of his golden hair. Bergamot stole into her senses too, a smoky Eastern fragrance that made her want to seek out the places on Vim’s body where he’d applied the scent.
She undid his queue and winnowed her fingers through his hair, even as she felt Vim’s arms lashing more tightly around her.
Against her stomach she felt a rising column of male flesh, and it made her wild to think she’d done that, she’d inspired this man to passion.
“Vim Charpentier…” She breathed his name against his neck, finding the pulse at the base of his throat with her tongue.
“Sophie… Ah, Sophie.”
Her name, but spoken with such regret. It might as well have been a bucket of cold water.
The kiss was over. Just like that. She’d been devouring him with her mouth and her hands and her entire being, and now, not two deep breaths later, she was standing in his embrace, her heart beating hard in her chest, her wits cast to the wind.
“My dear, we cannot.”
Vim’s voice was a quiet rumble against her body. He at least did her the kindness of not stepping away, though his embrace became gentle again, and Sophie felt him rest his cheek against her hair. Her mind drunk and ponderous, she only slowly realized what he was saying. He’d contemplated taking her to bed—and rejected the notion. In her ignorance, she’d been so swept up in the moment she’d given no thought to what might follow.
What could have followed.
If only.
She tried to tell herself “if only” was a great deal closer to her wishes and desires than she’d been one kiss ago. There was “if only” in Vim’s voice and in the way he held her, as if she were precious. It was a shared “if only.”
It was better than nothing.
She realized he’d hold her until she broke the embrace, another kindness. So she lingered awhile in his arms, breathing in his scent, memorizing the way her body matched up against his much taller frame. She rested her cheek against his chest and focused on the feel of his hand moving over her back, on the glowing embers of desire slowly cooling in her vitals.
He’d experienced desire, as well—desire for her. His flesh was still tumescent against her belly. Before she stepped back and met his eyes, Sophie let herself feel that too.
Vim drifted to awareness with jubilant female voices singing in his head. “Arise! Shine! For thy light is come!”
Too much holiday decoration had infested his dreams with the strains of old Isaiah, courtesy of Handel.
Though somebody was most definitely unhappy.
He flopped the covers back and pulled on the luxurious brocade dressing gown before his mind was fully awake. In the dark he made his way down the frigid corridor and followed the yowling of a miserable infant to Sophie’s door.
“Sophie?” He knocked, though not that hard, then decided she wasn’t going hear anything less than a regiment of charging dragoons over Kit’s racket. He pushed the door open to find half of Sophie’s candles lit and the lady pacing the room with Kit in her arms.
“He won’t settle,” she said. “He isn’t wet; he isn’t hungry; he isn’t in want of cuddling. I think he’s sickening for something.”
Sophie looked to be sickening. Her complexion was pale even by candlelight, her green eyes were underscored by shadows, and her voice held a brittle, anxious quality.
“Babies can be colicky.” Vim laid the back of his hand on the child’s forehead. This resulted in a sudden cessation of Kit’s bellowing. “Ah, we have his attention. What ails you, young sir? You’ve woken the watch and disturbed my lady’s sleep.”
“Keep talking,” Sophie said softly. “This is the first time he’s quieted in more than an hour.”
Vim’s gaze went to the clock on her mantel. It was a quarter past midnight, meaning Sophie had gotten very little rest. “Give him to me, Sophie. Get off your feet, and I’ll have a talk with My Lord Baby.”
She looked reluctant but passed the baby over. When the infant started whimpering, Vim began a circuit of the room.
“None of your whining, Kit. Father Christmas will hear of it, and you’ll have a bad reputation from your very first Christmas. Do you know Miss Sophie made Christmas bread today? That’s why the house bore such lovely scents—despite your various efforts to put a different fragrance in the air.”
He went on like that, speaking softly, rubbing the child’s back and hoping the slight warmth he’d detected was just a matter of the child’s determined upset, not inchoate sickness.
Sophie would fret herself into an early grave if the boy stopped thriving.
“Listen,” Vim said, speaking very quietly against the baby’s ear. “You are worrying your mama Sophie. You’re too young to start that nonsense, not even old enough to join the navy. Go to sleep, my man. Sooner rather than later.”
The child did not go to sleep. He whimpered and whined, and by two in the morning, his nose was running most unattractively.
Sophie would not go to sleep either, and Vim would not leave her alone with the baby.
“This is my fault,” Sophie said, her gaze following Vim as he made yet another circuit with the child. “I was the one who had to go to the mews, and I should never have taken Kit with me.”
“Nonsense. He loved the outing, and you needed the fresh air.”
The baby wasn’t even slurping on his fist, which alarmed Vim more than a possible low fever. And that nose… Vim surreptitiously used a hankie to tend to it, but Sophie got to her feet and came toward them.
“He’s ill,” she said, frowning at the child. “He misses his mother and I took him out in the middle of a blizzard and now he’s ill.”
Vim put his free arm around her, hating the misery in her tone. “He has a runny nose, Sophie. Nobody died of a runny nose.”
Her expression went from wan to stricken. “He could die?” She scooted away from Vim. “This is what people mean when they say somebody took a chill, isn’t it? It starts with congestion, then a fever, then he becomes weak and delirious…”
“He’s not weak or delirious, Sophie. Calm down.” It took effort not to raise his voice, not to get angry with the woman for overreacting so egregiously.
Except the same fear gnawed at Vim’s guts: the baby was warm, he was unhappy, his nose was running more than a little… God in heaven, no Mayfair physician was going to brave this weather in the middle of the night to come tend a tweenie’s bastard foundling.
“He’s quieter now, Sophie,” Vim said, injecting as much steadiness as he could into the observation. “Why don’t you sing to him?”
“I can’t sing when he may be dying.”
She’d lost brothers. One of them at this same time of year… Something was nibbling at the back of Vim’s mind. Something to do with colicky babies and why panic wasn’t warranted, but he couldn’t focus on retrieving whatever it was with Sophie near tears, the baby fretting, and no one at hand to help.
“Then I’ll sing, though that will likely have the child holding his ears and you running from the room.”
This, incongruously, had her lips quirking up. “My father isn’t very musical. You hold the baby, I’ll sing.” She took the rocking chair by the hearth. Vim settled the child in his arms and started blowing out candles as he paced the room.
“He shall feed his flock, like a shepherd…”
More Handel, the lilting, lyrical contralto portion of the aria, a sweet, comforting melody if ever one had been written. And the baby was comforted, sighing in Vim’s arms and going still.
Not deathly still, just exhausted still. Sophie sang on, her voice unbearably lovely. “And He shall gather the lambs in his arm… and gently lead those that are with young.”
Vim liked music, he enjoyed it a great deal in fact—he just wasn’t any good at making it. Sophie was damned
