“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.

Vim shoveled a path to the garden gate then shoveled one across the alley to the mews. That done, he decided a path from the house to the jakes at the bottom of the garden only made sense, and one from the gate to the jakes, as well.

And Sophie would appreciate having her back terrace shoveled off too, so he went about that, trying very carefully to keep his mind blank as he did.

Yes, he was procrastinating his leave-taking.

Yes, he felt guilty for leaving Sophie here to contend with the baby—and the possible consequences of having given shelter to a male stranger while unchaperoned. She might be a mere domestic—or she might be something else entirely—but her reputation would be precious to her in either event.

And yes, he felt an ache at the thought of never seeing her again, never seeing Kit discover the joy of independent locomotion, never hearing the boy chortle with baby-glee at capturing an adult nose in his tiny mitt.

But Vim also felt guilty for staying when he knew those who depended on him—those who had every right to depend on him—awaited him in Kent.

Something prickled along the back of his neck. He looked up to see Sophie standing on the back porch without so much as a shawl over her day dress, her expression puzzled.

He stopped shoveling and crossed the drifted garden to stand a few steps below her. “I didn’t think Higgins and Merriweather would get much done, as cold as it is and as old as they are.”

“You’ve shoveled half the garden out, Vim. Come in and eat something before you leave us.”

He let the shovel fall to the side and wrapped his arms around her waist. Because she was standing higher than he, this put his face right at the level of her breasts. Oblivious to appearances and common sense, he laid his head on her chest.

“You will catch your death, Sophie Windham.”

She wrapped her arms around him for one glorious moment, the scent of spices and flowers enveloping him as she did. She offered spring and sunshine with her embrace, and Vim felt an ache in his chest so painful he wondered if it was the pangs of inchoate tears.

“Come inside.” Sophie dropped her arms and took him by the hand. “You haven’t eaten yet today, and shoveling is hard work.”

She was patronizing him. He allowed it, unable to ask her the mundane questions that might put aside the reality of his impending departure.

Did Kit eat his breakfast?

Will you do more baking today?

Do you need more coal for your fireplace?

Is there anything I can do to delay this parting?

“Drink some tea,” Sophie said when she’d got him out of his outer clothes. “Kit demolished his breakfast, and I’ve already changed his nappy twice. I’ve wrapped up some food to take with you when you leave too, and I’m heating potatoes to stuff in your pockets.”

She remained quiet while he ate toasted bread, a large omelet, a substantial portion of bacon, two oranges she’d peeled for him, some fried potatoes, and a piece of buttered Christmas bread.

And despite all the piping hot tea he washed it down with, fatigue hit Vim like an avalanche when he got to his feet.

“You’re ready to go?” Sophie was kneading dough at the counter, kneading it with ferocious concentration. He watched her punch and fold the dough for a moment before her question registered.

“I’ll get my things from upstairs and be on my way.”

She said nothing, just nodded and kept pummeling the dough. Even watching her do that, he felt some of that ache near his sternum, so he dragged himself up the back steps.

Not two hours earlier, he’d awakened hard as a pikestaff, ready to make love to the first woman to share a bed with him in ages. More than ready—eager, throbbing, and held back only by the knowledge that today was the day he’d leave her.

But God, to have her looking at him like he was some holiday treat… He’d dealt with himself swiftly once he had the privacy to do so, but it hadn’t helped much.

When he got to his guest room, he made short work of packing. His quarters had been commodious in the extreme, providing every comfort a weary traveler might long for. He hung the brocade dressing gown back on a hook in the wardrobe and sat on the unmade bed.

He needed a catnap before he tried to take on winter travel at its worst. Just forty winks, one more little taste of luxury and comfort before he froze his testicles to the size of raisins trying to reach a place he’d never enjoyed being.

Vim toed off his boots and lay back on the bed. His last thought was that he ought to ask Sophie to wake him in another thirty minutes.

He arose to consciousness three and a half hours later, still thinking he ought to ask Sophie to wake him in another thirty minutes.

“What have you done with our baby brother?” Gayle Windham, Earl of Westhaven, put the question casually as he passed St. Just—never was a belted earl more reluctant to use his title—a mug of ale.

“We’re not partaking of the local wassail?” St. Just studied the mug as he settled in beside his brother on the sofa of their private parlor.

“Your damned punch gave me a pounding headache that faded only after an entire pot of strong tea, which tea required a half dozen trips to the blasted freezing privy, each trip specifically designed to make man appreciate another tot of hot grog. All in all, I’d have to say your one day of waiting out the weather has been a trial and a half.”

St. Just set the ale aside untasted. “You’re worried about Anna?”

“Anna and the baby, who, I can assure you, are not worried about me.”

“Westhaven, are you pouting?”

Westhaven glanced over to see his brother smiling, but it was a commiserating sort of smile. “Yes. Care to join me?”

The commiserating smile became the signature St. Just Black Irish piratical grin. “Only until Valentine joins us. He’s so eager to get under way, we’ll let him break the trail when we depart in the morning.”

“Where is he? I thought you were just going out to the stables to check on your babies.”

“They’re horses, Westhaven. I do know the difference.”

“You know it much differently than you knew it a year ago. Anna reports you sing your daughter to sleep more nights than not.”

Two very large booted feet thunked onto the coffee table. “Do I take it your wife has been corresponding with my wife?”

“And your daughter with my wife, and on and on.” Westhaven did not glance at his brother but, rather, kept his graze trained on St. Just’s feet. Devlin could exude great good cheer among his familiars, but he was at heart a very private man.

“The Royal Mail would go bankrupt if women were forbidden to correspond with each other.” St. Just’s tone was grumpy. “Does your wife let you read her mail in order that my personal marital business may now be known to all and sundry?”

“I am not all and sundry,” Westhaven said. “I am your brother, and no, I do not read Anna’s mail. It will astound you to know this, but on occasion, say on days ending in y, I am known to talk with my very own wife. Not at all fashionable, but one must occasionally buck trends. I daresay you and Emmie indulge in the same eccentricity.”