Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,8
on the carpet beside a scarred old rocking chair in a lowly servants’ parlor, he saw Sophie Windham fall in love. It came over her in a matter of moments, put a soft sparkle in her eyes and a warmth in her smile, and most of all, it changed the way she touched the object of her affection.
Little Kit went from being a potentially malodorous bundle of trouble to the one person on earth she’d die to protect. She laid him in her lap, taking both of his wrists in her hands, leaving him free to kick his shawl away, grinning and cooing at her while she steadied him with her hands.
“Such a strong fellow you are.” She smiled down at him, bringing his hands together then gently spreading them wide again. “I applaud your strength, Master Kit. A sturdy young man like you will be riding to hounds by his second birthday.”
Vim had the sure conviction Sophie Windham had never voiced such nonsensical utterances in her life. He tore his gaze from the lady and child and sat back to catch a glimpse of the weather through the windows.
Ye almighty gods. He needed to be leaving. The light would soon be gone, the temperature would drop, and the snow would only get deeper as darkness fell. It seemed like a metaphor for Vim’s life, but he could at least take with him the knowledge Kit would be safe and loved and as happy as one devoted female could make him.
“I think he’s tiring,” Miss Windham said softly. She tucked the shawl around the baby and cradled him in her arms. “How long is he likely to nap?”
Vim went to the hearth to poke up the fire—just the thought of going out in the storm made his insides curdle—and considered the question.
“However long you think he should sleep, he won’t. If he’s been larking around all day, and you think he’s entitled to sleep for hours, he’ll catnap. If you think he slept late in the morning and has hardly stirred from his blankets, he’ll go down after luncheon and barely be up in time for his dinner. Babies delight in confounding us, and it’s their God-given right to do so.”
“His eyes are closing.”
Vim had to smile. She hadn’t heard a word he’d said, so fascinated was Sophie Windham with one rather ordinary baby.
Except there were no ordinary babies. Not in England, not on the Continent, not among the natives on any continent in any culture. There had never been an ordinary baby—not to the child’s mother, in any case.
“Miss Windham, I really must be going.”
That got her attention. She peered up at him, her expression disgruntled.
“Must you? Will you at least let me feed you before you go? The taverns and public houses will be full to the brim, and you have been quite kind to both Kit and me. I haven’t even offered you a decent cup of tea, so you really cannot be going just yet, Mr. Charpentier.”
She rose with the child, her hold on him as confident and relaxed as if this were her fifth baby. She was perhaps old enough to have had five babies—she wasn’t a girl by any means—but her figure belied the notion entirely.
Sophie Windham was blessed with a body a courtesan would envy. Devoid of cloaks and shawls and capes, Vim could assess her womanly charms all too easily.
“I appreciate the offer, Miss Windham, but the sooner I’m on my way, the sooner I’ll be able to find lodging with friends. Your offer is much appreciated nonetheless.” He reached for his greatcoat, still draped over a chair, but she advanced toward him, determination etched on her features.
“Sir, I am virtually alone in this house with a helpless child dependent on me for his every need. I have no idea how to feed him. I know not how or when to bathe him. I haven’t the first idea when his bedtime should be or what do with him upon waking. The least you can do is impart some knowledge to me before you go wandering the streets of Mayfair.”
The angle of her chin said she’d stop him bodily. Maternal instinct, whether firsthand or vicarious, was nothing a sane man sought to thwart.
“Perhaps just a cup of tea.”
“Nonsense.” She eyed him up and down. “You’ve likely had nothing to eat since dawn, and that was probably cold, lumpy porridge with neither butter nor honey nor even a smidgen of jam. Come along.”