Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,38
he enjoyed it a great deal in fact—he just wasn’t any good at making it. Sophie was damned good. She had superb control, managing to sing quietly even as she shifted to the soprano verse, her voice lifting gently into the higher register. By the second time through, Vim’s eyes were heavy and his steps lagging.
“He’s asleep,” he whispered as the last notes died away. “And my God, you can sing, Sophie Windham.”
“I had good teachers.” She’d sung some of the tension and worry out too, if her more peaceful expression was any guide. “If you want to go back to your room, I can take him now.”
He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to leave her alone with the fussy baby; he didn’t want to go back to his big, cold bed down the dark, cold hallway.
“Go to bed, Sophie. I’ll stay for a while.”
She frowned then went to the window and parted the curtain slightly. “I think it’s stopped snowing, but there is such a wind it’s hard to tell.”
He didn’t dare join her at the window for fear a chilly draft might wake the child. “Come away from there, Sophie, and why haven’t you any socks or slippers on your feet?”
She glanced down at her bare feet and wiggled long, elegant toes. “I forgot. Kit started crying, and I was out of bed before I quite woke up.”
They shared a look, one likely common to parents of infants the world over.
“My Lord Baby has a loyal and devoted court,” Vim said. “Get into bed before your toes freeze off.”
She gave him a particularly unreadable perusal but climbed into her bed and did not draw the curtains. “Vim?”
“Hmm?” He took the rocker, the lyrical triple meter of the aria still in his head.
“Thank you.”
He said nothing. Now that Kit was quiet and Sophie calmer, he could enjoy the pleasure of rocking a sleeping baby, even as he also enjoyed the picture of Sophie Windham, her hair a surprisingly long, dark braid over one shoulder, her natural form patently obvious through the soft flannel of her nightclothes.
A woman’s feet were personal. A man might take possession of her hand, buss her cheek, slide her arm through his, take her in his arms for the space of a waltz, and otherwise admire her attributes, but he never, ever saw her feet.
Nor she his. Vim glanced down at his own bare toes.
I was out of bed before I quite woke up. Sophie’s words came back to him. Kit had them both trained, and Vim hadn’t even known the child a week.
Thank God and all His angels Vim would be leaving in the morning. If he stayed much longer, no force on earth would be able to drag him away from Sophie or the baby.
***
Sophie awoke to a wonderful sense of warmth and a heaviness in all her limbs that bespoke an exhausted rest. She nuzzled her pillow, and the scent of bergamot wound through her brain.
She opened her eyes just as her pillow heaved out a sigh.
“My goodness.”
Vim Charpentier slept beside her, his arm around her where she was plastered to his side. Light came through a crack in the window curtains, and a quiet snuffling sounded from the cradle near the hearth.
“He’s awake.” Vim’s voice was resigned. “I’ll get him. It’s my turn.”
“He’s not fussing yet. You have a few minutes.”
Vim sighed gustily, and his hand settled on Sophie’s shoulder. “I do apologize for appropriating half your bed. Just a few more days rest, and I’ll be happy to vacate it.”
There was weary humor in his tone and something else… affection?
“Vim?”
He shifted a little, so Sophie might have met his gaze if she’d had sufficient courage.
“I’ve never awoken with a man in my bed before. It’s cozy.”
“And I’ve never been referred to as cozy before, but the Infant Terrible has reduced me to viewing that state as worthy in the extreme. You’re cozy too.” He kissed her temple, and a sweetness bloomed in Sophie’s middle.
Affection. It was different from passion and different with a man than with, say, a sibling or friend.
It was wonderful.
“Sophie?” The hand that had been petting her back stilled. “I seem to have lost my dressing gown.”
“Have you now?” She let her fingers steal across his flat middle, except they bumped something smooth and warm arrowing up from his groin. She had half gripped its length when she realized—
“My goodness.” She snatched her hand back, her face flaming.