Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,68
your touch I can’t quite describe. There’s… meaning in it.”
“Meaning?”
She regarded him in the mirror, her blush fading.
“That’s not the right word. Some people can calm a nervous horse with their touch. They communicate to the animal with hands, tone of voice, and posture in ways more substantial than words. Your hands on me feel that way—more substantial than words.”
She turned and pressed her forehead to his midriff. “You must not say such things.”
He stroked his palm over her crown, holding her half-finished braid with the other hand. “Why not, Sophie?”
“You simply must not.” She straightened, and he finished with her braid, using his own hair ribbon to tie it.
“Get in bed, my love. I’ll be along in a minute.”
She gave him a wary look but did as he bid, closing the bed curtains while Vim poured a glass of water and set it on the nightstand, along with a single, tall candle. He wanted to be able to see her face when their bodies joined, wanted to read her expression, gauge her pleasure.
But first things first. He picked up the cradle and crossed to the bathing chamber, making use of his tooth powder once again for good measure, and tucking the child in a warm corner. “Just for a bit. I can’t guarantee you’d have peace and quiet otherwise.”
Nothing from the infant, which was encouraging. He cracked the door enough that if the child fussed, the adults in the next room would hear him.
And now, for some mad, passionate lovemaking.
Except part of Vim was more inclined to take all the time in the world than to permit mindless hurry, to savor and draw out this pleasure for them both, because it was all they would have to keep of each other.
On that sobering thought, he climbed into bed and stretched out beside Sophie.
“Are you warm enough?”
She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “I’m fine. Did you mean to leave the curtain open on your side?”
“Yes.” The candle was on his side.
He reached under the covers for Sophie’s hand. “Do you suppose the weather has delayed your brothers?”
“Very likely.”
He could roll over and mount her, fuse his mouth to hers, and be inside her in moments. He wanted to. Badly.
And that simply would not serve. He cast around for a topic that might permit some affection without requiring that he concentrate on anything more than the clean, flowery scent of the woman in bed with him.
“Tell me about your brothers, Sophie.”
“They are good men.” She laced her fingers with his. “But they are men. They’ve married and gone their own ways. Two have started their families. One up in Yorkshire, another in Oxfordshire, and the other mostly in Surrey.”
“Surrey isn’t so far.” He brought her hand to his mouth and gently bit her knuckle. “My brother Benjamin hares all over the kingdom. He’s some sort of investigator for the high and mighty, which he tells me is not half so glamorous as it sounds, though it’s lucrative.”
“Benjamin Hazlit?”
“You know him?” He rolled to his side to peer at her in the gloom, wondering when the innocuous topic of her brothers had shifted to the more difficult subject of his own. “He says discretion is the first requirement of his profession.”
“I know of him. I believe Their Graces have employed him in some administrative capacity. He doesn’t look at all like you.”
God in heaven, she knew his brother. She’d seen his brother. This knowledge pinned back the ears of Vim’s lust and had him wishing he had simply initiated the lovemaking.
“Benjamin and I have different fathers. Polite society is such a small world. I can put into almost any port on the globe and find some tavern or watering hole where the Englishmen congregate. Within moments of meeting each other, they’re engaged in an earnest attempt to find common social ground, and we’ve managed it without even trying.”
“Are they trying to find common ground or trying to find out which of them occupies the higher social ground?”
Interesting question, for some other day.
“Which of your brothers is your favorite, Sophie?” He stayed on his side and gave her back her hand so he might trace her hairline with his fingers.
“They’re all my favorites. My sisters are my favorites too.”
Would she never touch him?
“Which one tries your patience the most?”
“My papa. He means well, truly he does, but he is quite determined he knows best for everybody. My mama reasons with him behind closed doors, but other than that,