Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,123
heir, then I must at least insist on accompanying her into dinner, mustn’t I?”
Evie patted her father’s arm. “You must, and you must protect her from our brothers, who have taken to dispensing advice on how to raise boy children, though between them they have about a year’s experience at it themselves.”
His Grace smiled. “They get this propensity for dispensing unwarranted advice from their mother.”
“Of course they do, Papa.” Evie swanned off, leaving Sophie the perfect opportunity to put a few quiet questions to her dear papa, questions she made very, very certain nobody—not a brother, not a sister, not even a duchess—overheard.
And if her questions perturbed His Grace, it wasn’t evident at dinner. The duke presided over a genial family meal, while Sophie sat next to Vim and tried to ignore the urge to surreptitiously explore the exact contours of her intended’s lap.
“My love.” His Grace addressed his wife down the length of the table. “We must not be sending young Sindal out into the elements tonight. There’s been entirely too much of that sort of thing in his courtship of our Sophie for an old man’s peace of mind.”
“Baron?” Her Grace aimed a smile at Vim where he sat beside Sophie. “Can we prevail upon you to accept our hospitality? I wouldn’t want to tempt fate by asking you to travel yet again in a worsening storm.”
Sophie slid her hand up from where it had been resting on Vim’s muscular thigh beneath the table. She squeezed the burgeoning length of him gently but firmly.
“I’m pleased to accept such friendly overtures, Your Graces.” His voice sounded only a little strained, and that was probably because Sophie was listening attentively. “My aunt and uncle urged me to tarry here if the weather became challenging.”
He settled his hand over hers, giving her fingers—and thus himself—another little squeeze as he said the last word.
And then, damn and blast, Her Grace gave the signal for the ladies to rise and join her for tea in the parlor, while Sophie’s brothers started exchanging the kinds of grins that assured her Vim would not be retiring yet for hours.
Sophie kept her features placid, even when Evie winked at her, Maggie rolled her eyes, and Her Grace rang for the cordials instead of the teapot.
***
Just knowing Sophie was down the hall—Vim’s room was in the family wing—was both a torture and a pleasure. He wanted to go to her, but God knew which brother, sister, or parent Vim might meet in the corridor.
He sighed, and for the twentieth time since retiring, rolled over in the vast bed.
A slow creak came to his ears. The creak repeated itself—a door opening then closing.
A scent drifted to his nose, a flowery, clean fragrance he was coming to treasure.
“Sophia Windham, you have developed a lamentable penchant for sneaking into gentlemen’s bedrooms.”
“I’m going to sneak into your bed, as well,” she said, parting the bed curtains. “It’s chilly out here.”
Trying to formulate a stern lecture about propriety was an utter waste of time as Sophie unbelted her wrapper, tossed it to the foot of the bed, and drew her chemise over her head.
“Can’t have you catching your death.” He flipped up the covers and admonished himself to plead shamelessly for the wedding to be held sooner rather than later—much sooner. The Good Lord was going to bestow only so many providential snowstorms on a man and his bride.
“I would rather catch my prospective husband at his slumbers.” She tucked herself against Vim’s side, a warm, lovely bundle of female. His arm came around her shoulders to gather her closer, and she sighed.
“I suppose, being a woman in contemplation of matrimony, you came here to talk?” He tried not to sound long-suffering, but her brothers had lectured him at great length about the adult woman’s need for, and entitlement to, private conversation with her spouse.
Sophie’s hand drifted across his bare abdomen. “Of course I came to talk. I love talking with you.”
He’d work the conversation around to the wedding date, then. Work the situation to his advantage while he tried not to take advantage of Moreland’s hospitality. And then, who knew where the conversation might lead them?
Sophie’s hand trailed up across his chest then traced his sternum down to his navel. “I came here to talk, because snowstorms are not a very reliable means of acquiring time with one’s beloved.” Her hand moved south and closed gently around Vim’s straining erection. “But I didn’t come here merely to talk.”