Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish (24 page)

While Sophie watched Vim walk out of her life, her brothers maneuvered so their horses were beside her, Valentine to her immediate right, Westhaven and St. Just to her left.

“Shall we?” St. Just kneed his horse forward, and Sophie's mount walked on, as well. All too soon, they were ambling up the drive to Morelands, the house sitting in winter splendor just a hundred yards ahead.

“I don't know how I'll face Their Graces.”

Sophie realized she'd spoken aloud when all three brothers were looking at her with concern.

“A headache might do,” Westhaven said.

“Fatigue would be convincing,” St. Just added.

Valentine cocked his head, his expression hard to read. “You're a grown woman. We'll make your excuses, Soph. Just go to your room and leave orders you're not to be disturbed until dinner.”

She realized as Val helped her dismount that her brothers had been right to suggest Vim avoid an encounter with Their Graces. Sophie's parents were perceptive people, and who knew what innuendos and looks they might have picked up on between Sophie and the man who'd made half her wishes come true?

***

“Back so soon?” Rothgreb surveyed his nephew, not needing spectacles to see the boy was preoccupied.

Not a boy, a man grown, and a handsome—if somewhat thick-witted—man at that. Love made such fools of young people.

Vim slid into the chair across from his uncle's desk. “The distance we covered wasn't great. You have the ledger books out?”

“You just let that pretty filly go?”

Vim looked up, and Rothgreb could see him trying to balance respect for his elder with the urge to throttle an interfering old busybody.

“She refused my suit on more than one occasion, Uncle. I don't suppose you've made a list of all the things that have gone missing?”

“Refused your suit! Did you go down on bended knee? Shower her with compliments and pretty baubles? Did you slay dragons for her and ride through drenching thunderstorms?”

“I changed dirty nappies for her, got up and down all night with the child, and offered her the rest of my life.”

“Dirty nappies? Bah! In my day, we knew how to court a woman.”

This provoked a sardonic smile. “In your day, you married for convenience and were free to chase any panniered shirt that caught your eye.”

“Little you know.” Rothgreb tossed his spectacles on the desk. “Your aunt would have had my parts fed to the hogs if I'd done more than the requisite flirting with the dowagers. And she knew better than to share her favors elsewhere too, b'gad.”

“About my aunt.” Vim sat up, his expression grim. “She does not seem in the least vague to me, Uncle. I must conclude your descriptions of her conditions were exaggerated, and I have to wonder for what purpose.”

Damn the boy. Love had made him stupid about some things, but not nearly stupid enough.

“She has good and bad days, and having people around seems to help. She's particularly glad to see you and glad to see you've an interest in the Windham girl.”
Let
the
young
rascal
chew
on
that
. “Don't suppose you'd be willing to take Essie calling over at Morelands? These old bones don't weather a chill like they used to.”

The truth of that admission didn't make it any easier to state, and Vim didn't look like he was taking the bait.

“If I never set foot on Moreland property again, it will be too soon.”

Oh, the boy had it bad. Rothgreb shoved to his feet, a shift too ponderous to have the requisite dramatic impact, but it did allow him to glower down at his beef-witted nephew. “For God's sake, when are you going to let a youthful peccadillo go? The Holderness girl was a wrong turn, nothing more. We all make them, and most of us, thanks be to The Deity, get over them.”

“I'm over the girl,” Vim said, springing to his feet with enviable ease. “I was over the girl before the packet left Bristol, but I will never get over being refused the opportunity to seek satisfaction for the slur to her honor
and
mine
. I'll expect a list of missing items on my desk after dinner.”

He stomped out, all indignation and frustration, the picture of thwarted love. Rothgreb lowered himself into the chair and reached out a hand to the hound who'd come blinking awake at Vim's departure.

“The boy is an ass. My wife would say he takes after me.”

The hound butted Rothgreb's hand.

“Let's go find Essie, shall we? We must do something, my friend. I'm not sure what, but we must do something.”

“You'd best come down to dinner, Soph.” Maggie's green eyes held compassion and a hint of stubbornness too. “Her Grace is being patient, though I suspect that's just because our brothers are charming her for all their worth.”

“I'm not hungry.” Sophie rose from her escritoire, where she'd been trying to write a list of Kit's likes and dislikes for Mrs. Harrad, but this allowed Maggie to walk over to the desk and start snooping.

“Sophia Windham, when did you become an expert on changing an infant's linen?”

“Vim showed me the way of it—quick and calm.”

“About this Vim…” Sophie realized her mistake too late, because Maggie had put the list down and was regarding Sophie very directly. “A dozen years ago—when you had barely begun wearing your hair up—I was introduced to him as Wilhelm Charpentier, a younger relation with more good looks than consequence. He danced well enough but disappeared without a word after some to-do at one of Her Grace's Christmas parties.”

“I know him as Vim, but he's Baron Sindal now, Rothgreb's heir.” Sophie kept her voice diffident, very carefully diffident.

Maggie crossed her arms, a martial light coming into her eyes. “And how does the baron know about caring for babies?”

Older siblings knew family history worth learning, but they could also be damnably protective.

“Put down your guns, Maggie. Vim has younger sisters, and I think he simply has an affection for babies. He hasn't mentioned any offspring. What was the to-do about?”

Maggie pursed her lips and peered at Sophie as if torn by indecision. “I don't know. Socializing was never my forte, but whatever it was, nobody said a word about it afterward. Tell me about this baby of yours.”

Sophie turned her back on her sister, ostensibly to rearrange things on the vanity tray. Vim had used that brush on her hair.

“You're being nosy, Mags.”

And now Maggie was beside her, her expression hard to read. Maggie was the second born, a half sibling like St. Just, and her mother's influence showed in flaming red hair, more height than any other Windham sister, and an occasional display of temper.

“You changed this child's napkin, Sophie Windham—many times. Her Grace is a devoted mother, but I am willing to bet my favorite boar hog she never changed dirty linen for any of you.”

Siblings were the very devil when a woman needed some privacy to regain her composure.

“Needs must,” Sophie said softly, blinking at her hairbrush.

“It isn't just this dratted baby, is it?” Maggie gently took the brush from Sophie's grip. “You've gone and fallen in love with Sindal, and all over a basket of dirty laundry.”

“It wasn't quite like that.” It was exactly like that, and on the carpet in the servants' parlor, no less.

“I overheard the boys talking. St. Just was muttering something about Sophie's mad scheme and that idiot Sindal. Did something happen, Soph?”

Maggie, being the duke's oldest daughter and illegitimate, had not had an easy road. When she'd turned thirty, she'd moved into her own household in Town. This had created a paradoxical opportunity for closeness between the sisters, allowing Maggie's pretty little house to become a place of refuge for her younger siblings.

“I don't know what to do.” Sophie picked up the brush again, then put it down and reached for a handkerchief neatly folded on the vanity tray. Vim's handkerchief—how had she come by this? She brought it to her nose, caught a whiff of bergamot, and began to cry.

“Damn all men forever to a place in hell so cold their nasty bits shrivel up and fall off,” Maggie muttered. She slid her arm around Sophie's waist and walked her to the chaise by the hearth. “Shall I have the boys deal with Baron Sindal? They all love a good scrap, even Westhaven, though he'll think it's unbecoming of the Moreland heir to gang up on a man or even go at him one at time. They'll likely draw straws, and Dev and Gayle will rig it so Valentine's hands—”

“Stop it, Maggie. You must not aggravate the menfolk,” Sophie said, laying her head on her sister's shoulder. “Sindal offered for me, but it wasn't…”

Maggie brushed Sophie's hair back, hugging her where they sat on the chaise. “It wasn't an offer of marriage?”

Sophie shook her head. “Not at first. I let him think I was a h-housekeeper, or a companion, or something, and I wanted…”

“You wanted
him
.”

Sophie pulled away a little. “Not just him. I wanted a man who loved me, Mags. A man who wanted to be with me, and Vim seemed so…”

“Oh, they all seem
so
when the moon is full and passion is in the air. I at least hope you enjoyed this lapse?”

Sophie's head came up at this question. It wasn't at all what she would have expected from socially retiring, financially minded, no-nonsense Maggie. “I did, Mags. I enjoyed it
immensely
.”

A nonplussed expression flitted across Maggie's pretty features. “So what is the problem? He acquitted himself adequately in the manner you desired, and now you can have him to keep if you want. It requires only a word to bring him up to scratch.”

“He isn't the man I wished for, though he was very definitely the man I desired.”

Maggie sat back, a frown gathering between her brows. “Desire isn't a bad thing, Sophie Windham, particularly not between spouses. Many a marriage goes stale for lack of it.”

This wasn't like any conversation Sophie had had with her older sister. It was both uncomfortable and a relief, to speak so openly about such a delicate subject. “You've been married so many times you can speak with authority?”

“I've been propositioned so many times by other women's husbands, men who think questionable birth and red hair mean I'll be grateful for any man's attentions.”

“Oh, Mags.” Sophie hugged her sister. “I've been so wrapped up in myself these past few years. I am sorry.”

“Since Bart and Victor died, since the boys started marrying, since His Grace's heart seizure, we've all been a little bit widdershins.” Maggie sighed and rested her chin on Sophie's temple. “I think you're being narrow-minded where Sindal is concerned.”

“He offered marriage only when he realized he'd been trifling with Lady Sophia Windham. I don't want my husband served up on a platter of duty and obligation, Mags.”

“You might have to take him that way.” Maggie rose from the chaise and started pacing. “You could be carrying, Soph. All bets are off, then. I won't let my niece or nephew bear the stigma St. Just and I have put with our entire lives. I'll march Sindal up the aisle at gunpoint, and St. Just will load the thing for me. I'll see his—”

“Hush.” Sophie brought Vim's handkerchief to her nose, finding his scent an odd comfort. “It shouldn't come to that, and even if it did, Vim is not going to tarry in Kent any longer than necessary. He'd be one of those husbands gone for years at a time—he hates Kent—and I am bound to stay here as long as Kit is here for me to love.

“And then twenty years from now, I can see how marriage to Vim would work: we'd pass each other on the street in Paris, and he'd exchange the most civil and considerate pleasantries with me. I couldn't bear that. Then too, something is amiss at Sidling, and now is not when Vim ought to be thinking of marriage to inconvenient ducal daughters who practice subterfuge for the worst reasons.”

Maggie stopped abruptly midpace. “Loneliness seldom inspires us to our most rational choices. Is Sindal's allergy to the family seat related to that to-do all those years ago?”

“I think so. I could ask St. Just. He'd tell me.”

“Or he might not. Men have the oddest sense of loyalty to each other.”

They shared a look, a look such as only adult women could exchange regarding adult men, or the facsimiles thereof strutting about the livelong day in boots and breeches.

“You should call at the curate's,” Maggie said. “It will distract you from your other problems and assure you the little creature is thriving.”

“What if he isn't?” Awful,
awful
thought.

“Do we dote on our brothers?”

“Shamelessly.”

“His foster sisters will be doting on him.”

“I'll think about it.” The idea tantalized, and Sophie would have been halfway to the stables, except the notion of having to once again part with the child stopped her.

“Come down to dinner while you think about it. The last thing you need is His Grace getting wind you've got trouble involving a man. Sindal will leave the shire once and for all, if that's the case.”

Sophie stuffed Vim's handkerchief in her pocket, rose, and accompanied her sister to dinner.

***

“For God's sake, Uncle, what can you be about?”

Vim did not raise his voice, for the old man was at the top of a rickety ladder that was held in place by two equally rickety footmen, while the positively ancient butler hovered nearby.

“Hanging the damned kissing bough,” Rothgreb barked. “Your aunt will have it, and until somebody else sees fit to take over the running of this household, I will see that she gets it.”

Guilt, thick and miserable, descended like a cold, wet blanket on Vim's shoulders as Rothgreb teetered down the ladder.

“I might have done that for you. You had only to ask.” Vim glanced up to see half a bush worth of mistletoe dangling over Sidling's entrance hall.

“Ask? Bah. I've been asking you to come home now for years. What has it gotten me? You lot.” Rothgreb glared at his servants. “You'll be dusting in here until this thing comes down.” He waved a hand toward the mistletoe. “Only the homely maids and the married ladies will be tarrying in here as long as that's up there. I'll not have my house looking neglected when company's about to descend.”

“Company?” The cold sensation slithered down to Vim's innards. “I wasn't aware you and Aunt were entertaining much these days.”

“For a man who's been my heir for more than ten years, you're not aware of much when it comes to this place, except the ledgers, my boy.” Rothgreb stepped back so the ladder could be removed. This entailed the combined efforts off all three underlings, who departed at an almost comically deliberate pace.

“They're deaf as posts when I'm calling for my coat but can hear gossip at fifty paces without missing a word.”

“What company, Uncle? Your letters never mentioned you'd be entertaining over the holidays.” Vim crossed his arms and widened his stance, aware the gestures were defensive even as he made them.

“Not company, then.” Rothgreb rested a hand on the newel post. “Family. Your cousins, all three girls and their delightful offspring. And then we've invited a few of the local families over tomorrow afternoon so the girls will have some fellows to catch here in the entrance hall. I'll make my special punch; her ladyship will hold forth over more cookies and crumpets than His Majesty's regiments could consume in a week. You'll attend.”

He would. His uncle wasn't issuing an order, he was stating a fact. Familial obligations were not something Vim would ever shirk with impunity.

“What time?”

“We usually start after luncheon, so everybody can get home before dark. I expect old Moreland might put in an appearance. He's grown more sociable with his neighbors in recent years, or perhaps the maids here have grown prettier.”

And that last was offered with cheerful glee, as if Rothgreb knew damned good and well Vim was dying for even a glimpse of Sophie. “I'm going for a ride, Uncle. Don't wait tea on me.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.” Rothgreb started up the stairs, moving not exactly quickly, but with some purpose. Going off to plot treason with Aunt Essie or make pronouncements to the old hound, no doubt.

As Vim ambled down to the stables, he considered that for all Sidling wasn't where
he
wanted to be, his aunt and uncle seemed abundantly happy with their circumstances. The house was in fine shape, the estate books were in fine shape, and Vim was sure when he rode the land, he'd see it was being carefully tended, as well.

He did not need to appoint a new steward, not yet.

“Aunt?”

She sat on a tack trunk, wrapped in an old horse blanket, a carrot in her hands.

“Merciful Powers!” She hopped off the trunk, the blanket falling from her shoulders. “Wilhelm. I wasn't expecting you.”

“You came down here in just your shawl? Need I remind you, Esmerelda Charpentier, it's the dead of winter?” Though the stable was protected from the wind, and the horses themselves, particularly the enormous draft teams and the sturdy coach horses, kept the place well above freezing.

“I know what season it is, young man.”

“Then perhaps you'll allow me to escort you to the house?” He peered at her, unable to read her expression. It might have been some sort of veiled exasperation; it might have been embarrassment at having been caught out wandering.

“I can find my own way up to the house, thank you very much.” She bustled off, only to come to a halt when Vim laid a hand on her arm.

“Humor me, Aunt.” He draped his riding coat over her shoulders and winged his arm at her. She'd either been waiting for her husband to come fetch her back to the house, or she'd been waiting for somebody—anybody—to show her the way home.

***

“What is that particularly irritating little air you're determined to vex our ears with?”

Valentine stopped whistling to smirk at Westhaven's question and started singing instead. “
All
we
like
sheep, have gone astraaaaaay
.”

“More Handel.” Sophie interrupted her brother's little concert. “Seasonally appropriate. You two did not have to accompany me, you know.”