Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,74
as well rest the horses,” St. Just said, nudging his beast out of the middle of the beaten path. “Westhaven, can you dismount?”
“I cannot. My backside is permanently frozen to the saddle; my ability to reproduce is seriously jeopardized.”
“Anna will be desolated.” St. Just waited while Westhaven swung down, then whistled at an urchin shivering in the door to a nearby church.
“We’ll just get the feeling back into our feet, and the saddles will be chilled sufficiently to threaten even your lusty inclination.” Westhaven led his horse to the side of the street, such as it was.
“Cold weather makes Emmie frisky.” St. Just assayed his signature grin. “We have a deal of cold weather up in the West Riding, so I’ve learned to appreciate it. Let’s at least find a tot of grog while Baby Brother sees to his precious violin.”
“The George is just up the street. I’ll be along in a minute.”
But St. Just could not just toddle on and wet his whistle. No. He must turn to Westhaven, hands on his hips, and cock his head like a hound trying to place a far-off sound. “And what will you be about while I’m swilling bad ale?”
“I’ll be stopping at that sweet shop yonder, before they close up for the day.”
Fortunately, it was too cold for a man to blush creditably.
“You’re thinking of sweets when the George will have a roaring fire and libation to offer?” The ragged child came trotting over from the church, and St. Just fished out a coin. “Keep an eye on the horses.”
“Aye, g-guv. I’ll watch ’em close.”
“For pity’s sake.” Westhaven unwound his scarf and wrapped it around the child’s neck. “We won’t be long.”
They couldn’t be long, or Westhaven’s ears would freeze off. “As it happens, I own that sweet shop. Go get your grog, and I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes.” He walked off, hoping his brother would for once take an unsubtle cue.
“You own a sweet shop?” St. Just fell in step beside Westhaven, all bonhomie and good cheer.
“Diversification of assets, Kettering calls it. Get your own sweet shop, why don’t you?”
“My brother, a confectioner. Marriage has had such a positive impact on you, Westhaven. How long have you owned this fine establishment?”
It was a fine establishment, which was to say, it was warm. The scents of chocolate and cinnamon thick in the air didn’t hurt, either.
Westhaven waited silently while St. Just peered around the place with unabashed curiosity. There was a prodigious amount of pink in the decor, and ribbon bows and small baskets and tins artfully decorated.
“You own a bordello for sweets,” St. Just observed in a carrying voice likely honed on the parade grounds of Spain. “It’s charming.”
“Unlike you.”
“You’re just cold and missing your countess. One must make allowances.”
Mercifully, those allowances meant St. Just kept quiet while Westhaven purchased a quantity of marzipan.
“You aren’t going to tell the troops to carry on, God Save the King, and all that?” St. Just asked as they left the shop. He reached over and stuffed his fingers into the bag of sweets Westhaven was carrying.
“Help yourself, by all means.”
“Can’t leave all the heavy lifting to my younger brothers.” St. Just munched contentedly on some of the finest German confection to be had on earth. “Why didn’t they know you were the owner?”
“Because I don’t bruit it about.”
“You don’t want to be seen as dabbling in trade?”
Westhaven took a piece of candy from the bag in his hand, wondering if the marzipan would freeze before his brothers consumed it all. “I do not want to be seen as owning a sweet shop. Sweet shops are not dignified.”
He marched forward to meet Valentine at the horses, his older brother’s laughter ringing in his ears.
***
“Ouch, blast you!”
The blow to Sophie’s chin was surprisingly stout, considering it had been delivered by a very small, chubby baby heel, but it left Sophie wanting to hurl the infant’s bowl of porridge against the hearth stones.
“That hurt, Christopher Elijah.” She grasped his foot and shook it gently. “Shame on you.”
He grinned around the porridge adorning his cheeks and kicked again. Sophie tried one more spoonful, which he spat out amid another happy spate of kicking.
“Time for you to romp,” she said, wiping his mouth off with a damp cloth. And then time to play with him, read to him, and tuck him up in his cradle, while she…
Sophie’s gaze drifted to the window to see darkness had finally fallen. Yesterday had been a day for tears;