his wife. “I believe you should invite the boy to the party, after all. It will make for an interesting evening.”
“I will, then. It will be nice to see Essie and Bert, but you are not to get up to any tricks, Percival Windham. More tea?”
His Grace passed over his cup and saucer. “Of course, my love. Nothing would please me more.”
“We can stop for lunch at Chester,” Vim said. “I’ll split off a few miles the other side of town, or you can come with me to Sidling.”
Beside him, Westhaven shifted in the saddle. “St. Just? You’re the head drover. What do you say?”
“I’m the head nothing,” Lord Valentine interjected, nudging his horse up beside Vim’s. “I say we get out of this weather as soon as we can. Sophie’s lips are blue, and I don’t like the look of that sky.”
St. Just looked up from where he’d been adjusting his greatcoat. “I say we move on and make that decision when Sindal’s fork in the road appears. The baby seems fine, though the damned clouds look loaded with more snow.”
“It’s my turn to take him.” Vim shifted his horse to pull up beside St. Just.
“The lad’s fine where he is.” St. Just spoke mildly, while Vim endured a spike of frustration. He might be seeing the last of the child in the next two hours; the least St. Just could do was let a man have some—
“Unless you’d rather?” St. Just quirked a dark eyebrow. Vim was tempted to refuse on general principles, but something in St. Just’s green eyes… not pity. A retired officer wouldn’t offer insult like that, but maybe… understanding. “I have a stepdaughter, Sindal. Less than a day in her company, and I would have cheerfully cut out my heart for her. My younger daughter wasn’t even born before I was making lists of reasons to reject her potential suitors.”
He spoke quietly enough that his brothers could pretend they hadn’t heard him. Vim accepted the child and ensconced the bundle of infant inside his greatcoat.
“Why are we stopping?” Sophie’s cheeks were not pink; they were red. As her great beast trudged into their midst, Vim was relieved to see her lips were not truly blue, though they no doubt felt blue.
“Reconnoitering,” Westhaven said. “The baron has offered us shelter before we travel the last few miles to Morelands.”
“Is Kit managing?”
Four men spoke as one: “He’s fine.”
“Well, then.” She urged her horse forward. “If we’re to beat the next storm, we’d best be moving on.”
She rode past Vim without turning her head. Even mounted on one of her pet mastodons, she looked elegant and composed, for all the cold had to be chilling her to the bone. He regretted mentioning his aversion to holiday gatherings, suspecting she’d spoken of it to her brothers and gleaned the details of his youthful folly.
For years, he’d tried to refer to it that way,
“In my head, I’m composing a new piece of music.”
Vim turned to see Lord Val riding along beside him. “It will be called, ‘Lament for a Promising Young Composer Who Died of a Frozen Bum-Fiddle.’ I’ll do something creative with the violins and double basses—a bit of humor for my final work. It will be published posthumously, of course, and bring me rave reviews from all my critics. ‘A tragic loss,’ they’ll all say. It could bring frozen bum-fiddles into fashion.”
“You haven’t any critics.” St. Just spoke over his shoulder, having abdicated the lead position to his sister. “Ellen won’t allow it, more’s the pity.”
“My wife is ever wise—”
“Oh, famous.” Westhaven’s muttered imprecation interrupted his idiot younger brother.
Lord Val leaned over toward Vim. “There’s another word, a word that alliterates with famous, that his- lordship-my-brother-the-heir has eschewed since becoming a father. Famous is his attempt at compromise.”
“I’ll say it, then.” St. Just sighed as another flurry drifted down from the sky. “Fuck. It’s going to snow again. Beg sincere pardon for my language, Sophie.”
She did not so much as shrug to acknowledge this exchange.
They got the horses moving at a faster shuffle, but it occurred to Vim as they trudged and struggled and cursed their way toward Sidling, that Sophie’s brothers—passing him the baby, making inane small talk with him, and even in their silences—had been offering him some sort of encouragement.
Would that her ladyship might do the same.
Inside Vim’s coat, Kit gave a particularly hearty kick, connecting with the rib under Vim’s heart.
While the snow started to come down in earnest.
From a distance, Sidling looked to be in decent repair. The oaks were in their appointed locations, lining the long, curving driveway; the fences appeared to be in adequate condition; the half-timbered house with its many mullioned windows sat at the end of the drive, looking snug and peaceful in the falling snow.
“It’s lovely.” Sophie drew her horse to a halt and crossed her wrists on her knee. “It looks serene, content. You must have missed it terribly.”
“It has a certain charm.” Which at the moment was completely lost on Vim.
Would the hall be tidy enough for visitors? Would there be sufficient sheets for their beds? Would Uncle’s antediluvian hound have chewed all the carpets to rags? Would Aunt be drifting about in dishabille, making vague references to friends no longer alive?
“You’re very quiet, my lord.”
He was anticipating more seasonal humiliation already. “My aunt and uncle are elderly. I’m hoping I haven’t overestimated their capacity for hospitality.”
“I daresay my brothers could enjoy each other’s company before a campfire with naught but horse blankets and a short deck of cards between them.” She sent her horse forward, leaving Vim no option but to do likewise.
“Is that what all this bickering is about? Enjoying each other’s company?”
“Of course.” She peered at him, looking lovely, the snow clinging to her scarf, the cold putting a ruddy blush on her cheeks. “Isn’t it the same for you? You come home for the holidays, and it’s as if you never gave up your short coats. The feelings of childhood and youth are restored to you just like you never left.”
“God, I hope not.”
She fiddled with her reins. “Perhaps this year can give you some memories to replace the ones you find uncomfortable. Tell me about your aunt and uncle.”
And now he’d hurt her feelings, which was just… famous, as Westhaven would have said. Bloody, famously famous.
“Sophie.” He reached over and covered her hand with his own for just a moment. Her brothers were allowing them some privacy by dropping back a few dozen yards, probably because the entire party was in full view of the house. “I will treasure the memories I already have of this holiday season for all the rest of my days.”
She urged her horse to a slightly faster walk, which meant Vim had to drop his hand or look as ridiculous as he felt. What had he been thinking, to offer hospitality to a litter of full-grown ducal pups who’d be used to only the best of everything?
He’d been thinking of spending just a few more hours with Sophie, of giving her another day or night before she had to face parting with Kit.
“Pretty place.” Lord Valentine rode up on Vim’s right. “I like the old-fashioned manors myself. I just finished restoring a lovely old place out in Oxfordshire. Don’t suppose you have a piano on the premises?”
“It will likely need tuning.” Unless the rats had chewed the thing to kindling.
“I always bring my tools with me. Soph! Wait up. St. Just and Westhaven have been picking on me without ceasing, and I want you to scold them properly.”
He trotted up to his sister, only to be replaced by Westhaven and St. Just on either side of Vim’s horse.
“It’s wonderful to see Valentine back to his old self,” Westhaven said. “The man was getting too serious by half.”
“We all were.” St. Just’s observation was quiet as he watched Val steer his horse right into the flank of
