Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,51

as well. “I worry about Maggie,” Westhaven said quietly, “but lately I’ve started worrying about Sophie too.”

“You find this worrying enjoyable, then. Nobody worries about Sophie. She’s the salt of the earth and the only thing keeping the ducal household sane when Her Grace abdicates the duty. We don’t worry because Sophie is on hand.”

“She’s not at Morelands as we speak, is she?”

That was a fact. Westhaven was a fiend for pouncing on bothersome little facts—the man had read law, being a younger son who’d expected to make his own way in the world. This had permanently deranged a portion of the fellow’s otherwise excellent mind.

“Sophie is entitled to socialize on occasion,” Val said, but it bothered him: why would Sophie be socializing with neighbors who lived directly across the square when she could be in the country with her entire family? What Val recalled of the Chattell sisters wasn’t so endearing as to explain Sophie’s decision.

“She socializes with perfect grace, as do all our sisters.” Westhaven started tapping his missive on the desk, first one edge of the folded paper, a ninety-degree turn, then another edge. “But I don’t like her remaining behind when she might be out in the country, singing carols, decking the hall, and keeping an eye on the rest of the family. Sophie’s a mother hen at heart.”

“So we’ll collect her and get her to Morelands, and you’ll see we have nothing to worry over where Sophie’s concerned. Not one damned thing. Now if you’re done with that desk, I think I’ll be writing a short epistle to my wife.”

“It’s late,” Westhaven said, rising. “You could write to her tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow we strike out for London, though I think it will be slow going the closer we get to Town.”

“But we’re in no real hurry,” Westhaven said, stretching languidly. “Not unless you count the burning desire to be reunited with our wives once we’ve seen to this errand.”

“Right,” Val said, uncorking the ink bottle. “No damned hurry at all.”

***

Vim glanced down at the cradle only to see two not-very-sleepy blue eyes peering back up at him.

Babies did not go to sleep when it would suit others for them to do so. This was probably The First Law of Babyhood, the close corollary being that they didn’t stay dry or tidy when it suited others, either.

The feel of Sophie Windham’s fingers tracing the shape of Vim’s ear would be enough to keep him awake for some while, as well. He did not allow himself to watch her getting ready for bed, though the sheer domesticity of it was riveting.

One glimpse of her hair unbound, a dark, silky fall of feminine beauty cascading right down to her hips, and he was remaining in his seat only so he might not embarrass himself with evidence of his arousal.

The entire situation made no sense whatsoever. Sophie had indicated her willingness to accommodate his lust—though nothing more than that—as genteelly as a woman could, and Vim had no doubt he desired her.

Desired her on a level new and not wholly comfortable to contemplate.

And because he desired her so, he was wary of what she offered. Anything that seemed too good to be true generally was too good to be true. Father Christmas did not exist except in the hearts of innocent children; rainbows did not sport pots of gold where they touched the earth.

And Sophie Windham wasn’t meant to be a man’s casual Christmas romp.

And yet… He did not want to disappoint her.

Vim glanced over to see the baby had finally, thank ye gods, gone to sleep. He adjusted the blankets around the cherubic little form and rose to tuck the hearth screen closer to the fire.

He moved over to the bed and stood in silent indecision for a long moment. There would be no recrimination in the morning if he joined Sophie in that bed, none if he merely spent the night in slumber beside her, none if they again took turns getting up with the baby.

And none if they made passionate love in the dark of night.

“Did you close these curtains to indicate I would not be welcome in there with you, Sophie?”

He kept his voice just above a whisper, allowing her to feign sleep if she wanted to spare them both embarrassment. In the moment that followed, a procession of emotions tumbled through him: hope, anticipation, desire… and when Sophie made no reply, a disappointment that had precious little of relief in it. Perhaps he’d misread the situation,