“
Westhaven rolled his eyes. “To think my tiny son is all that stands between this braying ass and the Moreland dukedom.”
“I made Sophie smile,” Val said, abruptly ceasing his braying. “My Christmas holiday is a success because I made Sophie smile.” He smiled at her too, a particularly sweet and understanding smile. “Go visit the Demon Seed, Sophie. You’ll feel much better when you’ve changed a nappy and My Lord Baby has cast his accounts upon your dress.”
“Don’t stay too long,” Westhaven said as he helped her off her horse. Sophie went still before her brother’s arms had dropped from her waist.
“That’s Kit.” She listened for a moment more. “That’s his hungry cry. Let me go,
“Sophie.” Westhaven’s grip shifted to her shoulders. “He’s not your baby, and they aren’t going to starve him. There? You see? Already somebody must be stuffing porridge into the bottomless pit located where his stomach ought to be. Calm yourself. You’re Percival and Esther Windham’s sensible daughter, and you’re merely calling as a courtesy.”
Westhaven had the knack of conveying calm with just his voice, but still, Sophie had to rest her forehead on his shoulder for a moment.
“Your package?” Valentine stood beside them, holding out a parcel wrapped in paper. “I’ll be most of the day, wrestling with that old curmudgeon in the church vestibule, but my guess is Westhaven will limit himself to one plate of cookies and two cups of tea.”
A warning. She wasn’t to linger, or her brothers would forcibly remove her from the curate’s little house.
“Come along.” Westhaven put her hand on his arm while Valentine led the horses over to the livery. “Thirty minutes, no more.”
She nodded. They meant well, and right now, Sophie could not trust her own judgment when it came to Kit.
When it came to much of anything.
Westhaven knocked on the door, which was opened by a girl of about six. She grinned, revealing two missing front teeth to go with her two untidy blond braids. “Mama! There’s a man here and a lady!”
Sophie smiled down at the child, who opened the door wide enough to let them pass into the house. “I’m Lady Sophia, and this is Lord Westhaven.”
“I’m Lizabeth! We got a new baby for Christmas, Papa said. His name is Christian, but he’s not really my brother. Mama! The lady’s name is Sophie!” She peered up at Westhaven. “I forget your name.”
“You may call me Lord Westhaven.”
“Mama! The man’s name—”
“Elizabeth Ann Harrad. What have I told you about bellowing in the house?” Mrs. Harrad arrived to the foyer, hands on hips. “I beg your pardon, my lady, my lord. Elizabeth, make your curtsy.”
The child flung her upper half forward and down in a bow.
“Very nice,” Sophie said, retuning the gesture in more recognizable form. “Mrs. Harrad, I don’t mean to impose, but my brothers were going this way, and I thought I’d drop a little something off for—Baron Sindal?”
Vim sauntered up behind Mrs. Harrad, Kit perched on his shoulder.
“Sindal.” Westhaven’s greeting was cool. “Mrs. Harrad, felicitations of the season. I’ll be collecting Lady Sophia when I’ve called upon the vicar, if you’ll excuse me?”
He was out the door before Sophie could stop him.
“Lady Sophia.” Vim nodded at her, his smile genial. “We were just having a bit of early luncheon in the kitchen, weren’t we, Mrs. Harrad?”
“If your lordship says so. I’ll fetch Mr. Harrad to make his bow to you, Lady Sophia.” She bustled off as an argument started up elsewhere in the house between two girl children.
Sophie stood there in her cloak, the argument fading, the various smells of the house fading—baking bread, a faint odor of tomcat, coal smoke, and unwashed baby linen. All she perceived was Vim, standing there with his shirtsleeves turned back to the elbows, his eyes the exact shade of blue as Kit’s.
“His dress is dirty.” Sophie glanced around, hoping Mrs. Harrad wasn’t close at hand to overhear her.
“These things will happen when man flings his porridge in all directions,” Vim said. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with him?”
“Mary and Louise are arguing again,” Elizabeth reported, her gaze going from Sophie to Vim. “That’s why Papa must keep the door to his study closed
Vim smiled at the child. “Tell them Lady Sophia complimented your curtsy. Then you can argue with them too.” He winked at the child, and she scampered off.
And thus, for a moment, Sophie was alone with Vim and Kit, her gaze devouring the sight of them.
“How are you?”
“It’s good to see you.”
They spoke at the same time, and as each took one step toward the other, Mr. Harrad came bustling up the hallway, followed by his wife.
“Lady Sophia, my apologies. I wasn’t aware we had more company. Do come in. My dear, can you take Lady’s Sophia’s wrap?”
He spoke pleasantly, but a hint of rebuke laced his tone. An instant’s hesitation on Mrs. Harrad’s part could have become awkward, but Kit chose that moment to start waving his arms in Sophie’s direction and babbling.
“Here.” Sophie shrugged out of her cloak. “May I hold him?”
“He seems to like being carried about,” Mrs. Harrad said, hanging Sophie’s cloak on a peg. “My girls weren’t quite as demanding.”
Sophie ignored the word choice, ignored whatever currents were passing between husband and wife, ignored even the pleasure of brushing her hand over Vim’s as they passed the baby between them.
“My Lord Baby,” she said softly, cuddling him close. “You were about to wake the watch with your racket.” She glanced up at Vim. “Was he done eating?”
“Not nearly,” Vim said. “Perhaps we might take our tea in the kitchen? I’m sure Lady Sophia would enjoy spending some time with her young friend.”
Mr. Harrad shrugged; his wife looked resigned. They were both blond, a little on the slight side, and had a tired, harried look to them.
“Has he been running you ragged?” Sophie asked Mrs. Harrad. “Kit, I mean.”
Mrs. Harrad glanced at the baby in Sophie’s arms. “It’s just that he’s a boy. My husband wanted a boy, but they’re not the same as girls, and this one is fussy.”
He wasn’t the least fussy, Sophie wanted to retort. Kit was curled happily in her arms, his little fingers batting at her chin and mouth. “Has he been crawling much?”
Mrs. Harrad looked down, and before she could answer, they’d arrived to a big, warm kitchen redolent with the scent of baking bread. “I can offer you fresh bread with your tea.”
“Don’t go to any bother, please.” Sophie sat so she could put Kit on her lap. “Lord Westhaven will be collecting me before I could do your bread justice.” She picked up an adult-sized teaspoon and frowned at it. Had they been feeding Kit with this?
“It suffices,” Vim said quietly from his seat beside her. “You just have to give him a moment to work at it.”
The sound of his voice had Kit grinning and bouncing on Sophie’s lap.
The next minutes passed in a blur, with Kit slurping down a quantity of plain, cold porridge, Vim making small talk with their host and hostess, and Sophie trying to store up a pleasant memory of spending time with Kit.
It was difficult. The baby’s dress was dirty, which, true enough, could happen in five minutes flat, but his fingernails were also dirty, and the fat little creases of his baby-neck were grimy. There was a red scratch down the length of one arm, and when all three girls came bellowing and stampeding into the kitchen, Kit began to cry.
He cried more loudly when Mrs. Harrad began to scold, and Sophie herself felt an urge to cry.
