Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,104

stomach ought to be. Calm yourself. You’re Percival and Esther Windham’s sensible daughter, and you’re merely calling as a courtesy.”

Westhaven had the knack of conveying calm with just his voice, but still, Sophie had to rest her forehead on his shoulder for a moment.

“Your package?” Valentine stood beside them, holding out a parcel wrapped in paper. “I’ll be most of the day, wrestling with that old curmudgeon in the church vestibule, but my guess is Westhaven will limit himself to one plate of cookies and two cups of tea.”

A warning. She wasn’t to linger, or her brothers would forcibly remove her from the curate’s little house.

“Come along.” Westhaven put her hand on his arm while Valentine led the horses over to the livery. “Thirty minutes, no more.”

She nodded. They meant well, and right now, Sophie could not trust her own judgment when it came to Kit.

When it came to much of anything.

Westhaven knocked on the door, which was opened by a girl of about six. She grinned, revealing two missing front teeth to go with her two untidy blond braids. “Mama! There’s a man here and a lady!”

Sophie smiled down at the child, who opened the door wide enough to let them pass into the house. “I’m Lady Sophia, and this is Lord Westhaven.”

“I’m Lizabeth! We got a new baby for Christmas, Papa said. His name is Christian, but he’s not really my brother. Mama! The lady’s name is Sophie!” She peered up at Westhaven. “I forget your name.”

Christian? His name was Kit, or even Christopher. Westhaven did not meet Sophie’s eyes.

“You may call me Lord Westhaven.”

“Mama! The man’s name—”

“Elizabeth Ann Harrad. What have I told you about bellowing in the house?” Mrs. Harrad arrived to the foyer, hands on hips. “I beg your pardon, my lady, my lord. Elizabeth, make your curtsy.”

The child flung her upper half forward and down in a bow.

“Very nice,” Sophie said, retuning the gesture in more recognizable form. “Mrs. Harrad, I don’t mean to impose, but my brothers were going this way, and I thought I’d drop a little something off for—Baron Sindal?”

Vim sauntered up behind Mrs. Harrad, Kit perched on his shoulder.

“Sindal.” Westhaven’s greeting was cool. “Mrs. Harrad, felicitations of the season. I’ll be collecting Lady Sophia when I’ve called upon the vicar, if you’ll excuse me?”

He was out the door before Sophie could stop him.

“Lady Sophia.” Vim nodded at her, his smile genial. “We were just having a bit of early luncheon in the kitchen, weren’t we, Mrs. Harrad?”

“If your lordship says so. I’ll fetch Mr. Harrad to make his bow to you, Lady Sophia.” She bustled off as an argument started up elsewhere in the house between two girl children.

Sophie stood there in her cloak, the argument fading, the various smells of the house fading—baking bread, a faint odor of tomcat, coal smoke, and unwashed baby linen. All she perceived was Vim, standing there with his shirtsleeves turned back to the elbows, his eyes the exact shade of blue as Kit’s.

“His dress is dirty.” Sophie glanced around, hoping Mrs. Harrad wasn’t close at hand to overhear her.

“These things will happen when man flings his porridge in all directions,” Vim said. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with him?”

“Mary and Louise are arguing again,” Elizabeth reported, her gaze going from Sophie to Vim. “That’s why Papa must keep the door to his study closed all the time. Because they always argue, and Mama yells at them, but they never stop.”

Vim smiled at the child. “Tell them Lady Sophia complimented your curtsy. Then you can argue with them too.” He winked at the child, and she scampered off.

And thus, for a moment, Sophie was alone with Vim and Kit, her gaze devouring the sight of them.

“How are you?”

“It’s good to see you.”

They spoke at the same time, and as each took one step toward the other, Mr. Harrad came bustling up the hallway, followed by his wife.

“Lady Sophia, my apologies. I wasn’t aware we had more company. Do come in. My dear, can you take Lady’s Sophia’s wrap?”

He spoke pleasantly, but a hint of rebuke laced his tone. An instant’s hesitation on Mrs. Harrad’s part could have become awkward, but Kit chose that moment to start waving his arms in Sophie’s direction and babbling.

“Here.” Sophie shrugged out of her cloak. “May I hold him?”

“He seems to like being carried about,” Mrs. Harrad said, hanging Sophie’s cloak on a peg. “My girls weren’t quite as demanding.”

Sophie ignored the word choice, ignored whatever currents were passing