Grace Burrowes - Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish

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.”

He poked the baby’s middle gently, which provoked a toothless grin.

“Why didn’t I know he’d like that?”

“Likely because you yourself would not react as cheerfully did I make the same overture to you. Why don’t I take him while you hunt him up some tucker? A bit of warm milk to mix the porridge very thin and a baby spoon will get us started.”

Sophie nodded and stepped in close. It took Vim a moment to comprehend that she was handing him the baby, and in that moment, his eyes fell on her hair. Some women thought an elaborate coiffure adorned with jewels and combs and all manner of intricacies would call attention to their beauty.

Others cut their hair short, attempting boyish ringlets and bangs and labeling themselves daring in the name of fashion.

Still others went for a half-tumbled look, presenting themselves as if caught in the act of rising from a bout of thorough lovemaking.

Sophie’s hair was a rich, dark brown, and she wore it pulled back into a tidy bun. For the space of a heartbeat, Vim was close enough to her to study her hair, to admire the simple, sleek curve of it sweeping back from her face to her nape. He could not see any pins or clasps, nothing to secure it in place, and the bun itself was some sort of figure of eight, twisting in on itself without apparent external support.

Which was quietly pretty, a little intriguing, and quite appropriate for Miss Sophie Windham. And if Vim’s fingers itched to undo that prim bun and his eyes longed for the sight of her unbound hair tumbling around her shoulders in intimate disarray, he was gentleman enough to ignore such inconvenient impulses entirely.

“I’ve got him,” Vim said, securing his hands around the baby. “Though I have to say, I think a certain baby has gained weight just since coming home from his outing.”

Sophie’s smile was hesitant. “You like to tease him.”

“He’s a wonderful, jolly baby.” Vim raised the child in his arms so they could touch noses. “Jolly babies are much better company than those other fellows, the ones who shriek and carry on at the drop of a hat.”

His nose was taken prisoner once more, which had been the objective of the exercise.

“I’ll see to the porridge.”

But she’d been smiling as she left the room, which had also been an objective. To be a mother was to worry, but a worried mama made for a worried baby.

“And we cannot have you worrying,” Vim informed the child. “Not like I’m worrying in any case. I was supposed to be at Sidling last week—much as I dread being there this time of year—and there will be hell to pay for my lingering here, though have you chanced a look out the window, My Lord Baby? See all that snow?”

Kit kicked both legs in response and gurgled happily, then slapped his fist back to his mouth.

“I last saw snow like this in Russia. Damned place specializes in cold, dark, snow, and vodka, which explains a lot about the Russian character. And because it’s just us fellows, I need not apologize for my language. Can you say damn? It’s a nice, tame curse, a good place to start. Nobody curses as effectively as a Russian. Nobody.”

And nobody could lament like a Russian either, to the point where Vim had left the country with a sense of relief to be going back to England. Long faces everywhere, sad tales, sad songs, sad prayers, and vodka.

“Nearly drove me to Bedlam, I tell you.”

Africa hadn’t been any better though, nor Tasmania. The Americas were reasonably cheerful places, provided a man didn’t venture too far north or south, nor too far inland.

Kit whimpered and swung his fist toward Vim’s nose again.

“You want your supper or your tea or whatever. Don’t worry, Miss Sophie will be stepping and fetching for you directly. You’re going to be a typical male, relying on the women for all the important things—though you’re a little small yet for that discussion.”

“Mr. Charpentier, are you having a conversation with that child?”

Sophie stood in the doorway, a tray in her hands and her head cocked at a curious angle.

“He won’t learn to speak if all he hears is silence.” Though Vim had to wonder how much Miss Sophie had heard. “Do you want that cat in here?”

An enormous, long-haired black animal was stropping itself against her skirts.

“That’s Elizabeth. He’s earned a little nap by the fire.” The cat continued to bob around her hems, its gait a far cry from a feline’s usual sinuous movement.

“What’s wrong with him?”

She nudged the door closed with her hip and set the tray down on a coffee table. “Nothing is wrong with him; he’s simply missing a front leg. How do we feed that child?”

Indeed, upon closer inspection, under all the hair, the cat was managing on only three legs, and that in addition to the burden of being a tom named Elizabeth. “Let’s use the sofa. I’ll demonstrate, and then you can take over.”

He settled with the baby then waited while Sophie took a seat just a few inches away. The cat—lucky beast—curled himself up against her other hip.

“This is a messy proposition, but it’s all in good fun,” Vim explained. “You can’t load up the spoon with too much—his mouth is quite small, and he’ll manage to get the excess all over creation. You also have to prop him up a bit to help him get the food down rather than up. When he starts batting at the spoon or using the spoon like a catapult, you know he’s through for the time being.”

“How does a new mother learn all of this?”

“The baby teaches her, and I expect a mama’s sisters and cousins and grandmothers lend a hand. In my experience, the younger a man is, the more the ladies admire him. Isn’t that right, Kit?”

His use of the baby’s name had the child turning to regard him, which opportunity Vim used to slip a spoonful of porridge into the infant’s mouth.

“Success. There, you see? He was hungry.”

The baby kicked in agreement and opened his little maw again, fists waving while Vim navigated another spoonful of porridge down the hatch.

“We’re off to a great start. Would you like to try the next one?” He passed her the spoon and saw her expression shift to one of determination.

“It’s as you said earlier, isn’t it?” She dipped the spoon into the porridge. “One should be quick and calm, like with the animals.”

“Precisely.” She had the knack of it immediately, slipping the child his food without little fists or little feet interfering.

And she was so absorbed in her task, leaning over the child and talking to him of his great appetite and wonderful manners, that she was apparently oblivious to her full, warm breast pressing continuously against Vim’s arm.

She wasn’t his usual type—a bored wife looking for a casual diversion or a professional willing to spend an evening with a foreign lord. But then, it had been a long time since he’d indulged his sexual appetites.