“Sophie, what’s wrong?”

Now, he’d moved. He’d crossed the room silently to stand at her elbow. The bergamot scent of him, the Vim scent of him, tickled her nose.

“I’m tired,” she said, shifting away to sink onto the raised hearth of her small fireplace. “Seeing my brothers is wonderful, but under the circumstances…”

He lowered himself to sit beside her. “Under the circumstances, I’ve ruined your holiday.”

“Christmas is not my favorite time of year.”

“Mine either, and hasn’t been since a certain holiday gathering almost half my lifetime ago. I expect your parents will acquaint you with the details if your brothers haven’t already.”

This was news. She lifted her head to peer at him. “Is this why you dread coming to Kent? There is some scandal in your past?”

“My sisters were the victims of scandal, though I started the tradition well before they did, and I was not exactly a victim. I was a fool.”

“Soph?” Valentine’s voice called softly from the corridor. A moment later, a knock sounded on the door, and a moment after that, Val pushed the door open. Slowly—slowly enough she might have hastened to an innocent posture if she’d been, say, kissing the breath out of her guest. “Is the prodigy asleep yet?”

“You were a prodigy,” she said, rising from the hearth. “Though now you’re just prodigiously bothersome. Lord Sindal was coming by to collect Kit for a night among you fellows.”

“We fellows?” Val’s brows crashed down. “We fellows took turns the livelong freezing day, carrying that malodorous, noisy, drooling little bundle of joy inside our very coats. You should be missing him so badly you can’t let him out of your sight for at least a week of nights.”

“Ignore your brother, my lady.” Vim rose off the hearth, and to Sophie’s eyes, looked very tall as he glared at Valentine. “We will be pleased to enjoy My Lord Baby’s company for the night, won’t we, Lord Valentine?”

Valentine was not a stupid man, though he could be as pigheaded as any Windham male. Marriage was apparently having a salubrious effect on his manners, though.

“If Sophie says I’ll be pleased to spend the night with that dratted baby, then pleased I shall be. Coming, Sindal?”

And then, then, Vim kissed her. On the forehead, his eyes open and staring at Valentine the entire lingering moment of the kiss. “Sleep well, Sophie. We’ll take good care of Kit.”

He lifted the cradle and departed. Sophie pushed the nappies at Valentine, ignored her brother’s puzzled, concerned, and curious looks, and pointed at the door without saying one more word.

“Westhaven sent us a pigeon.” His Grace waved the tiny scrap of paper at his wife. “Says they’ve retrieved Sophie, and all is well. The four of them are on their way.”

Though it didn’t say precisely that.

“In this miserable weather too,” Her Grace replied. “I don’t worry about the boys so much, but Sophie has never enjoyed winter outings. Come sit and have some tea.”

He sat. He did not want tea, but he did want to share his wife’s company. She was the picture of domestic serenity, plying her needle before the fire in their private sitting room.

“They’re traveling in company with Rothgreb’s nephew,” His Grace said, flipping out his tails. “Is that a new piece?”

“A blanket for your grandson. Anna will be showing him off this spring in Town, and he must be attired to befit his station.”

“Mighty small fellow to be so fashion-minded,” His Grace remarked. “Have we seen the Charpentier boy since that awful scene all those years ago?” He’d tried to keep the question casual, but Her Grace was as shrewd as she was sweet.

And she was very, very sweet.

“We have not.” She looked up to frown at him, the only manifestation of her frown in the corners of her lips. “The viscountess has mentioned him passing through from time to time, but he hasn’t socialized when in the neighborhood. If he’s going to be underfoot this year, we really must invite him to the Christmas party.”

His Grace accepted a perfectly prepared cup of tea from his wife and made a show of putting the teacup to his lips. Insipid stuff, tea. Its saving purpose was to wash down crème cakes, of which there were exactly none in evidence, bless Her Grace’s heart.

“You invite everybody and their granny, Esther. Don’t expect him to come.”

She said nothing while His Grace could hear her female mill wheel grinding facts together with intuition and maternal concern.

“Do you suppose Sophie has come to enjoy Mr. Charpentier’s company?”

He thought his daughter had done a great deal more than that, given the nature of Westhaven’s note. Will explain in person usually meant the news was too bad to be committed to writing.

“Charpentier has the courtesy title now, has had it since his grandfather died all those years back.”

“A title.” Her Grace appeared to consider this. “Sophie has never been much impressed with titles.”

“He’s only a baron.”

They could hope. They could hope he was a handsome, charming, single baron who had a penchant for quiet, spinsterly types given to charitable causes and taking in strays.

Christmas was the season of miracles, after all. His Grace downed his tea in one brave swallow and regarded his wife. “I believe you should invite the boy to the party, after all. It will make for an interesting evening.”

“I will, then. It will be nice to see Essie and Bert, but you are not to get up to any tricks, Percival Windham. More tea?”

His Grace passed over his cup and saucer. “Of course, my love. Nothing would please me more.”

“We can stop for lunch at Chester,” Vim said. “I’ll split off a few miles the other side of town, or you can come with me to Sidling.”

Beside him, Westhaven shifted in the saddle. “St. Just? You’re the head drover. What do you say?”

“I’m the head nothing,” Lord Valentine interjected, nudging his horse up beside Vim’s. “I say we get out of this weather as soon as we can. Sophie’s lips are blue, and I don’t like the look of that sky.”

St. Just looked up from where he’d been adjusting his greatcoat. “I say we move on and make that decision when Sindal’s fork in the road appears. The baby seems fine, though the damned clouds look loaded with more snow.”

“It’s my turn to take him.” Vim shifted his horse to pull up beside St. Just.

“The lad’s fine where he is.” St. Just spoke mildly, while Vim endured a spike of frustration. He might be seeing the last of the child in the next two hours; the least St. Just could do was let a man have some—

“Unless you’d rather?” St. Just quirked a dark eyebrow. Vim was tempted to refuse on general principles, but something in St. Just’s green eyes… not pity. A retired officer wouldn’t offer insult like that, but maybe… understanding. “I have a stepdaughter, Sindal. Less than a day in her company, and I would have cheerfully cut out my heart for her. My younger daughter wasn’t even born before I was making lists of reasons to reject her potential suitors.”

He spoke quietly enough that his brothers could pretend they hadn’t heard him. Vim accepted the child and ensconced the bundle of infant inside his greatcoat.

“Why are we stopping?” Sophie’s cheeks were not pink; they were red. As her great beast trudged into their midst, Vim was relieved to see her lips were not truly blue, though they no doubt felt blue.

“Reconnoitering,” Westhaven said. “The baron has offered us shelter before we travel the last few miles to Morelands.”

“Is Kit managing?”

Four men spoke as one: “He’s fine.”

“Well, then.” She urged her horse forward. “If we’re to beat the next storm, we’d best be moving on.”

She rode past Vim without turning her head. Even mounted on one of her pet mastodons, she looked elegant and composed, for all the cold had to be chilling her to the bone. He regretted mentioning his aversion to holiday gatherings, suspecting she’d spoken of it to her brothers and gleaned the details of his youthful folly.