He slipped into the corridor, leaving the door cracked just an inch—not enough to let in a draft, but enough to let a baby’s cries be heard two doors down.
And when he quietly closed Sophie’s door behind him, eagerness turned to something… less certain.
Perhaps he should have brought himself off first…
Perhaps this wasn’t wise. Assuming Sophie’s welcome was a sexual overture—and that
He pushed the bed curtains aside, appallingly willing to take on such consequences if taking on Sophie were part of the bargain, as well. Sophie didn’t roll over as Vim shed his dressing gown, which had him pausing, one knee on the mattress, one foot on the floor.
She reached behind her and flipped the covers up. Vim scooted into their warmth and arranged himself along the lovely, feminine curve of Sophie’s back. She was in her nightgown, which he took for a minimal boon to his self- control, until he heard a funny hitch in her breathing.
“You did not want to speak of your brothers,” he said, drawing his hand down the elegant length of her spine and feeling remorse twist in his gut where arousal had been just moments before.
“We don’t, generally.”
“When my father died, I was a small child. I did not understand grieving in silence, but my mother seemed to need it. Fortunately, my aunt and uncle understood I needed to speak of my papa. Uncle had sketches of Papa hung in the schoolroom, which had a salubrious impact on my studies.”
She craned her neck to peer at him over her shoulder. “I think that’s the first positive thing you’ve said about anyone or anything associated with your home.”
“It’s a lovely place, settled, comfortable, and…”
“Yes?” She subsided, which meant he couldn’t see her face—and she couldn’t see him.
“Come here, Sophie Windham. If you’re to interrogate me, at least let us be comfortable while you do.” He tucked her close enough that she had to be aware of the remains of his erection snug against her backside.
“Mr. Charpentier, you are without clothing.”
“And soon you will be too, if you want to be.”
“Tell me about Sidling.”
It was to be slow torture, then, unless he’d mistaken her invitation entirely. No matter, it was the loveliest form of torture, and he would do his utmost to make sure it was mutual.
“Sidling goes back nearly to the days of the Conqueror, at least to hear my grandfather tell it. We’ve a Norman ruin that was likely a watchtower of some sort. The land rolls, but not so you can’t get a crop in. There’s a drive about a half-mile in length, oaks on both sides, some of them huge. We had a big windstorm when I was a boy, and one toppled. I stopped counting the tree rings at four hundred, and in the middle, where the rings were almost too small to count, my grandfather said those were the hard, cold years.”
“Cold makes for solid wood. My brother has studied violin construction and says northern wood is preferred for that reason.”
“These brothers of yours are an interesting lot.” Her hip was interesting too. A smooth, beautiful conjunction of leg, derriere, and woman that fit beneath his palm perfectly.
“Tell me of your uncle and aunt.”
Had she sighed a little with that question? He leaned over and kissed her cheek to investigate. When he resumed speaking, he kept his cheek against her hair.
“Uncle is a tough old boot. He was the spare, the oldest son having died before I was born. My father was an afterthought produced to secure the succession, but I’m told he was never very healthy. Grandfather was a force of nature, on his fourth wife when he died. He had every confidence he’d have more sons of that one too.”
“You come from fierce stock, then.”
Fierce. This was an apt description for the sensation pooling in his groin. He brought his attention to the conversation with effort.
“Uncle is fierce, in his way, so is my aunt. Proud, independent. They’ve let me wander half my life away rather than ask me for anything.”
His hand stilled on her flank as it occurred to him some of his feelings toward Sidling were explained by guilt. Not disgust for the events in his past, nor resentment, nor impatience… Guilt, for having turned his back on not just some bad memories—his worst memories, really—but on people who’d loved him since he was Kit’s age.
Sophie caught his hand in hers and brought it around her waist. “And you’re worried about them now, worried you’ve left them too long alone.”
“Yes.” She said it better than he could have. Vim wrapped her close and just held her for a long, thoughtful moment. He could visit and discuss and flirt the night away, or he could gather his courage in both hands and do the woman the courtesy of asking her a simple question.
“Shall I pleasure you, Sophie?”
There was a vocabulary between men and women, one Sophie had never needed to understand. It included glances, sly innuendo, subtle movements of the fan, and even particular flowers combined into bouquets and presented at certain angles. It was a different and darker vocabulary than she’d learned in the drawing rooms and ballrooms, one more fraught with meaning and emotion.
So the precise implication of a single, quiet question—“Shall I pleasure you, Sophie?”—was not entirely obvious to her mind, but her body was clear enough on its meaning.
That velvet baritone promised he would kiss her, hold her, and very likely join his body to hers.
“We shall pleasure each other,” she said, lying in the circle of his arm. She’d made her decision not in the heat of their passionate kisses but rather in quiet moments, watching him tickle the baby, listening to him read poetry, or watching him shovel a walkway to the privy in the freezing wind and snow.
“Then the nightgown will have to go.” He set his hand on her shoulder, and Sophie’s heart started hammering in her chest. It was dark behind the bed curtains, cozy, and warm, but she covered his hand with her own.
His fingers trailed down her arm. “Eventually,” he said. “It can go eventually. Let me hold you.”
Not a question this time, and yet Sophie was certain if she announced she’d changed her mind and decided to excuse Vim from the bed, he’d sigh, flop the covers back—likely kiss her nose—and leave for his own room.
In the morning, he’d be pleasant and considerate, affectionate even, and then he’d be gone.
Sophie rearranged herself on her back. She couldn’t ask questions, lest he fathom the degree of her ignorance, so she kissed him. Leaned up and pressed her lips to his, cradling his jaw with her hand.
A man’s jaw at the end of the day was a rough, scratchy thing. She reveled in this realization, a little detail that was the stuff of adult intimacy. He’d used his tooth powder too, and probably washed off with bergamot- scented soap.
He turned his face into her palm. “You must tell me what pleases you, Sophie.”
“Such words are not always easy to say.” Particularly when the feel of him—his jaw, his lips, his nose, his hair, the exact shape of the back of his skull against her palm—was so absorbing.
“Then show me. Put my hands where you want them to go, touch me where it pleases you to touch me.”
“All over. I want to touch you all over.”
He might have chuckled a little, or growled with pleasure at her words, though she’d spoken only the simple truth. Vim was a healthy, naked male in his prime, and she wished she’d had the courage to leave a candle burning and the curtains drawn back.
But no matter, she’d see him with her hands. While he lay quietly beside her, she explored the terrain of his chest, a warm, smooth plane of bone, muscle, and beating heart. When she grazed her palm over one small male nipple, she heard him inhale.
