Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,19

the altogether for days.”

Not grinning now, smiling from ear to ear. Smiling like a naughty man.

Sophie smiled too, and peeled the diaper away from the child. Mr. Charpentier slapped a damp cloth into her hand, wrung out but still warm.

“Do a proper job of it,” he said. “I wasn’t kidding about the rash. Poor little things scream themselves to exhaustion with it. For the same reason, you’ll also want to dry him thoroughly after his bath.”

Sophie tended the baby, though looking at even such little male parts was mortifying. Worse yet, the child started grinning and kicking as she dealt with a certain area.

“He likes it, Sophie. Best be grateful for it too.”

“Grateful?” Grateful the little beast had no more modesty than her brothers had had as adolescents?

“Can you imagine this same exercise if he didn’t want you touching him? Coyness would hardly make the business easier or tidier.”

He accepted the dirty nappy from her and passed her a clean one. Amid kicking feet and surprisingly agile little paws, Sophie managed to get the diaper changed. It took concentration and dexterity, and when she finished, the result was disappointingly asymmetric. “It doesn’t look as tidy as yours.”

“Looks hardly matter. He’s just going to consign the clean one to the wash the same as all the others. I’ll take this one back to the laundry.”

He rolled up the linen in his hand while Sophie busied herself slipping socks back on the baby’s feet. She didn’t want to see Mr. Charpentier grinning at her, because she was feeling foolishly proud of having changed her very first—very nasty—soiled nappy.

“Good job, Sophie Windham. You’re off to a fine start.”

He stroked a hand over her shoulder and rose, leaving the room with the dirty diaper.

A pat to the shoulder, nothing more, but Sophie felt as if it was the first real praise she’d ever earned. She leaned over and gently closed her finger and thumb over the baby’s button nose.

“He said I did a good job. No thanks to you.”

Kit grinned, cooed, and kicked her hand away.

***

Sophie and her baby were going to be fine. Vim assured himself of this as he lingered in the kitchen, washing his hands and putting together a tea tray. Foraging in the bread box yielded a supply of iced buns, which suited his appetite wonderfully. He found butter, honey, and the tea things, and made his way back to the parlor.

Maybe before he left in the morning, he’d show Sophie how to bathe the child. She was well on her way to mastering feeding, changing, and playing with the baby. A bath was about the only thing left Vim could demonstrate.

He’d take a peek at the nursery too, just to make sure it was safe.

And perhaps find the child some toys. A family with ten children had to have some toys gathering dust in a chest or closet.

And he could leave his direction…

He stopped just outside the parlor door.

He would not be leaving his direction. This little interlude was a function of bad weather, worse luck, and a wayward sense of responsibility for a woman and child he’d never met before and wouldn’t likely see again.

Would not see again.

And if he’d left his address, it wasn’t as if Sophie could write to him, or him to her. Proper conduct forbade such communication. And his conduct with Sophie would remain proper, no matter his common sense had lost its grip on his male imagination.

When he returned to the parlor, Sophie was once again on the floor with Kit. She sat cross-legged on the blankets, the baby on his stomach before her.

“My Lord Baby rang for a parlor picnic,” Vim said, pushing the door closed with his heel. “The string quartet should be along any minute. If you’d like to wash your hands, I can attend His Highness.”

“I don’t know as it’s safe to leave the two you alone together. You’ll teach him drinking songs and ribald jokes.”

“He already has a whole store of ribald jokes. One can tell this from his smiles and grins.” Vim set the tray on the floor out of the baby’s reach and settled so the child was between him and Sophie.

“Are all babies this jolly?”

“Heavens, no.” He got comfortable, assuming the same tailor-sit Sophie had. “I was in a Magyar camp once after a particularly hard winter, and the old women were muttering around the fire that the babies had stopped crying. They longed for the sound of a baby crying, a baby with enough