Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,46
folly, you know. Sophie Windham is dangerous to a man’s best intentions.”
No comment from the child, leaving Vim to realize if the baby hadn’t interrupted, Sophie Windham’s clothes would likely be tossed all over the bed and Vim buried inside her as deep as he could get, doing his utmost to make her scream with pleasure.
Make them both scream.
“There’s no reason not to,” he murmured against the baby’s crown. “She’s willing, I’m so willing my eyes are at risk of being permanently crossed, but I don’t think it would serve her…”
He fell silent, trying to think through how a man—a gentleman—ought to act under the circumstances. If she were merely a domestic—and the clues pointed as much in this direction as any other—then Sophie was not in a position to pursue marriage, but she brought marriage, commitment, and permanence to Vim’s mind.
Also hot, soul-shattering pleasure, a confusing combination if ever there was one.
Kit grabbed for Vim’s lower lip.
“Since when do babies come with claws?” He gently peeled Kit’s fingers away and examined tiny fingernails. So small, but Vim knew they grew quickly. “We’ll have to find some embroidery scissors and render you weaponless, me hearty.”
He lingered in the bed with the child for a few more minutes, but when a particular, determined look came across the baby’s face, Vim got them both quickly down to the laundry and dealt with the requisite change of linen.
“Are you baking again?”
He kept his tone casual as he carried the infant into the kitchen. Sophie looked up from the sink where she was peeling an apple.
“Adding some apple to His Highness’s porridge.”
“We made a stop in the laundry. Kit’s ready to tour the Ring at the fashionable hour.”
“At this rate, I’ll need to boil some laundry for him.” Sophie dropped some apple quarters into a pot simmering on the stove, sliced another fat quarter in half, and passed both sections to Vim.
He gave one to the baby and ate the other. “I didn’t finish telling you about the situation at Sidling.”
“That’s your family seat?”
She stirred the apples then stirred a second pot, as well. He could tell nothing about her mood from her expression, tone, or posture, her reserve being the equal of some monarchs Vim had encountered on his travels.
“Sidling has been in my family since Norman times, though the manor house itself is fairly modest.”
She peered over at him from the stove while Kit started waving a thoroughly gummed piece of apple about like a sword. “The name Sidling is very familiar.”
“It’s not particularly distinctive, but my aunt and uncle have been comfortable there, as have my cousins.” Or they’d grown comfortable there once Vim had been able to take over the finances.
“And this is the place that’s losing its heirlooms to thievery or something underhanded?”
She was putting together a tea tray now, her movements competent, graceful, and unself-conscious. Maybe she was the cook, or an undercook? Vim had to listen to her words again in his mind to register her question.
“We’ve come close to losing my aunt a time or two, as well, if Uncle’s letters can be believed.”
“How does one lose an aunt? Is she in poor health?”
“Not physically, but she’s growing… vague. She wanders the estate, though I’ve suggested a companion could be hired for her.”
He’d insisted on it, in fact, with his uncle writing back angrily that a man who’d been married to a woman for more than half a century knew better than to assign that lady a nursemaid over the woman’s own objections.
Sophie got a pitcher of milk from the window box. “My father had a heart seizure not long ago. It threw the entire family into a tizzy.”
“How is he faring now?”
She set the milk on the counter and got a bread knife down from the rack built onto the rafter overhead. “Better than ever. The heart seizure was the excuse my mother needed to take him more firmly in hand, and I think the excuse he needed to allow her to do so.”
She cut several slices of bread, wrapped up the loaf, and set a small bowl of porridge, a clean napkin, and Kit’s little spoon at one end of the table. “If you’d see to the honors, I’ll make us some sandwiches.”
Kit put away a prodigious quantity of porridge and apples, necessitating another trip to the laundry. By the time Vim had changed the child, built up the fire in the parlor, and washed his hands, darkness had fallen.