became challenging.”
He settled his hand over hers, giving her fingers—and thus himself—another little squeeze as he said the last word.
And then, damn and blast, Her Grace gave the signal for the ladies to rise and join her for tea in the parlor, while Sophie’s brothers started exchanging the kinds of grins that assured her Vim would not be retiring yet for hours.
Sophie kept her features placid, even when Evie winked at her, Maggie rolled her eyes, and Her Grace rang for the cordials instead of the teapot.
Just knowing Sophie was down the hall—Vim’s room was in the family wing—was both a torture and a pleasure. He wanted to go to her, but God knew which brother, sister, or
He sighed, and for the twentieth time since retiring, rolled over in the vast bed.
A slow creak came to his ears. The creak repeated itself—a door opening then closing.
A scent drifted to his nose, a flowery, clean fragrance he was coming to treasure.
“Sophia Windham, you have developed a lamentable penchant for sneaking into gentlemen’s bedrooms.”
“I’m going to sneak into your bed, as well,” she said, parting the bed curtains. “It’s chilly out here.”
Trying to formulate a stern lecture about propriety was an utter waste of time as Sophie unbelted her wrapper, tossed it to the foot of the bed, and drew her chemise over her head.
“Can’t have you catching your death.” He flipped up the covers and admonished himself to plead shamelessly for the wedding to be held sooner rather than later—much sooner. The Good Lord was going to bestow only so many providential snowstorms on a man and his bride.
“I would rather catch my prospective husband at his slumbers.” She tucked herself against Vim’s side, a warm, lovely bundle of female. His arm came around her shoulders to gather her closer, and she sighed.
“I suppose, being a woman in contemplation of matrimony, you came here to talk?” He tried not to sound long-suffering, but her brothers had lectured him at great length about the adult woman’s need for, and entitlement to, private conversation with her spouse.
Sophie’s hand drifted across his bare abdomen. “Of course I came to talk. I love talking with you.”
He’d work the conversation around to the wedding date, then. Work the situation to his advantage while he tried not to take advantage of Moreland’s hospitality. And then, who knew where the conversation might lead them?
Sophie’s hand trailed up across his chest then traced his sternum down to his navel. “I came here to talk, because snowstorms are not a very reliable means of acquiring time with one’s beloved.” Her hand moved south and closed gently around Vim’s straining erection. “But I didn’t come here
“The snow has stopped.” His Grace dropped the curtain and turned back to regard his wife as she sat at her escritoire.
She set her pen down, her serene countenance giving little clue to her emotional state, though His Grace noted the shadows in her eyes. “Then I suppose the boys will be traveling on sooner rather than later.”
“And in spring, we can go on a progress.” He crossed the room and bent to poke up the fire. “We’ll inspect Sindal’s place in Surrey, drop in on Westhaven and Viscount Amery—wouldn’t want Rose to feel neglected by her grandparents—head up to Oxfordshire to see Val and Ellen, then toddle on to the West Riding, if you like.”
She nodded. A man offers to spend weeks jaunting about the countryside imposing on one child after another, and his wife merely nods. “Esther, is something troubling you?”
“Not troubling me.” She rose and crossed to their bed, the bed where they’d conceived their children and made up after their increasingly rare fights. “Come sit with me, Husband.”
Husband. She rarely called him that, almost never before others. He sat with her and took her hand. “Tell me, Wife. I cannot have you troubled while I yet draw breath.”
“Our dear sensible Sophie, the daughter whom we never think to fret over—”
“We fret over every damned one of them, excuse my language.”
“—We do, but our Sophie, whom we don’t fret over so very much, that Sophie…” She turned and pressed her face to his shoulder, which caused His Grace to feel a frisson of unease. Esther was the kindest woman on God’s earth, but when it came to family, she was neither sentimental nor cowardly.
“Tell me about Sophie, Esther.”
“She cast up her accounts—as your sons would say—after breakfast.
His Grace put an arm around his wife’s shoulders and kissed her hair, mostly to hide his smile. “All will be well, Esther. You are not to worry. Sophie is a Windham. Of course she’d indulge in certain liberties with her intended. Probably got the tendency from her mother.”
Her Grace drew back, a frown creasing her pretty features. “You are not wroth? You’re not going to call Sindal out or ring a peal over their heads?”
“I am not, not when our own marriage began on similar terms—and look how well that turned out. Come to bed. If the weather has truly let up, then the rider should have no trouble getting back from Town posthaste.”
She climbed under the covers and curled into his arms, the same as she had almost every night of their married life. “What rider would that be?”
“The one procuring the special license Sophie asked me to obtain with all possible speed. Sent the poor messenger out in this weather with nothing less than my best bottle of whiskey to speed him on his way.”
His duchess sighed and snuggled closer. “Happy Christmas, Percival. I do love you.”
“Happy Christmas, Duchess, and I love you.”
“We’ll talk later, then.” Vim shifted so he was crouched over Sophie, his erection brushing her belly. “Now, we’ll anticipate marital privileges
“Your enthusiasm for these priv—gracious sakes!” She sighed as he kissed her, her hand landing in his hair, her hips tilting invitingly against him. Sophie already wore one of the heirloom Charpentier rings, and a part of Vim had half hoped with an official engagement, his hunger for his bride might abate to something closer to fondness, something that admitted of restraint and decorum, and of church services and family meals that didn’t feel like they lasted for days.
It was a vain, stupid hope. The more he loved her, the more he wanted to love her.
“Mr. Charpentier, why is it you locate your reserves of patience only when I am desperate for you to be impulsive?” Sophie purred her question into his ear, swiping at his lobe with her tongue then drawing it into her mouth and biting just firmly enough to tempt Vim to the impulsiveness she was trying to provoke.
“I am patient,” he growled while nudging at her sex with his cock, “because I am considerate of your pleasure, Sophie.”
“Such consideration usually has me yelling and moaning, and—” She grabbed his hair and used that to leverage her hips into a more accommodating angle. “I do love anticipating marriage to a considerate man.”
She loved making love with him, as well, something Vim had come to appreciate in their few though passionate encounters. Sophie Windham was every inch a lady, but also every inch a bride in love with her prospective husband.
He sank slowly into her willing heat, the pleasure of it nigh causing his ears to roar.
“Stop that, Sophie.” He slowed down more to make his point, but this just allowed her to use internal muscles to greater advantage. “For God’s sake, you’ll unman me.”
“For about ten minutes maybe.” She set up a rhythm that had Vim’s resolve crumbling and the old bed creaking. When she started to make a telltale little whimper in the back of her throat, he gave up and let passion consume them both. It wasn’t his imagination, either. As they became more familiar with each other as lovers, as each learned the other’s sensitivities and preferences, the pleasure became greater and greater. He’d come to expect the roaring in his ears and the boiling pleasure that exploded out from his vitals and tore through his body each and every time they made love.
When he hung over her, panting and sated, when her fingernails had left an imprint on his backside, he lifted
