Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,105

between husband and wife, ignored even the pleasure of brushing her hand over Vim’s as they passed the baby between them.

“My Lord Baby,” she said softly, cuddling him close. “You were about to wake the watch with your racket.” She glanced up at Vim. “Was he done eating?”

“Not nearly,” Vim said. “Perhaps we might take our tea in the kitchen? I’m sure Lady Sophia would enjoy spending some time with her young friend.”

Mr. Harrad shrugged; his wife looked resigned. They were both blond, a little on the slight side, and had a tired, harried look to them.

“Has he been running you ragged?” Sophie asked Mrs. Harrad. “Kit, I mean.”

Mrs. Harrad glanced at the baby in Sophie’s arms. “It’s just that he’s a boy. My husband wanted a boy, but they’re not the same as girls, and this one is fussy.”

He wasn’t the least fussy, Sophie wanted to retort. Kit was curled happily in her arms, his little fingers batting at her chin and mouth. “Has he been crawling much?”

Mrs. Harrad looked down, and before she could answer, they’d arrived to a big, warm kitchen redolent with the scent of baking bread. “I can offer you fresh bread with your tea.”

“Don’t go to any bother, please.” Sophie sat so she could put Kit on her lap. “Lord Westhaven will be collecting me before I could do your bread justice.” She picked up an adult-sized teaspoon and frowned at it. Had they been feeding Kit with this?

“It suffices,” Vim said quietly from his seat beside her. “You just have to give him a moment to work at it.”

The sound of his voice had Kit grinning and bouncing on Sophie’s lap.

The next minutes passed in a blur, with Kit slurping down a quantity of plain, cold porridge, Vim making small talk with their host and hostess, and Sophie trying to store up a pleasant memory of spending time with Kit.

It was difficult. The baby’s dress was dirty, which, true enough, could happen in five minutes flat, but his fingernails were also dirty, and the fat little creases of his baby-neck were grimy. There was a red scratch down the length of one arm, and when all three girls came bellowing and stampeding into the kitchen, Kit began to cry.

He cried more loudly when Mrs. Harrad began to scold, and Sophie herself felt an urge to cry.

“…So we’ll just be going.” Vim held her chair as he spoke, but the last thing Sophie wanted was to abandon Kit in the middle of this pandemonium.

She tried to communicate this to Vim with a look, but he remained standing above her, his gaze steady, while one of the girls pulled the other’s hair and ran from the room. Mrs. Harrad followed in high dudgeon, and Mr. Harrad stood at the door to the hallway looking stoic.

“It isn’t always quite this lively,” he said when they’d reached the foyer. “The children are very excited to have young Christian with us, and then too, I’m a bit preoccupied. Vicar has given me the sermon for Christmas Day, which is quite an honor.”

“I’m sure things will settle down once the girls get used to having a baby brother,” Vim said, holding Sophie’s cloak out to her.

But if she took the cloak, she’d have to give Kit up.

“Is there a reason you’ve changed his name?” she asked while Vim arranged the cloak around her shoulders.

“I’m a curate, Lady Sophia. A son named Christian seemed fitting, if a bit optimistic, given this one’s origins.” He nodded at the baby, his gaze speculative. “Missus says he’s more demanding than the girls, but we’ll be patient with him.”

He smiled at Sophie, a tired, charitable smile that made her want to scream. Vim took the child from her, and she gave him up, feeling as if the heart had been torn from her chest.

“We appreciate all you’re doing for the boy,” Vim said. “My regards to your wife. Lady Sophia?”

He passed the baby to the curate, who looked a little surprised. By the time Vim had Sophie bustled out the door, Kit was beginning to fuss again.

“I can’t bear this.” The words were out of her mouth before Vim had dragged her two steps from the door. “Kit is not thriving there. He’s barely noticed amid all the squabbling and noise. He isn’t bathed, he isn’t clean, they aren’t patient enough with him at feeding, those girls are jealous of him. He’ll never—”

Right there on the curate’s tidy little porch, Vim’s arm came around