Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,76

it-will-be-all-right smile that had comforted her on many an occasion. Westhaven was sensible. It was his surpassing gift to be sensible, but Sophie found no solace from it now.

She had not been sensible, and worse yet, she did not regret the lapse. She would, however, regret very much if the lapse did not remain private.

“The tweenie was anticipating an interesting event, wasn’t she?” Westhaven asked as he assembled a tea tray. While Sophie took a seat at the table, St. Just hiked himself onto a counter, and Val took the other bench.

“Joleen,” Sophie said. “Her interesting event is six months old, a thriving healthy child named… Westhaven, what are you doing?”

“He’s making sure he gets something to eat under the guise of looking after his siblings,” St. Just said, pushing off the counter. “Next, he’ll fetch the cream from the window box while I make us some sandwiches. Valentine find us a cloth for the table.”

“At once, Colonel.” Val snapped a salute and sauntered off in the direction of the butler’s pantry, while Westhaven headed for the colder reaches of the back hallway.

“You look a bit fatigued, Sophie.” St. Just studied her with a brooding frown, all hint of teasing gone. His brows knit further as his gaze went to the hearth. “Is that a pair of my favorite socks set out to dry? They’re a bit large for you, aren’t they?”

Westhaven emerged from the back hallway, a small box in his hand. “Somebody has decimated my stash of marzipan. If His Grace has given up crème cakes for German chocolate, I’ll be naming my seconds.”

Valentine returned from the corridor. “Somebody left my favorite mug in the linen closet. I thought you favored more delicate crockery, Sophie.”

In the ensuing moment of silence, Sophie was casting around desperately for plausible reasons why all this evidence of Vim’s presence in the house was yet on hand, when the back door opened and slammed shut.

“Sophie, love! I’m back. Come here and let me kiss you senseless, and then, by God, we’re going to talk.”

Oh dear.

Oh, good heavens.

Vim emerged from the darkness looking weary, handsome, and very pleased—until his gaze traveled to each of the three men glowering at him.

“Who the hell are you?” Westhaven’s voice was soft, but he did not sound sensible in the least.

“And what makes you think you’re going to be kissing my sister?” St. Just added, hands on his hips.

“And what on earth could you have to speak with Lady Sophia about?” Valentine asked, crossing his arms.

Thirteen

Three things penetrated the surprise Vim felt at seeing Sophie in company with three large, undeniably attractive men.

First, they resembled her, each in a slightly different way. Around the eyes, for the darkest one; something about the chin in the one with lighter hair; and the shape of the nose for the leanest one. And green eyes. All four had green eyes.

Brothers. These were her brothers. The thought brought relief and resentment too: where had these stout fellows been when Sophie had been stranded here, trying to cope with a baby and a snowstorm and a stranger under her roof ?

The second realization was that the mews had shown a number of hoofprints in the snow. He’d handed his horse off to Higgins and not remarked all the stable traffic. Had he paid attention, he might have been warned that Sophie was no longer alone.

But then the third realization sank into his brain: Lady Sophia.

“Your horse started off sound enough,” he said, addressing her directly and ignoring the glowering idiots cluttering up her kitchen. “The farther I got from the river though, the more he felt off. Not lame, exactly, but not sound, either. I did not want to leave him to the indifferent care of a coaching inn or livery, so I brought him back. Whatever the difficulty, he seemed to work out of it as we approached Town. How fares Kit?”

The teakettle started to whistle, but Vim kept his gaze locked on Sophie.

Lady Sophia. The implications reverberated through his mind: the daughters of earls, marquises, and dukes were ladies, as were the wives of peers. Wives were permitted a great deal of latitude unmarried women did not enjoy…

“Sophie, as you appear acquainted with this person”—the fellow with the chestnut hair put an edge of condescension on the word—“will you introduce us?”

From down the hall, an indignant squall sounded.

“I’ll get him.” Sophie sent Vim a pleading look when she brushed past him. “And there had better not be any broken crockery when