whom Sophie could wrap around her dainty finger, were she so inclined.”
“But Sophie is not with the Chattells, Percy.” A small frown creased Her Grace’s brow. Had they been anywhere but His Grace’s private study, she wouldn’t have given even that much away. “Muriel mentions how crowded the traveling coach was with the two younger girls and all their winter finery, and she goes on and on about the difficulty of traveling in such bad weather. She does not mention Sophie.”
His Grace enjoyed very much the machinations necessary for parliamentary schemes. He enjoyed advising the Regent on national and foreign policy when that overfed fellow deigned to listen. His Grace enjoyed very, very much the company of his grandchildren, and there was no greater joy in his life than his marriage.
He did not always precisely enjoy being a father, much less a father ten times over, much
“If Sophie were a boy, we would not worry,” he pointed out.
“Yes, we would.”
They’d buried two grown sons. Yes, they would worry. They would always worry.
“Shall I go back up to Town, my love? People always exaggerate descriptions of inconvenient weather. I’m sure the roads can’t be as impassable as all that when there are only a few inches of snow on the ground hereabouts.”
“No, you shall not.” Her Grace put a little scold in her words. “We have three strapping sons who are on their way to collect Lady Sophia as we speak. If Sophie is up to something unsound, better her brothers sort her out at this stage than her parents.”
“You’re sure?” Something had shifted in Her Grace’s relationship with their sons in recent months, possibly as a function of all three acquiring wives. If she was delegating management of Sophie to the boys, then it was only because Her Grace was well and truly not concerned about the girl.
“Percival Windham, you are proposing to go haring off in the dead of winter with a storm of biblical proportions raging just to the north and west, while I sit here and do what? Worry about you in addition to the four of our offspring who are not now under our roof ? I think not.”
“Just making sure, my love. More tea?”
She smiled at him, his reward for helping her make up her mind. If Sophie were up to mischief, His Grace was privately of the opinion it was about damned time, provided the mischief involved a suitable swain. Sophie was wasting her youth tending to the halt and the lame when she ought to be about snabbling a handsome specimen to help provide her dear parents with some chubby little… to help her fill her nursery.
His Grace opened the paper to the financial section. An attempt to read the contents thereof was about as soporific as a tot of the poppy, but it was a fine excuse to let his mind drift off to which young men of his acquaintance he might consider worthy of his most sensible daughter.
If any.
Some vital male brain function had been impaired during the few minutes Vim had held Sophie Windham in his arms. Badly impaired—impaired as if some part of him had been aching sorely for a long time, though it had taken the feel of that one woman in his embrace to make him aware of his own hurt.
And now he could not focus on much else.
He liked her, was the problem. Or part of it. The other part was he desired her, which made no sense. Of course he desired her the way any healthy male would desire any attractive woman, but this was… different.
Vim had been a sexual friend to any number of women, and they’d been happy to return the favor. Romping was merely… romping. A wink and a smile, and both parties could be on their way, an itch having been adequately scratched for the nonce.
Sophie was not a woman to romp with. She was a woman a man could spend years learning to cherish.
“You can put those in the batter now.” She gestured with her wooden spoon as if to remind Vim they were trying to put the baby’s nap to some use besides encouraging Vim’s rampant sexual fantasies. He picked up the cutting board and shifted to scrape a pile of finely chopped dates into the bowl of pale batter.
Baking was an activity designed to part a sane—and mildly aroused—man from his wits. Sophie had him pouring things into her bowls, standing right beside her, brushing arms and bodies and hands. She asked him to taste the batter, putting a spoonful of sweetness right into his mouth before he could protest or move away.
While they worked, she gently interrogated him, and he let her, because it gave him something to think of besides the sensation of her soft, full breast pressing against his arm when she leaned across him to retrieve the cinnamon.
“Didn’t you miss your family on all those long journeys?”
He accepted the tin of cinnamon back from her, their fingers brushing again as he did. “They are my half siblings, though we were all raised together. I missed them, but there was a sense too of not wanting to impose. The estate in Cumbria is theirs, not mine.”
She stopped stirring for moment and frowned at him. “My oldest brother and sister suffer from this same affliction. It’s as if Devlin in particular must always remind himself that he’s half our brother, and therefore half not our brother. He has nigh broken my mother’s heart with this nonsense. Nutmeg next.”
“Broken your mother’s heart, how?” He passed her the nutmeg, enjoying the little heat that sparked where their hands touched. He’d done it deliberately that time, and she wasn’t exactly storming off with indignation.
“Mama loves Devlin, but she’s not his mama, so she’s kept her distance out of respect for his feelings for his real mama. It’s gotten better since Dev married. Do you suppose there’s such a thing as too much spice?”
Before his better judgment could interfere, Vim took Sophie’s hand in his, dragged her index finger through the batter, and brought her finger to his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the end of her finger and withdrew it slowly from his mouth.
“Seems perfect to me.” He kept her hand trapped in his own, abruptly aware that what he’d done was about as blatantly sexual as if he’d just dropped his breeches and started stroking himself before her very eyes.
She smiled at him, withdrew her hand, and passed him the nutmeg. “Then it’s time to put it in the oven. Tell me about your home.” She turned to pour the batter into a greased pan, and the moment passed, which was both a relief and a disappointment.
A relief, because her self-possession hinted she might have some experience, and an experienced woman was fair game—as housekeeper, companion, lady’s maid, or whatever she was, Sophie might have allowed herself some discreet sexual recreation.
And she might allow herself just a little more.
The disappointment was because he’d like at that very moment to sit her up on the sturdy counter and step between her legs until those legs were wrapped around his flanks, urging him into her heat. He watched her bending down to put the—what was it they’d been making?—into the oven, and yet more lascivious images crowded into his mind.
She’d asked him something, though. Something about…
“I’m not sure I have a home.”
She straightened and closed the oven door. “Surely you dwell somewhere when you’re not on your travels.” The look she sent him was far too serious for the concentration he could muster.
“I have properties. There’s a lovely old place in Surrey where I spend a few weeks most years. I suppose that qualifies.”
She began putting things away. “You travel all the time?”
Something in her manner suggested she wasn’t finding the topic pleasant.
“I used to spend some of my winters up in Cumbria with one of my sisters. I’ve occasionally bunked in with my brother here in Town, and I often check in with my younger sister wherever she’s governessing, but as I’ve mentioned, my sisters are married now and starting families.”
Vim brought a kettle of hot water from the pot swing in the fireplace and poured half the contents into the dishpan, then added some cool water as Sophie began stacking dirty dishes by the sink.
Standing beside her, he tried to fathom what emotion was radiating from her and failed.
“Then what is this travel to Kent about?” she asked. “You seem quite intent on it.”
Was that the bee in her bonnet?
