Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish - By Grace Burrowes Page 0,87
snug and peaceful in the falling snow.
“It’s lovely.” Sophie drew her horse to a halt and crossed her wrists on her knee. “It looks serene, content. You must have missed it terribly.”
“It has a certain charm.” Which at the moment was completely lost on Vim.
Would the hall be tidy enough for visitors? Would there be sufficient sheets for their beds? Would Uncle’s antediluvian hound have chewed all the carpets to rags? Would Aunt be drifting about in dishabille, making vague references to friends no longer alive?
“You’re very quiet, my lord.”
He was anticipating more seasonal humiliation already. “My aunt and uncle are elderly. I’m hoping I haven’t overestimated their capacity for hospitality.”
“I daresay my brothers could enjoy each other’s company before a campfire with naught but horse blankets and a short deck of cards between them.” She sent her horse forward, leaving Vim no option but to do likewise.
“Is that what all this bickering is about? Enjoying each other’s company?”
“Of course.” She peered at him, looking lovely, the snow clinging to her scarf, the cold putting a ruddy blush on her cheeks. “Isn’t it the same for you? You come home for the holidays, and it’s as if you never gave up your short coats. The feelings of childhood and youth are restored to you just like you never left.”
“God, I hope not.”
She fiddled with her reins. “Perhaps this year can give you some memories to replace the ones you find uncomfortable. Tell me about your aunt and uncle.”
And now he’d hurt her feelings, which was just… famous, as Westhaven would have said. Bloody, famously famous.
“Sophie.” He reached over and covered her hand with his own for just a moment. Her brothers were allowing them some privacy by dropping back a few dozen yards, probably because the entire party was in full view of the house. “I will treasure the memories I already have of this holiday season for all the rest of my days.”
She urged her horse to a slightly faster walk, which meant Vim had to drop his hand or look as ridiculous as he felt. What had he been thinking, to offer hospitality to a litter of full-grown ducal pups who’d be used to only the best of everything?
He’d been thinking of spending just a few more hours with Sophie, of giving her another day or night before she had to face parting with Kit.
“Pretty place.” Lord Valentine rode up on Vim’s right. “I like the old-fashioned manors myself. I just finished restoring a lovely old place out in Oxfordshire. Don’t suppose you have a piano on the premises?”
“It will likely need tuning.” Unless the rats had chewed the thing to kindling.
“I always bring my tools with me. Soph! Wait up. St. Just and Westhaven have been picking on me without ceasing, and I want you to scold them properly.”
He trotted up to his sister, only to be replaced by Westhaven and St. Just on either side of Vim’s horse.
“It’s wonderful to see Valentine back to his old self,” Westhaven said. “The man was getting too serious by half.”
“We all were.” St. Just’s observation was quiet as he watched Val steer his horse right into the flank of Sophie’s larger mount, then threaten to drop his sister in the snow as he helped her dismount. “Her Grace was right to summon us home, even if means we don’t see our wives until Twelfth Night.”
“Maybe it was His Grace doing the summoning.”
Before they could wax maudlin over that, as well, Vim spoke up. “I will apologize in advance for the state of the household here at Sidling. We’ll keep you safe from the elements, but I can’t vouch for the particulars my aunt and uncle might be able to offer.”
Westhaven cocked his head when his horse came to a halt. “Like that, is it? Always a bit sticky taking over the reins from the old guard. I wrested a power of attorney from His Grace not long ago.” He swung down easily. “In hindsight, I’m not sure His Grace put up more than a token fight. Be a good lad and distract dear Sophie while I rub some feeling back into my abused fundament.”
Vim dismounted, his frozen feet and ankles suffering agonies when they hit the driveway. “I have never heard so much about a grown man’s miserable backside in all my days. How do your brothers put up with you?”
Westhaven paused in the act of running his stirrup irons up their leathers. “I do it for them, mostly.”