Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish (16 page)

Tomorrow, maybe.

A fresh bout of tears threatened—my goodness, she hadn't cried this much in years—and she glanced over at where Kit was slurping on his fingers on the parlor rug. While she watched, he took his hand from his mouth and started twisting his body as if to look at the fire dancing in the hearth.

“You're getting grand ideas again.”

His gaze went immediately to Sophie where she sat on the floor beside his blankets.

“Go ahead; amaze yourself with a change in scenery.”

As if he'd understood her words, Kit squirmed and twisted and gurgled until he'd succeeded in pushing himself over onto his stomach. His head came up, and he braced himself on his hands, grinning merrily.

“This is how it begins with you men,” she said, running her hand down the small back. “You have this urge to explore, to sally forth, to conquer the world. Next you'll be going for a sailor in the Royal Navy, shipping out for parts unknown, all unmindful of the people you leave behind, the people who love you and worry about you every moment.”

Kit hiked his backside skyward and managed to get on all fours. Sophie wiped the drool from his mouth, but his grin was undiminished.

“Men. You must adventure; you must go; you must march and sail and charge about in the company of your fellows. No matter you could be killed, no matter you break hearts every time you leave.”

Kit slapped his blankets with one small hand.

“I've never understood men. Bart would come home on winter leave, and nothing would do but he'd go off to Melton, riding to hounds, hell-bent, in all kinds of evil weather. It wasn't enough to taunt fate by charging into French lines. No, he must risk his neck even on leave.”

She fell silent, frowning as Kit raised his second hand and slapped it down, as well, slightly ahead of where it had been previously. He bounced with pleasure, cooing and rocking, until he scooted one small chubby knee a little forward. He rocked on his knees more exuberantly, thrilled with himself for simply moving one small leg.

He was… crawling. Amid more noise and rocking and drooling, he shifted the second knee, then a hand, until he was shortly pitched forward onto his little chest, smacking the blanket and kicking his glee. He struggled up to all fours again and started rocking once more, while Sophie felt another damned tear slide down her cheek.

When it appeared Kit had tired of his newfound competence and Sophie had regained control over her wayward composure, she picked him up and hugged him close.

“I am proud of you. I am most, most proud of you, but these exertions will work up an appetite.”

She herself had eaten quite enough, finding it did nothing to fill the sense of emptiness created by Vim's absence. The kitchen was toasty warm and full of the scent of gingerbread when Sophie repaired there to make Kit's dinner, but it was as if her usual misery at the holidays had descended manyfold.

“The house is decorated,” she told the baby. “There are presents under the tree at Morelands, the servants are all enjoying their leave, and I want simply to sleep until all the merriment is over. But I mustn't sleep.”

Kit spit out his last spoonful of mashed potatoes.

“I can't sleep because I must find a family to love you, and I can't sleep now because both of the bedrooms hold too many memories, and besides, I let the fire go out in Vim's room. Except it isn't Vim's room. It is Valentine's room, or it was before he ran off and got married just like his brothers…”

She was babbling, babbling about her brothers leaving her, for death or marriage, it made no difference. They were all gone, her father had had a heart seizure, and he would be going in time too. Kit would soon be gone, and Vim…

Vim was gone. A sob, a true, miserable, from-the-gut sob welled up, propelled by the darkness falling outside, the effort of being good for an entire day, and God knew what else. Sophie caught herself around the middle and swallowed back the ugly sound which, should it escape her, she feared would signal a permanent loss of her self-control.

It did not stay subdued, though. No, her body was determined to have its unhappy say. But then the back door slammed shut, and despite her misery, Sophie heard the sound of booted feet stomping in the hallway.

Good heavens, Merriweather or Higgins would be coming to check on her. She rose, swiped at her cheeks, and set aside the baby's spoon and rag.

Then a thought hit her that had her sitting down hard on the bench again: her brothers. Oh, please God,
not
those
three
. Yes, she'd missed them terribly, but at that precise moment, she didn't want to see anybody, not one soul except the very person she would never see again.

Vim.

He stood in the doorway, looking haggard, chilled to the bone, and so, so dear. Sophie flew across the kitchen to embrace him, the sob escaping her midflight.

“I'm sorry,” he said, his arms going around her. “There were no coaches going to Kent, no horses to hire for a distance that great. No horses to buy, not even a mule. All day… I tried all day.”

He sounded exhausted, and the cold came off him palpably. His cheeks were rosy with it, his voice a little hoarse, and against his ruddy complexion, his blue eyes gleamed brilliantly.

“You must be famished.” Sophie did not let him go while she made that prosaic, female observation. Despite all she'd eaten, she was famished—for the sight of him, for the sound of his voice, and oh, for the feel of his tall body against her.

“Hungry, yes. How fares Kit?”

Still they did not part. “He started crawling today. Not far, not quite well, but he'll figure it out quickly. He's just finished dinner.”

Vim moved off toward the table but kept an arm around Sophie's shoulders.

“Clever lad.” He smiled down at the baby propped amid blankets and towels on the table. “Making your first mad dash across the carpet, are you? And I missed it. You must have a demonstration for me before you retire, for it's a sight I would not miss.”

“I missed you.” Sophie hugged Vim close, burying her face against his chilly shoulder.

She felt a sigh go out of him and wished she could recall the words. Yes, they were the truth, a defining truth, but still, she should not have said the words. When he did not give those unwise words back her to, she stepped away. “Put your wet things in the parlor to dry. I'll see about dinner.”

***

Vim did as ordered, spreading his sodden greatcoat over the back of a wing chair, adorning the mantel with his gloves, hat and scarf, peeling off the knit sweater he'd worn all day, and removing his boots and the soaked outer pair of trousers from his legs.

In his life, he'd been colder, more exhausted, and hungrier on many occasions, but he'd never been so glad to come in from the weather.

The picture Sophie had made, sitting in a faded brown velvet dress at the table—her dark hair gathered sleekly at her nape, her soft voice a low caress in Vim's mind as she'd spoken to the child—had been an image of heaven.

And then the feel of her…

No hesitance, no remonstrance for reappearing uninvited, nothing but her arms lashed around him in welcome, and those dangerous, wonderful words:
I
missed
you
.

“These are socks I knitted for my brother Devlin when he was wintering in Spain,” Sophie said, closing the parlor door behind her. “I made several pairs for him and for Bart, as well, but Bart's things were distributed among his men, in accordance with his wishes. Devlin went north in summer, so all his winter socks were left behind.”

“My thanks.” He took the socks from her, letting his hand brush hers.

“You are chilled to the bone, Vim Charpentier. I cannot believe you wandered London the entire day.”

He sat to peel off his soaked and chilled footwear, struck with the precious domesticity of the situation.

Sophie sank to her knees before him. “Allow me.” She plucked the socks she'd just handed him from his grasp and scowled at his feet. “For heaven's sake, Mr. Charpentier, could you not have paused to warm your feet up at the occasional public house?” She went on scolding him, taking a kitchen towel from her shoulder and applying it briskly to his feet.

“Easy, Sophie, the feeling comes back in an uncomfortable rush.”

She paused, the towel wrapped around his feet. “Did you really look all day for a horse?” She studied his feet while she posed her question, and Vim resisted the urge to stroke a hand over her hair.

“Not all day. First I made the rounds of the coaching inns in Mayfair, Soho, St. James, Knightsbridge, and halfway to the City. There were a few traveling due east, but I could not buy a place, even on the roof, not for any price. People are determined to join their loved ones for the holidays.”

She nodded and hugged his feet. Hugged his big, cold, red, soon to be madly itching feet. Hugged them right to her breasts.

It was ridiculous, that gesture. Extravagantly generous, personal, and practical all at once, given her bodily warmth. He allowed it and realized his heart would never recover entirely from encountering Sophie Windham.

“I tried to rent a horse, but nobody wanted to part with a sound animal for so great a distance when many people were willing to pay dearly for a local hire. I tried the abattoirs and breweries, everywhere. No luck.”

And no room at the inns he'd tried, either. He didn't tell her that.

“I'm glad.” She let his feet go and resumed rubbing them gently. “I'm glad you came back where I can feed you properly and know you're warm and safe and well fed.”

She did feed him, fed him thick slabs of smoked ham, steaming potatoes seasoned with herbs, cheese, and butter, and crusty slices of bread fresh from the oven. It was the best meal he'd ever eaten, and yet he tasted little of it because he was preoccupied watching her move around the kitchen, tidying up as he demolished his dinner.

And then he followed her down the hallway to where he'd never thought to be again, sprawled on the thick carpet of the servants' parlor, Kit on all fours between them, rocking and cooing and enjoying the life of a cosseted baby.

“Kit listened to your parting sermon this morning. He was a very good boy today.” She lay on her back, her head turned to watch the baby.

“And he's thriving in your care. Sophie. You aren't really going to give him up, are you? If Their Graces were tolerant of the tweenie's situation, they might make allowances for you.”

He regretted the words, because they opened the door for him to wonder again what exactly her position in the household was. He told himself it didn't matter—it
still
didn't matter—because again, he'd be leaving in the morning.

She curled over on her side, pillowing her cheek on her hand as she gazed at the fire. “Their Graces would indulge me, did I ask it of them, but Kit needs a real family, brothers and sisters, a mama, a papa. I would spoil him shamelessly, and there's much I do not know about raising a child.”

He gave in to the temptation to touch her, reaching over and smoothing the side of his thumb along her hairline. “You're a quick study. Every mother and aunt and granny in Town would be happy to help you.” Women were like that. They rallied around babies despite differences in age, class, standing, and even nationality.

She did not react to his caress, not that he could see. “I think the country is a better place to grow up, especially for boys.”

It occurred to him to offer her a place at Sidling. His aunt and uncle were forever grousing about their aging staff, but they refused to pension off the duffers and dodderers on their payroll.

But then he'd never see her, for Sidling was one place he would not frequent if he could help it. Still, the idea was not without merit. It would be better than losing touch with her entirely.

“He's getting tired.” Sophie spoke quietly as Kit let out a huge yawn, looking like a lion cub on all fours, roaring in sleepy silence.

“Shall we remove upstairs?”

She nodded, and they began the routine of folding up blankets, banking the fire, packing up the baby, and heading for the servants' stairs. The stairway and corridors were frigid, but Sophie's room was a cocoon of warmth.

“I let the fire in the other bedroom go out,” she said, waiting for Vim to set the cradle near the hearth before depositing Kit in his bed. “We can get it going again, or you are welcome to stay with me.”

She was fussing the baby in his cradle as she spoke, depriving Vim of the sight of her face. If it was an invitation, it was quite casually offered.

Carefully offered?

He lit the candle near her bed, blew out the taper, and moved to stand next to the cradle.

“I do believe that child is growing so quickly he'll soon no longer fit in his cradle. We'll wake to find the thing in pieces on the floor and Kit striding about the room, demanding his breakfast.”

It wasn't at all what he'd intended say.

He dropped to his haunches and waited until Sophie peered at him. “Sophie Windham, if I share a bed with you ever again, I will make mad, passionate love with you through the night. We'll neither of us get any rest, though in the morning, I will leave, and I will not come back.” He would
want
to come back though, and wanting sometimes turned into wishing, and wishing into making it so. Sometimes.

She appeared to consider his words calmly. “Mad, passionate love?”

“With you, dear lady, it could not be otherwise.” He hadn't meant to say that, either, though it was true.

She sat back on her heels but continued studying the baby as he found two fingers to slip into his rosebud mouth. “I believe I'll use the bathing chamber. Mad, passionate love sounds quite agreeable.”

Sophie leaned over and kissed Vim, a lingering, claiming kiss that had lust bursting into flame in his vitals. He'd purposely not kissed her, because to do so would have been presumptuous and stupid and dangerous and…

Wonderful
. He groaned with pleasure at the taste of her, his hand finding her hair and holding her steady for the plundering his mouth demanded. “God in heaven, Sophie…”

“Uhn.”

A small, female sound, one of satisfaction and pleasure that left Vim envisioning mad, passionate, semiclothed lovemaking on the hearth before the fire, Sophie making just such sounds beneath him, his cock buried—

She patted his cheek and broke the kiss. “I won't be long.”

She wafted out of the room, and Vim was still sitting dazedly on his heels before the fire when he heard the door to the bathing chamber click shut across the hallway.

He again used cold water to wash off, and found his borrowed dressing gown was still draped across the foot of the bed. Kit was fast asleep by the time Vim had used the warmer on the sheets, banked the fire, then applied his naked self to the sheets to keep them from cooling before Sophie could join him.

Mad, passionate love? Had he ever in his life made mad, passionate love? He enjoyed sex, he enjoyed the friendships that could arise around a shared pleasure in sex, but mad, passionate love?

Sophie appeared in the doorway, wearing only a nightgown and wrapper, her hair curling down her back, her smile a trifle uncertain. The sight of her fresh from her ablutions had blood pooling in Vim's groin and more images dancing in his brain.

Mad, passionate love it would be. Vim propped himself on one elbow and patted the covers. “Come to bed. Kit will have us up and about before the night's half gone, and I have plans for you, my lady, that do not involve sleep.”

She wandered over to the hearth. “He does seem to be sound asleep. Crawling is hard work.”

He watched while she drifted to her vanity and sat before the mirror. “I recall when my youngest sister started to crawl. Papa insisted we have a party in the nursery, because his last little princess was up off the floor. I danced with him by standing on his shiny, tall boots.”

“I can do that for you, you know.”

“Let me dance on your boots?” She picked up a brush and tilted her head to the side so the mass of her hair fell over one shoulder.

“Brush your hair.” He tossed the covers back, started across the room, and then caught sight of Sophie's fascinated expression in the vanity mirror. He snatched the dressing gown from the bed and belted it snugly around his waist.

When he stood directly behind her, she passed the brush back to him, letting their fingers barely touch.

Ah, so she was teasing him. The subtle teasing of a woman who understood the value of anticipation, but teasing all the same. Vim smiled at her in the mirror. “You have gorgeous hair, Sophie Windham.” He drew the damp, curling length of it back over her shoulders in both of his hands and repeated the caress when she closed her eyes.

“Shall I braid it?”

“Please.” She opened her eyes. “Over the right shoulder, because I like to sleep on my left side.”

“What else do you like?”

She blew out a breath, her expression considering while Vim used the brush in long strokes from her crown to her hips. It was beautiful hair, thick, lustrous, and gleaming with an indication of basic health and sound living.

“I like music,” she said, “and sweets. I am quite partial to sweets.”

Vim took this answer for a deliberate and charming prevarication. “I meant, what do you like from your lovers? Shall I kiss you all over? Shall you bind my wrists and have your way with me?” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, the braid he'd been fashioning forgotten. “Shall you put your mouth on me, Sophie, and make me forget myself utterly?”

She sat very still while Vim slid a hand over her shoulder and let it rest there, just above her breast while he pressed his cheek to hers.

“My love, are you blushing?”

“You are very bold, Mr. Charpentier.”

He straightened, feeling it imperative that he braid up her hair, so he might have the pleasure of unbraiding it once they'd gained the bed.

“I like your hands on me,” he volunteered. “There's a particular quality to 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, he's quite unmanageable.”

Mention of Sophie's papa was not at all conducive to satisfying the lust simmering Vim's gut. He cast around for yet another gambit.

“Is it hard, being here without your family at the holidays?”

“No.” She answered quickly, the most decisive thing she'd said since getting into the bed. She also took his hand in her own and nuzzled his palm with her nose. “Even your hands smell good.”

“When one washes his hands frequently…”

Her tongue, hot, wet, and delicate, traced the crease between his third and fourth fingers. Vim rolled up and over her, crouching on his forearms and knees. “For the love God, kiss me, Sophie.”

He waited for a long moment while she cradled his jaw then framed his face with both hands. She kissed him on the mouth, a sweet, almost chaste kiss, then ran one hand back through his hair to anchor at his nape.

“You kiss me too,” she whispered. “Madly, passionately.”

Lust sprang from the starting blocks and raged through Vim's system. He opened his mouth over hers, desire a voracious force singing in his blood.

“Vim.” Sophie's fingers on his chin were light, her grip in his hair secure without being painful. She spoke his name softly, as if pleading for something.

He hauled back hard on the reins of his lust and rested his forehead against hers. Passionate was not at all the same thing as heedless. Not with Sophie, not on their one shared night.

He tasted her slowly, one corner of her mouth then the other. She sighed, her breath fanning against his neck, and he thanked God for all the ladies who'd taught him restraint, timing, patience, and consideration.

All the ladies whose faces and names he could not recall and probably would never be able to recall again.

He slid his tongue into the soft heat of Sophie's mouth only to feel her grip on his hair tighten. She drew on him then came out to play in hesitant, teasing forays into his mouth.

“I could kiss you all night, Sophie. I shall kiss you all night.”

She shifted to lock her ankles at the small of his back. “Not just kiss.” She spoke against his mouth.

Vim smiled against hers. “Not just.” Sophie arched up against him at the hips, reminding Vim that while he was naked, she was not. “Nightgown, Sophie.”

She kissed him harder, one arm wrapping tightly around his back, the other lower, so her hand gripped his buttocks.

He drew his mouth back half an inch. “Sweetheart, I want you naked.” Her hand on his backside eased a trifle. “I want to feel your skin next to mine. I want to touch you all over. I want the scent of you on me everywhere.”

Her hands fell away, and she unlocked her ankles. “Nightgown. Quickly please.”

He sat back between her legs, and when she levered up, he got the thing off her, but he didn't immediately settle into the cradle of her body.

“What do you like, Sophie? How do you want me to love you?”

She blinked in the candlelight. “You were doing quite nicely a moment ago.”

“I was about to go up in flames a moment ago.” He crouched over her and brushed her hair back from her forehead. “I think you were getting a bit enthusiastic too.”

“Is that bad?”

“God in heaven.” He tucked himself closer but kept his cock from grazing her belly. “You do not dally often, do you, Sophie Windham?”

Her hand stroked over his hair slowly. “Not often at all. Then everybody assumes you are not interested in dallying, and the opportunities stop presenting themselves. Pretty soon it doesn't matter that you might be interested, because no one's going to ask.”

And she was not designed to ask for what she wanted, for what she needed. He became determined to give it to her, to see that for once Sophie Windham's every wish came true.

“You have me for this night, Sophie, and I have you.” He started over with the kissing, taking his time as if they'd never kissed before. He kissed her brow, finding that despite her bath, her hair still bore the faint scents of vanilla and cinnamon underscored with gingerbread. He kissed the tender spot below her ear; he kissed the juncture of her neck and shoulder, hearing her draw a slow inhale as he did.

“My love, you like that.”

“I like it.”

So he treasured her with his mouth for long, long moments, until he could detect the pulse in her throat beating more rapidly and feel some tension in the hand she had fisted in his hair.

He trailed his mouth lower, settling his lips over one puckered nipple then the other. She wrapped her legs around his back and used her fingers to trace his ears.

“I like that, what you're doing with my ears.”

“You have lovely ears.”

He smiled against her breast until she tugged on his earlobe, which created a resonating tug in his groin.

“Sophie?”

“Hmm?”

He went still above her. “I want you.”

The words weren't said with any mad passion. He'd stated a simple, stark, undeniable reality, one more pressing by the instant.