Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish

Seventeen

“You’d best come down to dinner, Soph.” Maggie’s green eyes held compassion and a hint of stubbornness too. “Her Grace is being patient, though I suspect that’s just because our brothers are charming her for all their worth.”

“I’m not hungry.” Sophie rose from her escritoire, where she’d been trying to write a list of Kit’s likes and dislikes for Mrs. Harrad, but this allowed Maggie to walk over to the desk and start snooping.

“Sophia Windham, when did you become an expert on changing an infant’s linen?”

“Vim showed me the way of it—quick and calm.”

“About this Vim…” Sophie realized her mistake too late, because Maggie had put the list down and was regarding Sophie very directly. “A dozen years ago—when you had barely begun wearing your hair up—I was introduced to him as Wilhelm Charpentier, a younger relation with more good looks than consequence. He danced well enough but disappeared without a word after some to-do at one of Her Grace’s Christmas parties.”

“I know him as Vim, but he’s Baron Sindal now, Rothgreb’s heir.” Sophie kept her voice diffident, very carefully diffident.

Maggie crossed her arms, a martial light coming into her eyes. “And how does the baron know about caring for babies?”

Older siblings knew family history worth learning, but they could also be damnably protective.

“Put down your guns, Maggie. Vim has younger sisters, and I think he simply has an affection for babies. He hasn’t mentioned any offspring. What was the to-do about?”

Maggie pursed her lips and peered at Sophie as if torn by indecision. “I don’t know. Socializing was never my forte, but whatever it was, nobody said a word about it afterward. Tell me about this baby of yours.”

Sophie turned her back on her sister, ostensibly to rearrange things on the vanity tray. Vim had used that brush on her hair.

“You’re being nosy, Mags.”

And now Maggie was beside her, her expression hard to read. Maggie was the second born, a half sibling like St. Just, and her mother’s influence showed in flaming red hair, more height than any other Windham sister, and an occasional display of temper.

“You changed this child’s napkin, Sophie Windham—many times. Her Grace is a devoted mother, but I am willing to bet my favorite boar hog she never changed dirty linen for any of you.”

Siblings were the very devil when a woman needed some privacy to regain her composure.

“Needs must,” Sophie said softly, blinking at her hairbrush.

“It isn’t just this dratted baby, is it?” Maggie gently took the brush from Sophie’s grip. “You’ve gone and fallen in love with Sindal, and all over a basket of dirty laundry.”

“It wasn’t quite like that.” It was exactly like that, and on the carpet in the servants’ parlor, no less.

“I overheard the boys talking. St. Just was muttering something about Sophie’s mad scheme and that idiot Sindal. Did something happen, Soph?”

Maggie, being the duke’s oldest daughter and illegitimate, had not had an easy road. When she’d turned thirty, she’d moved into her own household in Town. This had created a paradoxical opportunity for closeness between the sisters, allowing Maggie’s pretty little house to become a place of refuge for her younger siblings.

“I don’t know what to do.” Sophie picked up the brush again, then put it down and reached for a handkerchief neatly folded on the vanity tray. Vim’s handkerchief—how had she come by this? She brought it to her nose, caught a whiff of bergamot, and began to cry.

“Damn all men forever to a place in hell so cold their nasty bits shrivel up and fall off,” Maggie muttered. She slid her arm around Sophie’s waist and walked her to the chaise by the hearth. “Shall I have the boys deal with Baron Sindal? They all love a good scrap, even Westhaven, though he’ll think it’s unbecoming of the Moreland heir to gang up on a man or even go at him one at time. They’ll likely draw straws, and Dev and Gayle will rig it so Valentine’s hands—”

“Stop it, Maggie. You must not aggravate the menfolk,” Sophie said, laying her head on her sister’s shoulder. “Sindal offered for me, but it wasn’t…”

Maggie brushed Sophie’s hair back, hugging her where they sat on the chaise. “It wasn’t an offer of marriage?”

Sophie shook her head. “Not at first. I let him think I was a h-housekeeper, or a companion, or something, and I wanted…”

“You wanted him.”

Sophie pulled away a little. “Not just him. I wanted a man who loved me, Mags. A man who wanted to be with me, and Vim seemed so…”

“Oh, they all seem so when the moon is full and passion is in the air. I at least hope you enjoyed this lapse?”

Sophie’s head came up at this question. It wasn’t at all what she would have expected from socially retiring, financially minded, no-nonsense Maggie. “I did, Mags. I enjoyed it immensely.”

A nonplussed expression flitted across Maggie’s pretty features. “So what is the problem? He acquitted himself adequately in the manner you desired, and now you can have him to keep if you want. It requires only a word to bring him up to scratch.”

“He isn’t the man I wished for, though he was very definitely the man I desired.”

Maggie sat back, a frown gathering between her brows. “Desire isn’t a bad thing, Sophie Windham, particularly not between spouses. Many a marriage goes stale for lack of it.”

This wasn’t like any conversation Sophie had had with her older sister. It was both uncomfortable and a relief, to speak so openly about such a delicate subject. “You’ve been married so many times you can speak with authority?”

“I’ve been propositioned so many times by other women’s husbands, men who think questionable birth and red hair mean I’ll be grateful for any man’s attentions.”

“Oh, Mags.” Sophie hugged her sister. “I’ve been so wrapped up in myself these past few years. I am sorry.”

“Since Bart and Victor died, since the boys started marrying, since His Grace’s heart seizure, we’ve all been a little bit widdershins.” Maggie sighed and rested her chin on Sophie’s temple. “I think you’re being narrow-minded where Sindal is concerned.”

“He offered marriage only when he realized he’d been trifling with Lady Sophia Windham. I don’t want my husband served up on a platter of duty and obligation, Mags.”

“You might have to take him that way.” Maggie rose from the chaise and started pacing. “You could be carrying, Soph. All bets are off, then. I won’t let my niece or nephew bear the stigma St. Just and I have put with our entire lives. I’ll march Sindal up the aisle at gunpoint, and St. Just will load the thing for me. I’ll see his—”

“Hush.” Sophie brought Vim’s handkerchief to her nose, finding his scent an odd comfort. “It shouldn’t come to that, and even if it did, Vim is not going to tarry in Kent any longer than necessary. He’d be one of those husbands gone for years at a time—he hates Kent—and I am bound to stay here as long as Kit is here for me to love.

“And then twenty years from now, I can see how marriage to Vim would work: we’d pass each other on the street in Paris, and he’d exchange the most civil and considerate pleasantries with me. I couldn’t bear that. Then too, something is amiss at Sidling, and now is not when Vim ought to be thinking of marriage to inconvenient ducal daughters who practice subterfuge for the worst reasons.”

Maggie stopped abruptly midpace. “Loneliness seldom inspires us to our most rational choices. Is Sindal’s allergy to the family seat related to that to-do all those years ago?”

“I think so. I could ask St. Just. He’d tell me.”

“Or he might not. Men have the oddest sense of loyalty to each other.”

They shared a look, a look such as only adult women could exchange regarding adult men, or the facsimiles thereof strutting about the livelong day in boots and breeches.

“You should call at the curate’s,” Maggie said. “It will distract you from your other problems and assure you the little creature is thriving.”

“What if he isn’t?” Awful, awful thought.

“Do we dote on our brothers?”

“Shamelessly.”

“His foster sisters will be doting on him.”

“I’ll think about it.” The idea tantalized, and Sophie would have been halfway to the stables, except the notion of having to once again part with the child stopped her.

“Come down to dinner while you think about it. The last thing you need is His Grace getting wind you’ve got trouble involving a man. Sindal will leave the shire once and for all, if that’s the case.”

Sophie stuffed Vim’s handkerchief in her pocket, rose, and accompanied her sister to dinner.

“For God’s sake, Uncle, what can you be about?”

Vim did not raise his voice, for the old man was at the top of a rickety ladder that was held in place by two equally rickety footmen, while the positively ancient butler hovered nearby.

“Hanging the damned kissing bough,” Rothgreb barked. “Your aunt will have it, and until somebody else sees fit to take over the running of this household, I will see that she gets it.”

Guilt, thick and miserable, descended like a cold, wet blanket on Vim’s shoulders as Rothgreb teetered down the ladder.

“I might have done that for you. You had only to ask.” Vim glanced up to see half a bush worth of mistletoe dangling over Sidling’s entrance hall.

“Ask? Bah. I’ve been asking you to come home now for years. What has it gotten me? You lot.” Rothgreb glared at his servants. “You’ll be dusting in here until this thing comes down.” He waved a hand toward the mistletoe. “Only the homely maids and the married ladies will be tarrying in here as long as that’s up there. I’ll not have my house looking neglected when company’s about to descend.”

“Company?” The cold sensation slithered down to Vim’s innards. “I wasn’t aware you and Aunt were entertaining much these days.”

“For a man who’s been my heir for more than ten years, you’re not aware of much when it comes to this place, except the ledgers, my boy.” Rothgreb stepped back so the ladder could be removed. This entailed the combined efforts off all three underlings, who departed at an almost comically deliberate pace.

“They’re deaf as posts when I’m calling for my coat but can hear gossip at fifty paces without missing a word.”

“What company, Uncle? Your letters never mentioned you’d be entertaining over the holidays.” Vim crossed his arms and widened his stance, aware the gestures were defensive even as he made them.

“Not company, then.” Rothgreb rested a hand on the newel post. “Family. Your cousins, all three girls and their delightful offspring. And then we’ve invited a few of the local families over tomorrow afternoon so the girls will have some fellows to catch here in the entrance hall. I’ll make my special punch; her ladyship will hold forth over more cookies and crumpets than His Majesty’s regiments could consume in a week. You’ll attend.”

He would. His uncle wasn’t issuing an order, he was stating a fact. Familial obligations were not something Vim would ever shirk with impunity.

“What time?”

“We usually start after luncheon, so everybody can get home before dark. I expect old Moreland might put in an appearance. He’s grown more sociable with his neighbors in recent years, or perhaps the maids here have grown prettier.”

And that last was offered with cheerful glee, as if Rothgreb knew damned good and well Vim was dying for even a glimpse of Sophie. “I’m going for a ride, Uncle. Don’t wait tea on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Rothgreb started up the stairs, moving not exactly quickly, but with some purpose. Going off to plot treason with Aunt Essie or make pronouncements to the old hound, no doubt.

As Vim ambled down to the stables, he considered that for all Sidling wasn’t where he wanted to be, his aunt and uncle seemed abundantly happy with their circumstances. The house was in fine shape, the estate books were in fine shape, and Vim was sure when he rode the land, he’d see it was being carefully tended, as well.

He did not need to appoint a new steward, not yet.

“Aunt?”

She sat on a tack trunk, wrapped in an old horse blanket, a carrot in her hands.

“Merciful Powers!” She hopped off the trunk, the blanket falling from her shoulders. “Wilhelm. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You came down here in just your shawl? Need I remind you, Esmerelda Charpentier, it’s the dead of winter?” Though the stable was protected from the wind, and the horses themselves, particularly the enormous draft teams and the sturdy coach horses, kept the place well above freezing.

“I know what season it is, young man.”

“Then perhaps you’ll allow me to escort you to the house?” He peered at her, unable to read her expression. It might have been some sort of veiled exasperation; it might have been embarrassment at having been caught out wandering.

“I can find my own way up to the house, thank you very much.” She bustled off, only to come to a halt when Vim laid a hand on her arm.

“Humor me, Aunt.” He draped his riding coat over her shoulders and winged his arm at her. She’d either been waiting for her husband to come fetch her back to the house, or she’d been waiting for somebody—anybody—to show her the way home.

“What is that particularly irritating little air you’re determined to vex our ears with?”

Valentine stopped whistling to smirk at Westhaven’s question and started singing instead. “All we like sheep, have gone astraaaaaay.”

“More Handel.” Sophie interrupted her brother’s little concert. “Seasonally appropriate. You two did not have to accompany me, you know.”

“Nonsense.” Westhaven shot some sort of look at Valentine, who’d lapsed into humming. “I needed to call on the vicar since I’m in the area, and Valentine must tune the piano before the Christmas service.”

“I’m getting very good at tuning pianos,” Valentine said. “A skill to fall back on if my wife ever casts me to the gutter.”

“She won’t,” Sophie replied, patting her mare. “She’ll send you visiting your siblings and get her revenge on the whole family.”

“Now, children,” Westhaven started, only to provoke Valentine back into a full-throated baritone recital.

“All we like sheep, have gone astraaaaaaaaaaaaay.”

Westhaven rolled his eyes. “To think my tiny son is all that stands between this braying ass and the Moreland dukedom.”

“I made Sophie smile,” Val said, abruptly ceasing his braying. “My Christmas holiday is a success because I made Sophie smile.” He smiled at her too, a particularly sweet and understanding smile. “Go visit the Demon Seed, Sophie. You’ll feel much better when you’ve changed a nappy and My Lord Baby has cast his accounts upon your dress.”

“Don’t stay too long,” Westhaven said as he helped her off her horse. Sophie went still before her brother’s arms had dropped from her waist.

“That’s Kit.” She listened for a moment more. “That’s his hungry cry. Let me go, now.”

“Sophie.” Westhaven’s grip shifted to her shoulders. “He’s not your baby, and they aren’t going to starve him. There? You see? Already somebody must be stuffing porridge into the bottomless pit located where his stomach ought to be. Calm yourself. You’re Percival and Esther Windham’s sensible daughter, and you’re merely calling as a courtesy.”

Westhaven had the knack of conveying calm with just his voice, but still, Sophie had to rest her forehead on his shoulder for a moment.

“Your package?” Valentine stood beside them, holding out a parcel wrapped in paper. “I’ll be most of the day, wrestling with that old curmudgeon in the church vestibule, but my guess is Westhaven will limit himself to one plate of cookies and two cups of tea.”

A warning. She wasn’t to linger, or her brothers would forcibly remove her from the curate’s little house.

“Come along.” Westhaven put her hand on his arm while Valentine led the horses over to the livery. “Thirty minutes, no more.”

She nodded. They meant well, and right now, Sophie could not trust her own judgment when it came to Kit.

When it came to much of anything.

Westhaven knocked on the door, which was opened by a girl of about six. She grinned, revealing two missing front teeth to go with her two untidy blond braids. “Mama! There’s a man here and a lady!”

Sophie smiled down at the child, who opened the door wide enough to let them pass into the house. “I’m Lady Sophia, and this is Lord Westhaven.”

“I’m Lizabeth! We got a new baby for Christmas, Papa said. His name is Christian, but he’s not really my brother. Mama! The lady’s name is Sophie!” She peered up at Westhaven. “I forget your name.”

Christian? His name was Kit, or even Christopher. Westhaven did not meet Sophie’s eyes.

“You may call me Lord Westhaven.”

“Mama! The man’s name—”

“Elizabeth Ann Harrad. What have I told you about bellowing in the house?” Mrs. Harrad arrived to the foyer, hands on hips. “I beg your pardon, my lady, my lord. Elizabeth, make your curtsy.”

The child flung her upper half forward and down in a bow.

“Very nice,” Sophie said, retuning the gesture in more recognizable form. “Mrs. Harrad, I don’t mean to impose, but my brothers were going this way, and I thought I’d drop a little something off for—Baron Sindal?”

Vim sauntered up behind Mrs. Harrad, Kit perched on his shoulder.

“Sindal.” Westhaven’s greeting was cool. “Mrs. Harrad, felicitations of the season. I’ll be collecting Lady Sophia when I’ve called upon the vicar, if you’ll excuse me?”

He was out the door before Sophie could stop him.

“Lady Sophia.” Vim nodded at her, his smile genial. “We were just having a bit of early luncheon in the kitchen, weren’t we, Mrs. Harrad?”

“If your lordship says so. I’ll fetch Mr. Harrad to make his bow to you, Lady Sophia.” She bustled off as an argument started up elsewhere in the house between two girl children.

Sophie stood there in her cloak, the argument fading, the various smells of the house fading—baking bread, a faint odor of tomcat, coal smoke, and unwashed baby linen. All she perceived was Vim, standing there with his shirtsleeves turned back to the elbows, his eyes the exact shade of blue as Kit’s.

“His dress is dirty.” Sophie glanced around, hoping Mrs. Harrad wasn’t close at hand to overhear her.

“These things will happen when man flings his porridge in all directions,” Vim said. “Perhaps you’ll have better luck with him?”

“Mary and Louise are arguing again,” Elizabeth reported, her gaze going from Sophie to Vim. “That’s why Papa must keep the door to his study closed all the time. Because they always argue, and Mama yells at them, but they never stop.”

Vim smiled at the child. “Tell them Lady Sophia complimented your curtsy. Then you can argue with them too.” He winked at the child, and she scampered off.

And thus, for a moment, Sophie was alone with Vim and Kit, her gaze devouring the sight of them.

“How are you?”

“It’s good to see you.”

They spoke at the same time, and as each took one step toward the other, Mr. Harrad came bustling up the hallway, followed by his wife.

“Lady Sophia, my apologies. I wasn’t aware we had more company. Do come in. My dear, can you take Lady’s Sophia’s wrap?”

He spoke pleasantly, but a hint of rebuke laced his tone. An instant’s hesitation on Mrs. Harrad’s part could have become awkward, but Kit chose that moment to start waving his arms in Sophie’s direction and babbling.

“Here.” Sophie shrugged out of her cloak. “May I hold him?”

“He seems to like being carried about,” Mrs. Harrad said, hanging Sophie’s cloak on a peg. “My girls weren’t quite as demanding.”

Sophie ignored the word choice, ignored whatever currents were passing between husband and wife, ignored even the pleasure of brushing her hand over Vim’s as they passed the baby between them.

“My Lord Baby,” she said softly, cuddling him close. “You were about to wake the watch with your racket.” She glanced up at Vim. “Was he done eating?”

“Not nearly,” Vim said. “Perhaps we might take our tea in the kitchen? I’m sure Lady Sophia would enjoy spending some time with her young friend.”

Mr. Harrad shrugged; his wife looked resigned. They were both blond, a little on the slight side, and had a tired, harried look to them.

“Has he been running you ragged?” Sophie asked Mrs. Harrad. “Kit, I mean.”

Mrs. Harrad glanced at the baby in Sophie’s arms. “It’s just that he’s a boy. My husband wanted a boy, but they’re not the same as girls, and this one is fussy.”

He wasn’t the least fussy, Sophie wanted to retort. Kit was curled happily in her arms, his little fingers batting at her chin and mouth. “Has he been crawling much?”

Mrs. Harrad looked down, and before she could answer, they’d arrived to a big, warm kitchen redolent with the scent of baking bread. “I can offer you fresh bread with your tea.”

“Don’t go to any bother, please.” Sophie sat so she could put Kit on her lap. “Lord Westhaven will be collecting me before I could do your bread justice.” She picked up an adult-sized teaspoon and frowned at it. Had they been feeding Kit with this?

“It suffices,” Vim said quietly from his seat beside her. “You just have to give him a moment to work at it.”

The sound of his voice had Kit grinning and bouncing on Sophie’s lap.

The next minutes passed in a blur, with Kit slurping down a quantity of plain, cold porridge, Vim making small talk with their host and hostess, and Sophie trying to store up a pleasant memory of spending time with Kit.

It was difficult. The baby’s dress was dirty, which, true enough, could happen in five minutes flat, but his fingernails were also dirty, and the fat little creases of his baby-neck were grimy. There was a red scratch down the length of one arm, and when all three girls came bellowing and stampeding into the kitchen, Kit began to cry.

He cried more loudly when Mrs. Harrad began to scold, and Sophie herself felt an urge to cry.

“…So we’ll just be going.” Vim held her chair as he spoke, but the last thing Sophie wanted was to abandon Kit in the middle of this pandemonium.

She tried to communicate this to Vim with a look, but he remained standing above her, his gaze steady, while one of the girls pulled the other’s hair and ran from the room. Mrs. Harrad followed in high dudgeon, and Mr. Harrad stood at the door to the hallway looking stoic.

“It isn’t always quite this lively,” he said when they’d reached the foyer. “The children are very excited to have young Christian with us, and then too, I’m a bit preoccupied. Vicar has given me the sermon for Christmas Day, which is quite an honor.”

“I’m sure things will settle down once the girls get used to having a baby brother,” Vim said, holding Sophie’s cloak out to her.

But if she took the cloak, she’d have to give Kit up.

“Is there a reason you’ve changed his name?” she asked while Vim arranged the cloak around her shoulders.

“I’m a curate, Lady Sophia. A son named Christian seemed fitting, if a bit optimistic, given this one’s origins.” He nodded at the baby, his gaze speculative. “Missus says he’s more demanding than the girls, but we’ll be patient with him.”

He smiled at Sophie, a tired, charitable smile that made her want to scream. Vim took the child from her, and she gave him up, feeling as if the heart had been torn from her chest.

“We appreciate all you’re doing for the boy,” Vim said. “My regards to your wife. Lady Sophia?”

He passed the baby to the curate, who looked a little surprised. By the time Vim had Sophie bustled out the door, Kit was beginning to fuss again.

“I can’t bear this.” The words were out of her mouth before Vim had dragged her two steps from the door. “Kit is not thriving there. He’s barely noticed amid all the squabbling and noise. He isn’t bathed, he isn’t clean, they aren’t patient enough with him at feeding, those girls are jealous of him. He’ll never—”

Right there on the curate’s tidy little porch, Vim’s arm came around her waist. Not exactly a hug, but a half embrace that let Sophie lean against him.

“Hush, my dear. Kit isn’t crying now, is he? A man with three daughters knows a few things about dealing with babies. Let me walk you to the livery, and I’ll wait with you until Westhaven is done making the pretty with vicar.”

Across the cold, sunny air, Sophie heard one repetitive piano note being struck in the lower register again and again in slow succession. Over at the church, Valentine was tuning the curmudgeon, but the single repetitive tone felt like a bell tolling somewhere in Sophie’s heart.

“I don’t want to leave him. I should not have come.”

“I can understand that sentiment.” Vim led her down the steps as he spoke. “All my relations are about to descend, and I feel… ambushed, like I was lured here under false colors. I’m tempted to ride in the direction of Bristol rather than return to Sidling.”

“Is that what you did all those years ago? Rode for Bristol?”

His step didn’t falter as they moved across the frozen green toward the livery. “Have you asked your brothers about my past, then?”

“I have not. I’m asking you.”

Abruptly, it seemed the thing to do. If this was what made it impossible for Vim to settle down at his family seat, if this was part of what made any hope of a future with him a ridiculous wish, then she wanted to hear it, and hear it from him.

For a time, they walked in silence, and Sophie thought if there was something worse than a crying baby, it was the silence of a man figuring out how to explain why he’d never be gracing the neighborhood again.

“Let’s take a seat, shall we?”

He led her to a bench carved from a single oak tree trunk. The thing was huge and beautiful in a rough way. It had probably been there when Good Queen Bess had been on the throne.

“You’re sure you want to hear this?” He waited for her to choose her seat then came down on her left. “The tale quite honestly flatters no one.”

“Scandals usually don’t, but you said it wasn’t quite a scandal.”

She wasn’t at all sure she did want to hear an old and sordid tale, but she most assuredly wanted to hear his voice, to have a chance to study his features. In the bright, wintry sunshine, his eyes looked tired.

“Not a scandal. I was finishing up at university, trying to figure out how I was to go on in life.” He paused, and Sophie saw him glance at her left hand. She was wearing riding gloves, which did not provide a great deal of warmth.

Did he want to take her hand? To make a physical connection to her? She made a pretense of gathering her cloak a little more closely and moved so their sides touched.

“You were here for the holidays?” she asked.

“For the holidays, yes, but I was down here a lot that fall, because Grandfather was old enough that at any point, he might be taken from us. He was hale at the time, and there was speculation he and his fourth wife had finally succeeded where the second and third hadn’t been as lucky.”

Sophie remained silent. Old men siring babies wasn’t a subject she was equipped to converse on, not even with Vim.

“I became infatuated, Sophie.” Vim said softly. Sophie could not tell if he was being ironic. She feared he was perfectly serious. “At the hunt ball, the first of October thirteen years ago, I fell in love with the most beautiful, witty, kind, attractive woman in the shire, an innocent girl with the promise of all manner of pleasures in her eyes, and she accepted my suit. I was over the moon, ready to move mountains, willing to conquer pagan armies to impress my lady.”

“You were smitten.” She watched his lips moving, forming words that seemed to hurt him as much as they hurt Sophie. He was in all likelihood still smitten, and that was why he absented himself from his own home for years at a time.

“The fall assembly had passed, and we were to be married early in the New Year, so we’d had no opportunity to make an announcement. She’d asked me to wait until after Yuletide to speak to her father, but there was no young man more optimistic than I. My lady allowed me the occasional taste of her charms, but I esteemed her too greatly to fully anticipate our wedding vows. She was delicate in this regard, and I respected that.”

And what a lucky young lady she must have been, to have Vim’s affections at such an earnest and tender time of life. Sophie smoothed a hand down her skirts, wishing she’d never asked for this recitation.

“So imagine my chagrin, Sophie, when I took my handsome young self in my best courting finery off to one of the most prestigious holiday gatherings in the shire, and my lady’s father called for all to attend him, as he had an important and felicitous announcement to make. My chest filled with pride, for I was certain he was going to announce the impending nuptials and spare me an awkward interview.”

Vim paused, and Sophie watched as his glance scanned the green. He looked like he never wanted to see the place again.

“Her papa announced that she’d be marrying the Baronet Horton’s heir. Tony Horton was ten years my senior, in definite expectation of a title, and a man reputed to know his way under a woman’s skirts, if I might be vulgar. I could not believe her father had cast her into the arms of such a worthless bounder.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to call the man out, right there at the men’s punch bowl. I’d held my tongue until the prospective groom was among his confreres and away from the eyes and ears of the ladies. I accused him of poaching on an understanding, of enticing a gently bred lady with his charm and his expectations, and being the ruin of her happiness.”

“Plain speaking.” Egregiously plain speaking. Tony Horton’s family was well settled in the area, though his holding was not known to be particularly prosperous.

“I would have slapped him soundly before all and sundry, but the host of the gathering caught me by the arm and prevented the blow.”

“This is significant?”

“When a blow has been struck, no apology should prevent the duel, not if honor is to be maintained by both parties.”

“Men.”

His lips quirked, a fleeting hint of his smile. “Yes, men. The host made a joke of my outburst, said half the shire was going to go into mourning because Tony had taken my intended out of consideration, said young men were prone to such overreactions as mine, and with a few more cups of punch, I’d likely be falling in love with mine host’s best milk cow. The man was and is well respected, and the others were all too happy to follow his lead. They ended up toasting His Grace’s milk cow before I was hustled out of the room by three of my burlier neighbors.”

Oh, my goodness. “His Grace?” There were other dukes in Kent, several, in fact.

“Your father, Sophie Windham, His Grace, the Duke of Moreland. Your father was the one who heaped such ridicule and scorn on my head, made a laughingstock of me before my peers, and saw to it an engagement undertaken in bad faith obliterated one made in good faith. I’ve crossed paths with him since in Town, and it’s almost a greater insult that he treats me with great good cheer, as if a defining moment in my life meant nothing at all in his.”

Sophie felt physically ill. Her father, particularly as a younger man, had been capable of callous, calculating behavior but this crossed a line to outright meanness.

“You never married?”

He stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankle. “I’m English, Sophie. I always envisioned myself with an English bride to go with my English title and my English family, and yet, I’ve spent precious little of my adult life in England until recently. Then too, I was content to dwell in Cumbria when I had to be somewhere in the realm, but that option has been precluded now, as well.”

Sophie blinked in the bright sunshine, hurting for him and feeling a hopelessness close around her. Not only had Vim chosen to leave the area never to dwell here again, her own father had been the author of his difficulties.

“Sophie, are you ready to go?”

How long Westhaven had been standing there, Sophie did not know. Vim got to his feet and extended a hand to Sophie. “I’ll walk you to the livery.”

When she put her hand in his, he bowed over it then wrapped her fingers over his arm, as if they were strangers promenading in some drawing room.

“Looks like we might get yet more snow,” Westhaven remarked.

Neither Sophie nor Vim replied.