common sense had lost its grip on his male imagination.
When he returned to the parlor, Sophie was once again on the floor with Kit. She sat cross-legged on the blankets, the baby on his stomach before her.
“My Lord Baby rang for a parlor picnic,” Vim said, pushing the door closed with his heel. “The string quartet should be along any minute. If you’d like to wash your hands, I can attend His Highness.”
“I don’t know as it’s safe to leave the two you alone together. You’ll teach him drinking songs and ribald jokes.”
“He already has a whole store of ribald jokes. One can tell this from his smiles and grins.” Vim set the tray on the floor out of the baby’s reach and settled so the child was between him and Sophie.
“Are all babies this jolly?”
“Heavens, no.” He got comfortable, assuming the same tailor-sit Sophie had. “I was in a Magyar camp once after a particularly hard winter, and the old women were muttering around the fire that the babies had stopped crying. They longed for the sound of a baby crying, a baby with enough hope and health left to bellow for his supper or his mama or his blanket.”
Now why in the hell had he brought that up? The moment had haunted him, left him wishing he could scoop up all the silent, listless babies and bring them home to merry England to be cosseted and cuddled and stuffed with porridge.
Sophie ran her hand down the baby’s back then tried to adjust a nappy that had been tied securely if not exactly prettily onto the child’s body. “I’m going to wash my hands. You plot petit treason with Kit, and when I come back, I want to hear more stories of your travels. Not just the company stories that make people laugh, but the real stories—the ones that stayed with you.”
She made a silent departure, leaving Vim to watch as the baby once again maneuvered to all fours.
“And you think exploring the world will be great good fun, don’t you?” he asked the child. “You don’t know yet that you’ll see children starving and old women nigh freezing to death.” He picked the child up and cradled him closely, speaking with his lips pressed against the baby’s downy hair. “Don’t be in a hurry to grow up, young Kit. It isn’t all it’s reported to be. You go wenching and drinking and carousing around the globe, and pretty soon, all you want is home, hearth, and a woman of your own to give babies to. You can find your way to any port on any sea, but you can’t find your way to those simple blessings.”
The baby let out a sigh and mashed his fist into his mouth. Vim set him down faceup on the blankets.
“Roll over, why don’t you? It’s one way to get a change in perspective.” He rolled the baby slowly to his tummy just as Sophie came back to the room.
“Have you listed all the best taverns in Oxford for him?”
“There are no taverns in Oxford. It’s scholars cheek by jowl, scholars on every street corner, composing poetry in Latin and Greek.”
She sank to the floor, this time stretching out on her side near the baby. “My brothers said there was an entirely different sort of commerce being conducted on those street corners. Does that fist just taste better than the other, do you think?”
Vim took the opposite length of floor. “He favors the left. One of our old grooms in Cumbria said it’s a function of how the child lies in the womb, so one hand is easier to maneuver than the other. Said horses are prone to the same tendency, more supple on one side than the other.”
“When Kit learns to trot, we’ll put the theory to the test.”
A silence descended, broken by the sound of the cozy fire a few feet away, the bitter wind outside, and the baby’s contented slurping. It wasn’t like any silence Vim could recall—sweet, comfortable, and yet… poignant. He would be leaving in just a few hours, going out into the chill wind while the woman and child would remain here before the fire.
“Shall I pour you some tea, Sophie?”
“Yes, thank you. And I saw some cinnamon buns too. I’ll take mine with butter.”
Vim busied himself with the food, grateful for the distraction. Kit was up on his hands and knees again, occasionally rocking and bouncing as if he expected the floor itself to propel him along the carpet somehow.
Sophie took her tea, setting the cup and saucer up on the coffee table out of the baby’s reach. “What story will you tell me?”
“What kind of story would you like?”
“An exciting story. One with an exotic climate and mortal peril.”
He had to smile at the relish in her voice. “Do we have bloodthirsty warring factions in this story?”
“No war, please.”
She’d lost a brother to the Corsican’s armies. He’d forgotten that, though she never would. “You want a happy ending, then?”
She studied her teacup for a thoughtful moment. “I don’t admit to my family that I still want the happy endings and wishes to come true. A mature woman should just take life as it comes, and I do have a great deal to be grateful for.”
“But a mature woman should also be honest with herself, and with me. You’re allowed to wish for the happy endings, Sophie. For yourself and for Kit too.”
When he looked up from his teacup, she was studying him. “May I wish for a happy ending for you too, Vim Charpentier?”
She would. Regardless of her role in this grand household, Sophie Windham was decent enough—lady enough—to include him in her wishes, though he knew a fleeting frustration at not being able to divine what
“Christmas approaches, and I’m sure you’ve been a very good girl. You may wish for anything you like.”
Something flickered across her usually serene features, something feminine and mysterious and quite… attractive.
Vim launched into a tale of shipwreck on a tropical paradise, leaving out mention of flies, dysentery, and petty squabbling among the survivors. He described the noise and destruction of the hurricanes, the attempts to rebuild the boat, and the difficult voyage from the island back to some semblance of civilization, wondering why no one had ever asked for this story before.
Not that anyone asked him for any stories.
“You have entertained Kit marvelously,” Sophie said when he’d brought the tale to its mandatory happy conclusion. “I can see him planning his first voyage.”
Kit was sailing the expanse of Vim’s chest, the baby’s back arched like a baby seal’s. Vim tapped him gently on the nose. “I can see My Lord Baby succumbing to exhaustion following this very eventful day. If Miss Sophie and I are flagging, sir, then you most certainly are overdue for a visit to the arms of Morpheus.”
Kit grinned hugely and thumped Vim on the chest with one fist.
“I don’t think he agrees with you.” Sophie finished this observation on a polite yawn.
“Shall I take his cradle up to your room?”
“That would be appreciated. I’d best grab some clean nappies, shouldn’t I?”
“Forearmed and all that. I’ll put the tea tray away.”
“Leave it. I’ll deal with it in the morning.”
He cuddled the baby to his chest and got to his feet. The idea of leaving ought to fill him with relief. The longer he stayed, the greater the possibility some word of this interlude would reach the wrong ears. He was overdue to report to Sidling, and Sophie was managing famously with Kit. He really would be glad to be on his way once more, even on his way to Sidling at the Christmas season.
Sophie reached for the baby, and Vim passed him over without another word.
“He thinks I’ve been a good girl.” Sophie made sure Kit was resting comfortably in his cradle then went back
