Westhaven, are you saying children don’t inspire a man to stop cursing?”

“They most assuredly do not,” Westhaven said, rising. “His Grace and I are agreed on this, which is frightening of and by itself. Let me order some toddies, and we can discuss exactly how the arrival of children changes an otherwise happily married man’s vocabulary.”