Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,103

three girls and their delightful offspring. And then we’ve invited a few of the local families over tomorrow afternoon so the girls will have some fellows to catch here in the entrance hall. I’ll make my special punch; her ladyship will hold forth over more cookies and crumpets than His Majesty’s regiments could consume in a week. You’ll attend.”

He would. His uncle wasn’t issuing an order, he was stating a fact. Familial obligations were not something Vim would ever shirk with impunity.

“What time?”

“We usually start after luncheon, so everybody can get home before dark. I expect old Moreland might put in an appearance. He’s grown more sociable with his neighbors in recent years, or perhaps the maids here have grown prettier.”

And that last was offered with cheerful glee, as if Rothgreb knew damned good and well Vim was dying for even a glimpse of Sophie. “I’m going for a ride, Uncle. Don’t wait tea on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Rothgreb started up the stairs, moving not exactly quickly, but with some purpose. Going off to plot treason with Aunt Essie or make pronouncements to the old hound, no doubt.

As Vim ambled down to the stables, he considered that for all Sidling wasn’t where he wanted to be, his aunt and uncle seemed abundantly happy with their circumstances. The house was in fine shape, the estate books were in fine shape, and Vim was sure when he rode the land, he’d see it was being carefully tended, as well.

He did not need to appoint a new steward, not yet.

“Aunt?”

She sat on a tack trunk, wrapped in an old horse blanket, a carrot in her hands.

“Merciful Powers!” She hopped off the trunk, the blanket falling from her shoulders. “Wilhelm. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You came down here in just your shawl? Need I remind you, Esmerelda Charpentier, it’s the dead of winter?” Though the stable was protected from the wind, and the horses themselves, particularly the enormous draft teams and the sturdy coach horses, kept the place well above freezing.

“I know what season it is, young man.”

“Then perhaps you’ll allow me to escort you to the house?” He peered at her, unable to read her expression. It might have been some sort of veiled exasperation; it might have been embarrassment at having been caught out wandering.

“I can find my own way up to the house, thank you very much.” She bustled off, only to come to a halt when Vim laid a hand on her arm.

“Humor me, Aunt.” He draped his riding coat over her shoulders and winged his arm at her. She’d either been waiting for her husband to come fetch her back to the house, or she’d been waiting for somebody—anybody—to show her the way home.

***

“What is that particularly irritating little air you’re determined to vex our ears with?”

Valentine stopped whistling to smirk at Westhaven’s question and started singing instead. “All we like sheep, have gone astraaaaaay.”

“More Handel.” Sophie interrupted her brother’s little concert. “Seasonally appropriate. You two did not have to accompany me, you know.”

“Nonsense.” Westhaven shot some sort of look at Valentine, who’d lapsed into humming. “I needed to call on the vicar since I’m in the area, and Valentine must tune the piano before the Christmas service.”

“I’m getting very good at tuning pianos,” Valentine said. “A skill to fall back on if my wife ever casts me to the gutter.”

“She won’t,” Sophie replied, patting her mare. “She’ll send you visiting your siblings and get her revenge on the whole family.”

“Now, children,” Westhaven started, only to provoke Valentine back into a full-throated baritone recital.

“All we like sheep, have gone astraaaaaaaaaaaaay.”

Westhaven rolled his eyes. “To think my tiny son is all that stands between this braying ass and the Moreland dukedom.”

“I made Sophie smile,” Val said, abruptly ceasing his braying. “My Christmas holiday is a success because I made Sophie smile.” He smiled at her too, a particularly sweet and understanding smile. “Go visit the Demon Seed, Sophie. You’ll feel much better when you’ve changed a nappy and My Lord Baby has cast his accounts upon your dress.”

“Don’t stay too long,” Westhaven said as he helped her off her horse. Sophie went still before her brother’s arms had dropped from her waist.

“That’s Kit.” She listened for a moment more. “That’s his hungry cry. Let me go, now.”

“Sophie.” Westhaven’s grip shifted to her shoulders. “He’s not your baby, and they aren’t going to starve him. There? You see? Already somebody must be stuffing porridge into the bottomless pit located where his