Val reached over and plucked her glass from her hand. “Then you’d better share, sister dear, or I’m going to go fetch Sindal here myself.”
A summer evening could be quiet, peaceful even, but it could never compete with the utter stillness of a winter night. No birds flitted from branch to branch; no insects sang to their mates; no soft breezes stirred leafy green boughs.
As Vim let his horse trot down the Sidling drive, all was still, and a fat moon was about to crest the horizon. The silence was as dense as the air was cold, but for the life of him, Vim could not have remained indoors with his silly young cousins, his fuming aunt, his oddly quiet uncle, and the aging retainers on every hand.
As the horse loosened up at a ground-eating trot beneath him, Vim started composing a note in his head to Lady Sophia Windham.
He was sorry—more sorry than he could say—that their paths were diverging.
Except that wasn’t an apology, and he owed her an apology. He’d leapt to convenient conclusions, made mad, passionate love for what felt like the first time in his life, then bungled the aftermath badly. He should have gone down on his damn bended knee, should have made her heart tremble, or whatever that word was Windham had used.
At the foot of the drive, he turned the horse toward the village and started his note over: Dear Sophie…
My dear Sophie…
Dearest Sophie…
Sophie, my love…
The horse’s ears swiveled forward, and Vim drew the beast up. The last thing he needed was to land on his arse on the cold, hard ground because some damned fox was out hunting his dinner.
“What is it?” He smoothed a hand down the gelding’s neck and let the horse walk on. “You hear some hound baying at the moon?”
But as they approached the village, Vim heard it too: a baby crying.
He halted the horse and simply listened. This was the sound that had drawn his path to Sophie’s, a purely unhappy, discontent sound, but unmistakably human.
The boy wanted Sophie, and he didn’t second-guess his entitlement to her, didn’t stop to fret about long-ago insults and innuendos and violins, didn’t worry about titles or any other damned thing that stood between him and what he needed to be happy.
Mercifully, the crying ceased.
Before Vim could change his mind, he wheeled the horse in the direction of Morelands and set the beast to a brisk canter.
“Her Grace dispatched me to figure out what has you lot glowering like a matched set of gargoyles.” Percival, the Duke of Moreland, surveyed his three sons, all of whom were clutching their drinks with the grim resignation of grown men being sociable under duress. This was odd, since all of his children were more than comfortable in social settings.
“We’re that obvious?” Valentine asked.
“To Her Grace, all is transparent when it comes to her family. I suppose we’re waiting for Sophie’s swain to come to his senses and gallop up the drive on his white charger?”
St. Just stood by the window, peering through a crack in the drapes. “It’s a bay, actually, and the idiot man is finally here. Somebody needs to warn Sophie.”
“Not just yet,” His Grace said. “I’m to have a word with Sindal first, Her Grace’s orders. You three look after your sister, and for God’s sake, find somebody to dance with Evie before she drags Deene under the mistletoe by his hair. She holds his liquor better than he does.”
He left his sons to deal with their sisters while he moved to receive his latest guest.
“Sindal, glad you could join us.” He passed the man’s greatcoat to a footman and noted that Sindal’s expression was wary and his cheeks were flushed, as if he’d galloped the entire distance from Sidling. “Stop peering around to see if Sophie’s here. I assure you she’s about somewhere.”
Sindal passed his gloves and hat to the footman and waited until the servant had bustled away. “And you would not object to my socializing with Lady Sophia?”
“Such a bold fellow you have become.” Emboldened by love, apparently, which made the situation both simpler and more delicate. “You would not give a tinker’s damn if I objected, would you?”
Sindal’s lips quirked. “I would not, Your Grace, but Sophie would.”
“Thank God for small favors, then. Are we to stand around here in this draft and exchange innuendos, or will you let me get you a glass of punch?”
And still, Sindal’s gaze was darting surreptitiously into every corner of the vast entrance hall. “No punch for me, thank you, Your Grace.”
“Perhaps a small glass,” Sindal allowed.
And just when His Grace was certain they were going to gain the privacy of the men’s punch bowl, who should come wafting by but dear little Sophia herself ?
“Lord Sindal?” She stopped, her gaze fixed on Sindal’s face.
“I’m fetching him a glass of punch, Sophie.” His Grace took Sindal by the arm. “I believe Her Grace said something about Westhaven decimating the marzipan trays. You might want to have a look, hmm?”
He had to drag the boy away bodily. “You can lurk under the mistletoe later, Sindal. I want no more than five minutes of your time.”
Legitimate grandchildren would be a shade easier to explain to Her Grace.
“To your health.” He passed a glass of spiked punch to Sindal. “Drink up, sir. I have a hunch you’ll need the fortification.”
Sindal took a sip of his drink, his eyes going to the door and the entrance hall beyond. “And your health, as well, Your Grace. Now if you’re done demonstrating your ducal forbearance, I’ve something to say to your daughter that can’t—”
His Grace plucked the glass from Sindal’s hand. “You will listen to me first, young fellow.” He saw his wife glide past the door and understood that she’d ensure they had a measure of privacy. “You have been notably absent from our Christmas gatherings in years past.”
“I’ve been notably absent from England, but I don’t foresee that being necessary in future.”
“Glad to hear it. Stop that infernal mooning for Sophie and take a look at the woman standing at the foot of the stairs.”
Sindal did stop scanning the environs long enough to shoot his host a look mixing irritation with vague curiosity. “The heavyset, older woman?”
“The one standing next to the bald fellow leaning on his cane.” The woman obligingly turned, which ought to confirm, even to Sindal’s preoccupied and besotted eyes, that she wasn’t just heavyset, she’d graduated from matronly to something less flattering two stone ago.
“Do you recognize her?”
“She looks vaguely familiar, as does the older fellow with her.”
“There is your thwarted dream, Sindal. Why don’t you stand under the mistletoe and ambush her for old times’ sake? Horton can barely stand on his own now, so bad is his gout and so seldom is he sober. I suppose if you called him out now, you could arm wrestle.”
To his credit, Sindal did not gape.
“Then again”—His Grace paused to take a sip of his drink—“if I had six little heifers the likes of his to dower and launch, I might be driven to drink myself.”
