Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,52

or perhaps Sophie wasn’t—

The curtain moved, revealing Sophie sitting up in the shadowy interior. “You are welcome.”

He couldn’t read her expression, and there was nothing particularly welcoming in her tone.

“I’ll be right back, then.” He drew the curtain closed and moved as quickly as he could without making a sound. He lifted the cradle, baby and all, and moved down the darkened corridor to his room, which was warm enough to serve as the child’s temporary quarters.

Vim’s clothes landed in a heap on the floor, his ablutions were made with cold water, and his use of the tooth powder was particularly thorough. As he pulled on the brocade dressing gown, he glanced at the cradle.

“If you know what’s good for you and good for Miss Sophie’s spirits, you will endeavor to sleep for at least the next hour. Two would be more gentlemanly. I’ll see to it you get a pony just as soon as you learn your letters if you’ll accommodate me on this.”

He slipped into the corridor, leaving the door cracked just an inch—not enough to let in a draft, but enough to let a baby’s cries be heard two doors down.

And when he quietly closed Sophie’s door behind him, eagerness turned to something… less certain.

Perhaps he should have brought himself off first…

Perhaps this wasn’t wise. Assuming Sophie’s welcome was a sexual overture—and that was an assumption, regardless of how she kissed him—no matter what precautions were taken, there was always a chance of consequences…

He pushed the bed curtains aside, appallingly willing to take on such consequences if taking on Sophie were part of the bargain, as well. Sophie didn’t roll over as Vim shed his dressing gown, which had him pausing, one knee on the mattress, one foot on the floor.

She reached behind her and flipped the covers up. Vim scooted into their warmth and arranged himself along the lovely, feminine curve of Sophie’s back. She was in her nightgown, which he took for a minimal boon to his self-control, until he heard a funny hitch in her breathing.

Had she been crying while he was plotting seduction?

“You did not want to speak of your brothers,” he said, drawing his hand down the elegant length of her spine and feeling remorse twist in his gut where arousal had been just moments before.

“We don’t, generally.”

“When my father died, I was a small child. I did not understand grieving in silence, but my mother seemed to need it. Fortunately, my aunt and uncle understood I needed to speak of my papa. Uncle had sketches of Papa hung in the schoolroom, which had a salubrious impact on my studies.”

She craned her neck to peer at him over her shoulder. “I think that’s the first positive thing you’ve said about anyone or anything associated with your home.”

“It’s a lovely place, settled, comfortable, and…”

“Yes?” She subsided, which meant he couldn’t see her face—and she couldn’t see him.

“Come here, Sophie Windham. If you’re to interrogate me, at least let us be comfortable while you do.” He tucked her close enough that she had to be aware of the remains of his erection snug against her backside.

“Mr. Charpentier, you are without clothing.”

“And soon you will be too, if you want to be.”

“Tell me about Sidling.”

It was to be slow torture, then, unless he’d mistaken her invitation entirely. No matter, it was the loveliest form of torture, and he would do his utmost to make sure it was mutual.

“Sidling goes back nearly to the days of the Conqueror, at least to hear my grandfather tell it. We’ve a Norman ruin that was likely a watchtower of some sort. The land rolls, but not so you can’t get a crop in. There’s a drive about a half-mile in length, oaks on both sides, some of them huge. We had a big windstorm when I was a boy, and one toppled. I stopped counting the tree rings at four hundred, and in the middle, where the rings were almost too small to count, my grandfather said those were the hard, cold years.”

“Cold makes for solid wood. My brother has studied violin construction and says northern wood is preferred for that reason.”

“These brothers of yours are an interesting lot.” Her hip was interesting too. A smooth, beautiful conjunction of leg, derriere, and woman that fit beneath his palm perfectly.

“Tell me of your uncle and aunt.”

Had she sighed a little with that question? He leaned over and kissed her cheek to investigate. When he resumed speaking, he kept his cheek