Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,65
All day… I tried all day.”
He sounded exhausted, and the cold came off him palpably. His cheeks were rosy with it, his voice a little hoarse, and against his ruddy complexion, his blue eyes gleamed brilliantly.
“You must be famished.” Sophie did not let him go while she made that prosaic, female observation. Despite all she’d eaten, she was famished—for the sight of him, for the sound of his voice, and oh, for the feel of his tall body against her.
“Hungry, yes. How fares Kit?”
Still they did not part. “He started crawling today. Not far, not quite well, but he’ll figure it out quickly. He’s just finished dinner.”
Vim moved off toward the table but kept an arm around Sophie’s shoulders.
“Clever lad.” He smiled down at the baby propped amid blankets and towels on the table. “Making your first mad dash across the carpet, are you? And I missed it. You must have a demonstration for me before you retire, for it’s a sight I would not miss.”
“I missed you.” Sophie hugged Vim close, burying her face against his chilly shoulder.
She felt a sigh go out of him and wished she could recall the words. Yes, they were the truth, a defining truth, but still, she should not have said the words. When he did not give those unwise words back her to, she stepped away. “Put your wet things in the parlor to dry. I’ll see about dinner.”
***
Vim did as ordered, spreading his sodden greatcoat over the back of a wing chair, adorning the mantel with his gloves, hat and scarf, peeling off the knit sweater he’d worn all day, and removing his boots and the soaked outer pair of trousers from his legs.
In his life, he’d been colder, more exhausted, and hungrier on many occasions, but he’d never been so glad to come in from the weather.
The picture Sophie had made, sitting in a faded brown velvet dress at the table—her dark hair gathered sleekly at her nape, her soft voice a low caress in Vim’s mind as she’d spoken to the child—had been an image of heaven.
And then the feel of her…
No hesitance, no remonstrance for reappearing uninvited, nothing but her arms lashed around him in welcome, and those dangerous, wonderful words: I missed you.
“These are socks I knitted for my brother Devlin when he was wintering in Spain,” Sophie said, closing the parlor door behind her. “I made several pairs for him and for Bart, as well, but Bart’s things were distributed among his men, in accordance with his wishes. Devlin went north in summer, so all his winter socks were left behind.”
“My thanks.” He took the socks from her, letting his hand brush hers.
“You are chilled to the bone, Vim Charpentier. I cannot believe you wandered London the entire day.”
He sat to peel off his soaked and chilled footwear, struck with the precious domesticity of the situation.
Sophie sank to her knees before him. “Allow me.” She plucked the socks she’d just handed him from his grasp and scowled at his feet. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Charpentier, could you not have paused to warm your feet up at the occasional public house?” She went on scolding him, taking a kitchen towel from her shoulder and applying it briskly to his feet.
“Easy, Sophie, the feeling comes back in an uncomfortable rush.”
She paused, the towel wrapped around his feet. “Did you really look all day for a horse?” She studied his feet while she posed her question, and Vim resisted the urge to stroke a hand over her hair.
“Not all day. First I made the rounds of the coaching inns in Mayfair, Soho, St. James, Knightsbridge, and halfway to the City. There were a few traveling due east, but I could not buy a place, even on the roof, not for any price. People are determined to join their loved ones for the holidays.”
She nodded and hugged his feet. Hugged his big, cold, red, soon to be madly itching feet. Hugged them right to her breasts.
It was ridiculous, that gesture. Extravagantly generous, personal, and practical all at once, given her bodily warmth. He allowed it and realized his heart would never recover entirely from encountering Sophie Windham.
“I tried to rent a horse, but nobody wanted to part with a sound animal for so great a distance when many people were willing to pay dearly for a local hire. I tried the abattoirs and breweries, everywhere. No luck.”
And no room at the inns he’d tried, either. He didn’t tell her that.