“Easy, Sophie, the feeling comes back in an uncomfortable rush.”

She paused, the towel wrapped around his feet. “Did you really look all day for a horse?” She studied his feet while she posed her question, and Vim resisted the urge to stroke a hand over her hair.

“Not all day. First I made the rounds of the coaching inns in Mayfair, Soho, St. James, Knightsbridge, and halfway to the City. There were a few traveling due east, but I could not buy a place, even on the roof, not for any price. People are determined to join their loved ones for the holidays.”

She nodded and hugged his feet. Hugged his big, cold, red, soon to be madly itching feet. Hugged them right to her breasts.

It was ridiculous, that gesture. Extravagantly generous, personal, and practical all at once, given her bodily warmth. He allowed it and realized his heart would never recover entirely from encountering Sophie Windham.

“I tried to rent a horse, but nobody wanted to part with a sound animal for so great a distance when many people were willing to pay dearly for a local hire. I tried the abattoirs and breweries, everywhere. No luck.”

And no room at the inns he’d tried, either. He didn’t tell her that.

“I’m glad.” She let his feet go and resumed rubbing them gently. “I’m glad you came back where I can feed you properly and know you’re warm and safe and well fed.”

She did feed him, fed him thick slabs of smoked ham, steaming potatoes seasoned with herbs, cheese, and butter, and crusty slices of bread fresh from the oven. It was the best meal he’d ever eaten, and yet he tasted little of it because he was preoccupied watching her move around the kitchen, tidying up as he demolished his dinner.

And then he followed her down the hallway to where he’d never thought to be again, sprawled on the thick carpet of the servants’ parlor, Kit on all fours between them, rocking and cooing and enjoying the life of a cosseted baby.

“Kit listened to your parting sermon this morning. He was a very good boy today.” She lay on her back, her head turned to watch the baby.

“And he’s thriving in your care. Sophie. You aren’t really going to give him up, are you? If Their Graces were tolerant of the tweenie’s situation, they might make allowances for you.”

He regretted the words, because they opened the door for him to wonder again what exactly her position in the household was. He told himself it didn’t matter—it still didn’t matter—because again, he’d be leaving in the morning.

She curled over on her side, pillowing her cheek on her hand as she gazed at the fire. “Their Graces would indulge me, did I ask it of them, but Kit needs a real family, brothers and sisters, a mama, a papa. I would spoil him shamelessly, and there’s much I do not know about raising a child.”

He gave in to the temptation to touch her, reaching over and smoothing the side of his thumb along her hairline. “You’re a quick study. Every mother and aunt and granny in Town would be happy to help you.” Women were like that. They rallied around babies despite differences in age, class, standing, and even nationality.

She did not react to his caress, not that he could see. “I think the country is a better place to grow up, especially for boys.”

It occurred to him to offer her a place at Sidling. His aunt and uncle were forever grousing about their aging staff, but they refused to pension off the duffers and dodderers on their payroll.

But then he’d never see her, for Sidling was one place he would not frequent if he could help it. Still, the idea was not without merit. It would be better than losing touch with her entirely.

“He’s getting tired.” Sophie spoke quietly as Kit let out a huge yawn, looking like a lion cub on all fours, roaring in sleepy silence.

“Shall we remove upstairs?”

She nodded, and they began the routine of folding up blankets, banking the fire, packing up the baby, and heading for the servants’ stairs. The stairway and corridors were frigid, but Sophie’s room was a cocoon of warmth.

“I let the fire in the other bedroom go out,” she said, waiting for Vim to set the cradle near the hearth before depositing Kit in his bed. “We can get it going again, or you are welcome to stay with me.”

She was fussing the baby in his cradle as she spoke, depriving Vim of the sight of her face. If it was an invitation, it was quite casually offered.

Carefully offered?

He lit the candle near her bed, blew out the taper, and moved to stand next to the cradle.

“I do believe that child is growing so quickly he’ll soon no longer fit in his cradle. We’ll wake to find the thing in pieces on the floor and Kit striding about the room, demanding his breakfast.”

It wasn’t at all what he’d intended say.

He dropped to his haunches and waited until Sophie peered at him. “Sophie Windham, if I share a bed with you ever again, I will make mad, passionate love with you through the night. We’ll neither of us get any rest, though in the morning, I will leave, and I will not come back.” He would want to come back though, and wanting sometimes turned into wishing, and wishing into making it so. Sometimes.

She appeared to consider his words calmly. “Mad, passionate love?”

“With you, dear lady, it could not be otherwise.” He hadn’t meant to say that, either, though it was true.

She sat back on her heels but continued studying the baby as he found two fingers to slip into his rosebud mouth. “I believe I’ll use the bathing chamber. Mad, passionate love sounds quite agreeable.”

Eleven

Sophie leaned over and kissed Vim, a lingering, claiming kiss that had lust bursting into flame in his vitals. He’d purposely not kissed her, because to do so would have been presumptuous and stupid and dangerous and…

Wonderful. He groaned with pleasure at the taste of her, his hand finding her hair and holding her steady for the plundering his mouth demanded. “God in heaven, Sophie…”

“Uhn.”

A small, female sound, one of satisfaction and pleasure that left Vim envisioning mad, passionate, semiclothed lovemaking on the hearth before the fire, Sophie making just such sounds beneath him, his cock buried—

She patted his cheek and broke the kiss. “I won’t be long.”

She wafted out of the room, and Vim was still sitting dazedly on his heels before the fire when he heard the door to the bathing chamber click shut across the hallway.

He again used cold water to wash off, and found his borrowed dressing gown was still draped across the foot of the bed. Kit was fast asleep by the time Vim had used the warmer on the sheets, banked the fire, then applied his naked self to the sheets to keep them from cooling before Sophie could join him.

Mad, passionate love? Had he ever in his life made mad, passionate love? He enjoyed sex, he enjoyed the friendships that could arise around a shared pleasure in sex, but mad, passionate love?

Sophie appeared in the doorway, wearing only a nightgown and wrapper, her hair curling down her back, her smile a trifle uncertain. The sight of her fresh from her ablutions had blood pooling in Vim’s groin and more images dancing in his brain.

Mad, passionate love it would be. Vim propped himself on one elbow and patted the covers. “Come to bed. Kit will have us up and about before the night’s half gone, and I have plans for you, my lady, that do not involve sleep.”

She wandered over to the hearth. “He does seem to be sound asleep. Crawling is hard work.”

He watched while she drifted to her vanity and sat before the mirror. “I recall when my youngest sister started to crawl. Papa insisted we have a party in the nursery, because his last little princess was up off the floor. I danced with him by standing on his shiny, tall boots.”

“I can do that for you, you know.”

“Let me dance on your boots?” She picked up a brush and tilted her head to the side so the mass of her hair fell over one shoulder.

“Brush your hair.” He tossed the covers back, started across the room, and then caught sight of Sophie’s fascinated expression in the vanity mirror. He snatched the dressing gown from the bed and belted it snugly around his waist.

When he stood directly behind her, she passed the brush back to him, letting their fingers barely touch.

Ah, so she was teasing him. The subtle teasing of a woman who understood the value of anticipation, but teasing all the same. Vim smiled at her in the mirror. “You have gorgeous hair, Sophie Windham.” He drew the damp, curling length of it back over her shoulders in both of his hands and repeated the caress when she closed her eyes.

“Shall I braid it?”

“Please.” She opened her eyes. “Over the right shoulder, because I like to sleep on my left side.”

“What else do you like?”

She blew out a breath, her expression considering while Vim used the brush in long strokes from her crown to her hips. It was beautiful hair, thick, lustrous, and gleaming with an indication of basic health and sound living.

“I like music,” she said, “and sweets. I am quite partial to sweets.”

Vim took this answer for a deliberate and charming prevarication. “I meant, what do you like from your lovers? Shall I kiss you all over? Shall you bind my wrists and have your way with me?” He leaned down and nuzzled her neck, the braid he’d been fashioning forgotten. “Shall you put your mouth on me, Sophie, and make me forget myself utterly?”

She sat very still while Vim slid a hand over her shoulder and let it rest there, just above her breast while he pressed his cheek to hers.

“My love, are you blushing?”

“You are very bold, Mr. Charpentier.”

He straightened, feeling it imperative that he braid up her hair, so he might have the pleasure of unbraiding it once they’d gained the bed.

“I like your hands on me,” he volunteered. “There’s a particular quality to your touch I can’t quite describe. There’s… meaning in it.”

“Meaning?”

She regarded him in the mirror, her blush fading.

“That’s not the right word. Some people can calm a nervous horse with their touch. They communicate to the animal with hands, tone of voice, and posture in ways more substantial than words. Your hands on me feel that way—more substantial than words.”

She turned and pressed her forehead to his midriff. “You must not say such things.”

He stroked his palm over her crown, holding her half-finished braid with the other hand. “Why not, Sophie?”

“You simply must not.” She straightened, and he finished with her braid, using his own hair ribbon to tie it.

“Get in bed, my love. I’ll be along in a minute.”

She gave him a wary look but did as he bid, closing the bed curtains while Vim poured a glass of water and set it on the nightstand, along with a single, tall candle. He wanted to be able to see her face when their bodies joined, wanted to read her expression, gauge her pleasure.

But first things first. He picked up the cradle and crossed to the bathing chamber, making use of his tooth powder once again for good measure, and tucking the child in a warm corner. “Just for a bit. I can’t guarantee you’d have peace and quiet otherwise.”

Nothing from the infant, which was encouraging. He cracked the door enough that if the child fussed, the adults in the next room would hear him.

And now, for some mad, passionate lovemaking.

Except part of Vim was more inclined to take all the time in the world than to permit mindless hurry, to savor and draw out this pleasure for them both, because it was all they would have to keep of each other.

On that sobering thought, he climbed into bed and stretched out beside Sophie.

“Are you warm enough?”

She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. “I’m fine. Did you mean to leave the curtain open on your side?”

“Yes.” The candle was on his side.

He reached under the covers for Sophie’s hand. “Do you suppose the weather has delayed your brothers?”

“Very likely.”

He could roll over and mount her, fuse his mouth to hers, and be inside her in moments. He wanted to. Badly.

And that simply would not serve. He cast around for a topic that might permit some affection without requiring that he concentrate on anything more than the clean, flowery scent of the woman in bed with him.

“Tell me about your brothers, Sophie.”