“And now you know he needs to be burped when he’s filled his tummy. Your tea will get cold.”

She took a sip, but he didn’t think she tasted it, so fixed was she on the mystery of communicating with a baby. She continued to pepper him with questions as she finished her meal and tended to the dishes, not untying her apron until the kitchen was once again spotless.

By that point, Vim had been making slow circuits of the kitchen with the child in his arms. He had less than an hour of light left, and it really was time to be going.

“I thank you for the meal, Miss Sophie, and I will recall your cooking with fondness as I continue my travels. If you’ll take Kit, I’ll fetch my coat from the parlor and wish you good day.”

He passed her the baby, making very sure that this time his hand came nowhere near her person.

* * *

He was leaving.

This realization provoked something close to panic in Sophie’s usually composed mind. She told herself she was merely concerned for the baby, being left in the care of a woman who had still—still!—never changed a single nappy.

But there was a little more to it than that. More she was not about to dwell on. Mature women of nearly seven-and-twenty did not need to belabor the obvious when they fell prey to unbecoming infatuations and fancies.

“I wish you’d stay.” The words were out before she could censor herself.

“I beg your pardon?” He paused in the act of rolling his cuffs down muscular forearms dusted with sandy, golden hair. How could a man have beautiful forearms?

She bent her head to kiss the baby on his soft, fuzzy little crown. “I have no notion how to go on with this child, Mr. Charpentier, and those old fellows in the carriage house likely have even less. I realize I ought not to ask it of you, but I am quite alone in this house.”

“Which is the very reason I cannot stay, madam. Surely you comprehend that?”

He spoke gently, quietly, and Sophie understood the point he was making. Gentlemen and ladies never stayed under the same roof unchaperoned.

Except with him—with Vim Charpentier—she wasn’t Lady Sophia Windham. She’d made that decision at the coaching inn, where announcing her titled status would have served no point except to get her pocket picked. Higgins was old enough to address her as Miss Sophie, and being Miss Sophie was proving oddly appealing. A housekeeper or companion could be Miss Sophie; a duke’s daughter could not.

“This weather will be making all manner of strange bedfellows, Mr. Charpentier. And if we’re alone, who is to know if propriety hasn’t been strictly observed?”

“This is not a good idea, Miss Windham.”

“Going out in that storm is a better idea?”

She let the question dangle between his gentlemanly concerns about propriety and the commonsense needs of a woman newly burdened with a small baby. When he turned to stand near the window, Sophie sent up a little prayer that common sense was going win out over gentlemanly scruples. The baby whimpered in his sleep, which had Mr. Charpentier sending her a thoughtful look.

“I can stay, but just for one night, and I’ll be off at first light. There is some urgency about the balance of my journey.”

“Thank you. Kit and I both thank you.” She had the oddest urge to kiss his cheek.

She kissed the baby instead. “Come along, and I can show you to a guest room.”

He retrieved his haversack from the back hallway and followed along behind her, a big, silent presence. She could feel him taking in the trappings of a duke’s Town residence but hoped he saw the little things that made it a home too.

The servants had decorated before leaving for the season—pine boughs scented the mantels, red ribbons decorated tall beeswax candles that would have been lit at the New Year and on Twelfth Night were the family in residence. Cinnamon sachets and clove-studded oranges hung in the hallways, and wreaths graced the windows facing the street.

“Their Graces must take their holidays seriously,” Mr. Charpentier observed. “Is that a Christmas tree?”

Sophie paused outside the half-open door of one of the smaller parlors. “Her Grace’s mother was German, like much of the old king’s court. The Christmas trees were originally for Oma, so she wouldn’t be as lonely for her homeland.”

She wondered what he’d say if he knew he was peering around at a duchess’s personal sitting room. Mama served her daughters and sons tea and scoldings in this room, also wisdom, sympathy, and love.

Always love.

Sophie stood for a moment, the baby cradled on her shoulder, Mr. Charpentier close by her side in the doorway. She was going to associate bergamot with this moment for a long while to come, the first time she’d shown a visitor of her own around the house—a visitor of hers and Kit’s.

She waited for Vim to step back then continued their progress. “Your room is on the first floor. The servants’ stair goes right to the back hallway, though the main staircase is the prettier route.”

She took him through the front entrance with its presentation staircase of carved oak. The whole foyer was a forest of polished wood—the walls and ceiling both paneled, the banisters lathe turned, and half columns with fanciful pediments and capitals standing in each corner of the octagonal space. The wood was maintained with such a high shine of beeswax and lemon oil that sunny days saw more light bouncing around the foyer than in practically any other part of the house.

“I take it Their Graces entertain a fair amount?” He was coming up the stairs behind her, as a gentleman would.

“His Grace is quite active in the Lords, so yes.”

“And Her Grace?”

“She keeps her hand in. They also have the occasional summer house party at the family seat. This room ought to serve for the night.”

She’d taken him not to a guest room but to her brother Valentine’s old room in the family wing. The wood box would be full, the coal bucket filled, a fire laid, and the bed made up in anticipation of his lordship’s visit to Town to collect his sister.

“I’m sorry it’s so chilly. I’ll bring you up some water for the room. Let me show you the bathing chamber. As far as I know, the fire under the boiler should still have some coals.”

The bathing chamber was across the hall, a renovated dressing room having had the ideal location between cisterns and chimneys.

“This is quite modern,” Mr. Charpentier said. “You’re sure Their Graces would not mind your sharing such accommodations with a virtual stranger?”

They’d mind. They wouldn’t begrudge him the best comforts the mansion could offer, but they’d mind mightily that he had Sophie’s exclusive company.

“A duke’s household doesn’t skimp on hospitality, Mr. Charpentier, though by rights we should be providing you a valet and footmen to step and fetch.”

“I’m used to doing for myself, though where will I find you should the need arise?”

“I’m just down the hallway, last door on the right.”

And it was time to leave him, but she hesitated, casting around for something more to say. The idea of spending another long, cold evening reading by firelight seemed like a criminal waste when she could be sharing those hours with Mr. Charpentier. The baby let out a little sigh in her arms, maybe an indication of some happy baby dream—or her own unfulfilled wishes.

“Shall I bring the cradle up from the servants’ parlor, Miss Sophie?”

The cradle?

“Yes. The cradle. That would be helpful. I suppose I should get some nappies from the laundry and clean dresses and so forth.”

He smiled, as if he knew her mind had gone somewhere besides the need to care for the baby, but he said nothing. Just set his bag down, went to the hearth to light the fire, and left Sophie standing in the door with the child cradled in her arms.

“You’ll find your way to the bathing chamber if you need it?”

He rose and began using a taper to add candlelight to the meager gloom coming from the windows. “I’ve made do with so much less than you’re offering me, Miss Sophie. Travel makes a man realize what little he needs to be comfortable and how easily he can mistake a mere want for a need. I’ll be fine.”

His circuit of the room brought him back to her side. He blew out the taper and speared her with a look. “Will you be fine?”

She liked standing close to him, not only because he wore a pleasant scent, but also because something about his male presence, the grace and strength of it, appealed to her dormant femininity. If all men had his manners, competence, and sheer male beauty, being a woman would be a much more appetizing proposition.

Sophie took her courage in both hands and gazed up at him. “I’d like to hear about those travels, Mr. Charpentier. About the worst memories and best memories, the most beautiful places and the most unappealing. I’ve lived my entire life in the confines of England, and tales of your travels would give my imagination something to keep when you’ve left.”

He studied her for a moment then lifted one hand. Her breath seized in her lungs when she thought—hoped?—he was going to touch her. To touch her cheek or her hair, to lay his palm along her jaw.

He laid his hand over the baby’s head. “If My Lord Baby gives us a peaceful evening, I’ll tell you some of my stories, Miss Sophie. It’s hardly a night for going out on the Town, is it?”

It was better than if he’d touched her, to know he’d give her some tales of his travels, something of his own history and his own memories.

“After you’ve settled in, then. I’ll see you in the parlor downstairs. We’ll see you.”

Except the baby in her arms was seeing nothing at that moment but peaceful, happy baby dreams.

Three

Vim’s little trip through the ducal mansion revealed a few interesting facts about the household. For example, money was not a problem for this particular ducal family.

The servants’ parlor was a comfortable place for furniture, carpets, and curtains that had seen some use, but it was far from shabby. The bathing chamber was a gleaming little space of pipes and marble counters that spoke of both available coin and a willingness to enjoy the fruits of progress.

The main entrance was a testament to somebody’s appreciation for first impressions and appearances. The whole house was gracious, beautiful, and meticulously maintained.

Also festooned with all manner of seasonal decorations, which usually struck Vim as so much wasted effort. Pine boughs quickly wilted and dropped needles all over creation. Clove-studded oranges withered into ugly parodies of their original state. Wreaths soon turned brown, and Christmas trees had to be undecorated as carefully as they were decorated—assuming they didn’t catch fire and set the entire house ablaze.

A lot of bother for nothing, or so he would have said.

But in this house…

He finished his bath and found a clean pair of pajama trousers as well as a clean pair of winter wool socks. Though the vast canopied bed beckoned, Vim instead appropriated a brocade dressing gown from the store in the wardrobe and made his way back through the house to the little servants’ parlor.

He opened the door without knocking and found Miss Sophie within, on her feet, the baby fussing in her arms.

“I don’t know what’s wrong.” Sophie’s voice was laden with concern. “He keeps fussing and fretting but he isn’t… it isn’t his nappy, and he doesn’t want for cuddling. I don’t think he has to settle his stomach either.”

Vim sidled into the room, closing the door behind him. “He’s probably hungry again. Marvelous accommodations upstairs, by the way.” And a marvelously warm silk lining in the dressing gown.

The child quieted at the sound of his voice, turning great blue eyes on Vim. Vim peered down at the baby cradled against Sophie’s middle. “Are you hungry, young Kit, or simply rioting for the fun of it?”

The child slurped on his little left fist.

“Hungry it is. Have you any cold porridge in the kitchen, Miss Sophie?”

“No doubt we do, but he just ate not three hours ago. Are you sure he isn’t sickening for something?”

In those same three hours, Sophie had apparently gone from benevolent stranger to mother-at-large, capable of latching onto every parent’s single worst, most abiding fear.

Vim laid the back of his hand on the baby’s brow. “He’s only yelling-baby-warm, not fevered, so no, I don’t think he’s sickening. Often when they’re coming down with something, they grow a bit lethargic. He’s at the mercy of a very small belly and has to eat more often than he will later in life. This belly here.”