Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,32
and therefore half not our brother. He has nigh broken my mother’s heart with this nonsense. Nutmeg next.”
“Broken your mother’s heart, how?” He passed her the nutmeg, enjoying the little heat that sparked where their hands touched. He’d done it deliberately that time, and she wasn’t exactly storming off with indignation.
“Mama loves Devlin, but she’s not his mama, so she’s kept her distance out of respect for his feelings for his real mama. It’s gotten better since Dev married. Do you suppose there’s such a thing as too much spice?”
Interesting question. “I don’t know. We’ll have to have a little taste.”
Before his better judgment could interfere, Vim took Sophie’s hand in his, dragged her index finger through the batter, and brought her finger to his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the end of her finger and withdrew it slowly from his mouth.
“Seems perfect to me.” He kept her hand trapped in his own, abruptly aware that what he’d done was about as blatantly sexual as if he’d just dropped his breeches and started stroking himself before her very eyes.
She smiled at him, withdrew her hand, and passed him the nutmeg. “Then it’s time to put it in the oven. Tell me about your home.” She turned to pour the batter into a greased pan, and the moment passed, which was both a relief and a disappointment.
A relief, because her self-possession hinted she might have some experience, and an experienced woman was fair game—as housekeeper, companion, lady’s maid, or whatever she was, Sophie might have allowed herself some discreet sexual recreation.
And she might allow herself just a little more.
The disappointment was because he’d like at that very moment to sit her up on the sturdy counter and step between her legs until those legs were wrapped around his flanks, urging him into her heat. He watched her bending down to put the—what was it they’d been making?—into the oven, and yet more lascivious images crowded into his mind.
She’d asked him something, though. Something about…
“I’m not sure I have a home.”
She straightened and closed the oven door. “Surely you dwell somewhere when you’re not on your travels.” The look she sent him was far too serious for the concentration he could muster.
“I have properties. There’s a lovely old place in Surrey where I spend a few weeks most years. I suppose that qualifies.”
She began putting things away. “You travel all the time?”
Something in her manner suggested she wasn’t finding the topic pleasant.
“I used to spend some of my winters up in Cumbria with one of my sisters. I’ve occasionally bunked in with my brother here in Town, and I often check in with my younger sister wherever she’s governessing, but as I’ve mentioned, my sisters are married now and starting families.”
Vim brought a kettle of hot water from the pot swing in the fireplace and poured half the contents into the dishpan, then added some cool water as Sophie began stacking dirty dishes by the sink.
Standing beside her, he tried to fathom what emotion was radiating from her and failed.
“Then what is this travel to Kent about?” she asked. “You seem quite intent on it.”
Was that the bee in her bonnet?
“Kent is the family seat on my father’s side. When my mother remarried, I went with her to Cumbria. I’m not sure my uncle was comfortable with the arrangement, but he never protested. Shall I wash while you dry?”
“I will not refuse a man’s offer to wash dishes in my kitchen.”
She still did not sound precisely happy.
“Tell me of your home,” Vim suggested, using a rag to start washing the mixing bowl in the warm, soapy water.
“It’s beautiful. Big but cozy. It will always be home.”
“Do you miss it?”
She accepted the clean bowl from his hand, frowning as she did. “There comes a point where the familiar can feel more like a prison than a haven, though in truth it’s neither. It’s a home, a place laden with memories, nothing more and nothing less.”
Vim stared at the water. “A place with obligations too.”
“What sort of obligations?”
Now why had he brought up this mare’s nest of unpleasant associations?
“My uncle is getting older, and he refuses to hire new staff. My aunt has never been a traditionally practical woman, and their daughters are no help whatsoever.”
“Do you worry for them?”
“Oh, of course.”
Something in his tone must have given him away. Sophie put a hand on his sleeve. “What aren’t you saying? If you worry about them, you must love them.”