Sophie would fret herself into an early grave if the boy stopped thriving.

“Listen,” Vim said, speaking very quietly against the baby’s ear. “You are worrying your mama Sophie. You’re too young to start that nonsense, not even old enough to join the navy. Go to sleep, my man. Sooner rather than later.”

The child did not go to sleep. He whimpered and whined, and by two in the morning, his nose was running most unattractively.

Sophie would not go to sleep either, and Vim would not leave her alone with the baby.

“This is my fault,” Sophie said, her gaze following Vim as he made yet another circuit with the child. “I was the one who had to go to the mews, and I should never have taken Kit with me.”

“Nonsense. He loved the outing, and you needed the fresh air.”

The baby wasn’t even slurping on his fist, which alarmed Vim more than a possible low fever. And that nose… Vim surreptitiously used a hankie to tend to it, but Sophie got to her feet and came toward them.

“He’s ill,” she said, frowning at the child. “He misses his mother and I took him out in the middle of a blizzard and now he’s ill.”

Vim put his free arm around her, hating the misery in her tone. “He has a runny nose, Sophie. Nobody died of a runny nose.”

Her expression went from wan to stricken. “He could die?” She scooted away from Vim. “This is what people mean when they say somebody took a chill, isn’t it? It starts with congestion, then a fever, then he becomes weak and delirious…”

“He’s not weak or delirious, Sophie. Calm down.” It took effort not to raise his voice, not to get angry with the woman for overreacting so egregiously.

Except the same fear gnawed at Vim’s guts: the baby was warm, he was unhappy, his nose was running more than a little… God in heaven, no Mayfair physician was going to brave this weather in the middle of the night to come tend a tweenie’s bastard foundling.

“He’s quieter now, Sophie,” Vim said, injecting as much steadiness as he could into the observation. “Why don’t you sing to him?”

“I can’t sing when he may be dying.”

She’d lost brothers. One of them at this same time of year… Something was nibbling at the back of Vim’s mind. Something to do with colicky babies and why panic wasn’t warranted, but he couldn’t focus on retrieving whatever it was with Sophie near tears, the baby fretting, and no one at hand to help.

“Then I’ll sing, though that will likely have the child holding his ears and you running from the room.”

This, incongruously, had her lips quirking up. “My father isn’t very musical. You hold the baby, I’ll sing.” She took the rocking chair by the hearth. Vim settled the child in his arms and started blowing out candles as he paced the room.

“He shall feed his flock, like a shepherd…”

More Handel, the lilting, lyrical contralto portion of the aria, a sweet, comforting melody if ever one had been written. And the baby was comforted, sighing in Vim’s arms and going still.

Not deathly still, just exhausted still. Sophie sang on, her voice unbearably lovely. “And He shall gather the lambs in his arm… and gently lead those that are with young.”

Vim liked music, he enjoyed it a great deal in fact—he just wasn’t any good at making it. Sophie was damned good. She had superb control, managing to sing quietly even as she shifted to the soprano verse, her voice lifting gently into the higher register. By the second time through, Vim’s eyes were heavy and his steps lagging.

“He’s asleep,” he whispered as the last notes died away. “And my God, you can sing, Sophie Windham.”

“I had good teachers.” She’d sung some of the tension and worry out too, if her more peaceful expression was any guide. “If you want to go back to your room, I can take him now.”

He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to leave her alone with the fussy baby; he didn’t want to go back to his big, cold bed down the dark, cold hallway.

“Go to bed, Sophie. I’ll stay for a while.”

She frowned then went to the window and parted the curtain slightly. “I think it’s stopped snowing, but there is such a wind it’s hard to tell.”

He didn’t dare join her at the window for fear a chilly draft might wake the child. “Come away from there, Sophie, and why haven’t you any socks or slippers on your feet?”

She glanced down at her bare feet and wiggled long, elegant toes. “I forgot. Kit started crying, and I was out of bed before I quite woke up.”

They shared a look, one likely common to parents of infants the world over.

“My Lord Baby has a loyal and devoted court,” Vim said. “Get into bed before your toes freeze off.”

She gave him a particularly unreadable perusal but climbed into her bed and did not draw the curtains. “Vim?”

“Hmm?” He took the rocker, the lyrical triple meter of the aria still in his head.

“Thank you.”

He said nothing. Now that Kit was quiet and Sophie calmer, he could enjoy the pleasure of rocking a sleeping baby, even as he also enjoyed the picture of Sophie Windham, her hair a surprisingly long, dark braid over one shoulder, her natural form patently obvious through the soft flannel of her nightclothes.

A woman’s feet were personal. A man might take possession of her hand, buss her cheek, slide her arm through his, take her in his arms for the space of a waltz, and otherwise admire her attributes, but he never, ever saw her feet.

Nor she his. Vim glanced down at his own bare toes.

I was out of bed before I quite woke up. Sophie’s words came back to him. Kit had them both trained, and Vim hadn’t even known the child a week.

Thank God and all His angels Vim would be leaving in the morning. If he stayed much longer, no force on earth would be able to drag him away from Sophie or the baby.

* * *

Sophie awoke to a wonderful sense of warmth and a heaviness in all her limbs that bespoke an exhausted rest. She nuzzled her pillow, and the scent of bergamot wound through her brain.

She opened her eyes just as her pillow heaved out a sigh.

“My goodness.”

Vim Charpentier slept beside her, his arm around her where she was plastered to his side. Light came through a crack in the window curtains, and a quiet snuffling sounded from the cradle near the hearth.

“He’s awake.” Vim’s voice was resigned. “I’ll get him. It’s my turn.”

“He’s not fussing yet. You have a few minutes.”

Vim sighed gustily, and his hand settled on Sophie’s shoulder. “I do apologize for appropriating half your bed. Just a few more days rest, and I’ll be happy to vacate it.”

There was weary humor in his tone and something else… affection?

“Vim?”

He shifted a little, so Sophie might have met his gaze if she’d had sufficient courage.

“I’ve never awoken with a man in my bed before. It’s cozy.”

“And I’ve never been referred to as cozy before, but the Infant Terrible has reduced me to viewing that state as worthy in the extreme. You’re cozy too.” He kissed her temple, and a sweetness bloomed in Sophie’s middle.

Affection. It was different from passion and different with a man than with, say, a sibling or friend.

It was wonderful.

“Sophie?” The hand that had been petting her back stilled. “I seem to have lost my dressing gown.”

“Have you now?” She let her fingers steal across his flat middle, except they bumped something smooth and warm arrowing up from his groin. She had half gripped its length when she realized—

“My goodness.” She snatched her hand back, her face flaming.

She felt his belly bounce with laughter. “More than you bargained for, hmm? Close your eyes, and I’ll vacate the bed.”

She closed her eyes—almost—though she did not want him vacating the bed. That he could joke and tease about something so… personal. She slitted her eyes in time to see Vim’s long, lean male figure completely naked, his back to her. The adult male fundament was… attractive, she realized. Muscle and naughtiness and masculine beauty, in a way.

And then he turned to rummage for his dressing gown, and Sophie felt her breath seize.

“You’re peeking,” he said, casual amusement lacing his voice. “Shame on you, Sophie Windham.” He shrugged into the dressing gown, taking from Sophie her first and likely only glimpse of an aroused adult male.

But he hadn’t hurried, and she’d seen… God above, it made her mouth go dry, all that virility and power and lazy grace. His male parts were only fascinating for their novelty, the rest of him being sufficiently impressive that Sophie finally understood her sister Jenny’s preoccupation with sketching and painting.

“I’ll be back in a moment, my girl. Put some socks on when you leave that bed.”

He sauntered out, leaving Sophie to glance at the clock.

For God’s sake, the morning was well advanced. She’d never slept this late in her adult life.

Never stayed up half the night with a fussy baby.

Never awoken with an aroused male in her bed.

Never seen an adult male naked and so gloriously unconcerned with it.

And had never before wanted to see more, touch more, taste more…

“You have addled my female wits,” she said, slogging out of the covers and crossing to the cradle. “You and your coconspirator. Men.”

Kit regarded her with blue eyes so guileless it was as if he hadn’t kept both adults up most of the night. His nose was not running, which was more relief than Sophie would have imagined.

“You were in a state last night, my friend. And when you’re in a state, I am in a state. I daresay Mr. Charpentier was in a state too.”

Quite a state. They’d taken turns with the child. Sophie had sung until her throat ached, and Vim had paced and paced and paced with the baby. She only vaguely recalled the man climbing into bed with her, then climbing back out, then climbing back in.

He’d let her sleep, and he was leaving today.

What if he’d left yesterday and Sophie had had to contend with Kit’s bad night all by herself ? What if she’d fallen asleep when the child needed her? What if Kit were truly falling ill?

“My mother raised ten children,” she informed the baby as she changed his wet nappy on the chaise. “No wonder she can handle Papa without ever losing her composure.”

Or raising her voice, or ever, ever disagreeing with His Grace before others. One night with a fussy baby and Sophie was regarding her parents with quite a bit more respect.

A knock on the door heralded Vim’s return. “How is His Highness?”

“He’s quite well rested. Unlike you. You should sleep now, Vim, and I’ll feed the baby.”

His crossed to the window and peered out. Sophie shifted to stand beside him, Kit in her arms. The snow had stopped, though a bitter wind was sculpting enormous drifts in the back gardens. “The paths you and the grooms shoveled yesterday are all but obliterated.”

“I’ll dig some more before I leave. Those duffers in the mews aren’t up to a task this size.”

He was leaving. His arm came around her shoulders as if to silently acknowledge the pain of that reality. “You’ll manage, Sophie. That child could not be in better hands.”

She turned into his body, the child in her arms, and Vim embraced them both.

He said nothing, just held woman and baby while Sophie tried to tell herself she was lucky. She’d been well and truly kissed; she’d been declared cozy; she’d been held and cuddled and given a good start on learning to care for the baby.

But she was not a baby. Held and cuddled was lovely. It was not enough. She’d wished for so much more. Wished for it until she couldn’t wish any more, and then Vim Charpentier had appeared in her life, and the wishing was worse than ever.

“I’ll feed the baby.” She pulled back a little. “If you want to rest, I can wake you when your breakfast is ready.”

Something crossed his features. He hadn’t shaved, and he’d gotten a lot less sleep than Sophie had. He was weary, but also… sad, Sophie decided. That was something, that he was sad too.

“I’ll start on the paths. A hot breakfast would be appreciated once you get Kit fed.”

She slipped from his side. “If you fall asleep in a snowdrift, I will not wake you until spring.”

She was almost to the door before his voice stopped her. “There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to go, Sophie.”

She nodded and left, closing the door quietly. He was trying to be kind again, but this time it didn’t feel at all welcome.