“Your cloak. Some fresh air will settle you down, Soph.”
“I don’t want to settle down !”
He held her gaze, thinking his wife would be proud of him. Only a brave—or perhaps very foolish man—tried to console a woman with a heart in the process of breaking. “I rather think you do want to settle down, preferably with Sindal and a brace of offspring.”
Her head came up, and Valentine was grateful he’d be leaving in a couple days. Much more of this drama, and he’d be swearing off family holidays for the next decade.
“I tossed aside a perfectly good baby. A wonderful baby,” she said. “Placed him with strangers.”
“That dratted baby has nothing to do with Sindal cutting you.” He draped her cloak over her shoulders, even risking a small hug while he did. “Let’s go for a little walk, Soph. It will put the roses back in your cheeks.”
When he pulled away, she clung. He felt the instant when her ire turned to sorrow, felt her spine sag with impending grief. “I tossed away the baby, but Valentine, I’m beginning to wonder if I didn’t toss away the man, as well. I never really explained to him what I was about—I didn’t know what I was about.”
“And I’m not sure I want to know. Come along, Soph. We can amble down to the church and make sure the curmudgeon hasn’t gone rogue on me. The damned weather is hard on the old soldiers.”
“You and your blessed pianos.” But she let him tug her through the French doors to the terrace. St. Just was still keeping vigil by the windows, and he started when Val pulled Sophie along on the terrace. Val just shook his head when St. Just beckoned them back inside, all without Sophie noticing a thing in her increasing upset.
“He’s a good baby,” she was saying. “And the Harrads are good people, but Kit is special, he’s unique, and they’ve raised only girls.”
“You spent two weeks with the infant, and you know him better than an experienced mother of three would?”
She turned to glare at him in the moonlight. “You are a blockhead, Valentine Windham. Just wait until Ellen presents you with a baby. Vim knew exactly what to do with Kit. Exactly. It has nothing to do with time or experience.”
He knew he was taking a risk, but Val opted for goading her rather than comforting her. “Vim knew what he was doing with you too, sister dear. The question is, what are the two of you going to do about it now? I’m told he’s leaving for the Americas again, and that is some distance from merry olde England.”
“I hate you.”
“Dear heart, I know this.”
She stomped along beside him then stopped abruptly, dropped his arm and drew in a shuddery breath. Well, hell. He put his arms around her and silently vowed to give up his career as a charming escort. “What hurts the worst, Soph? Tell me.”
“You’ll bear tales to Her Grace and to our odious brothers.”
“I’m your only odious brother.”
She nodded. “You’re the worst of a bad lot.” She was stalling, but a lady was entitled when her heart was breaking. “I love him.”
“Sindal hasn’t earned that honor—” He fell abruptly silent when Sophie drew back and rolled her eyes at him.
“I meant I love Kit, though I love Vim, as well.”
Val dropped his arms, feeling the last of his fraternal patience slipping its leash. “It’s no wonder Sindal is uncertain of his reception with you, Sophie Windham, for I’m beyond confused myself. Have you told the man you love him?”
“Of course not.”
Val resumed their walk. “Then how is he to know?”
“Because I’m going to insist he take Kit.” Sophie followed after Val at a brisk pace. “Vim needs somebody to love, and to love him, and he’s perfect with Kit. He said he’d consider fostering him at Sidling. The viscountess doted on Kit, and I think old Rothgreb was fond of him too.”
Val kept on walking. “You have taken leave of your senses. Sindal is off to parts unknown. He can’t be dragging your dratted baby with him.”
“All manner of children are born on shipboard. Most merchant captains who can afford to take their wives and children with them do so. Then too, if Kit is at Sidling, Vim will have an excellent reason to be home more frequently. Rothgreb and his lady will like that.”
“Sophie, I love you, but this plan has nothing to recommend it, except that it puts the two fellows you seem to love with your whole heart where they’re either gallivanting about the globe without you or right under your nose where you can look but not touch.”
She just shook her head and kept moving along with him.
“All right, then, go visit your Holy Terror and explain to the Harrads that no, you’ll be haring off in a different direction now, playing skittles with a child’s life while you completely ignore your own needs. I’m going to have a sane argument with a piano while I can still reason.”
He marched off—he was not retreating—and left Sophie in the middle of the village green, her fists clenched at her sides while the sounds of the Christmas party drifted around in the frigid night air.
A man could not aspire to the status of man at all unless he admitted to himself he’d been mistaken.
And Sophie had apparently known this. She’d known Vim had spent more than a dozen years racketing around the world, laying up treasures on earth, all in the mistaken belief His Grace had treated him shabbily, when all the while…
“I beg your pardon.” The very object of his youthful folly stepped back and peered at him through tired eyes. Louise Holderness Horton smiled tentatively. “I know you, sir, or I believe I do.”
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. “It’s Sindal, Louise. Wilhelm Charpentier. Happy Christmas.” He bowed and left her standing there under the mistletoe, her hand to her a cheek and a ghost of her old smile on her lips.
And now to deal with what really mattered. He took a quick leave of his hostess, whose serene mature beauty reminded him all too strongly of Sophie.
Sophie, who was discreetly maintaining an absence when he’d come expressly to mend his fences with her. He gave the place one more visual inspection and didn’t see her anywhere, so he signaled for his hat and coat.
“Where are you off to?” Westhaven was doing a poor job of masking a glower. “If I’m not mistaken, you haven’t made your bow to Sophie.”
“I have not, and if that’s how she wants it, that’s how it will be. Excuse me.”
“You’re really leaving.” The glower faded to puzzlement, though Westhaven’s hand stayed on Vim’s arm.
“I’m leaving for the curate’s house, if you must know, and then, if Sophie still won’t give me an audience, I am heading for Yorkshire, or wherever else you lot think you can secret her.”
“What’s at the curate’s house?”
“Not a what, a who. The love of Sophie’s life, who should at least be with her if she won’t allow me to be. Happy Christmas, Westhaven.”
He slipped out the door and didn’t bother retrieving his horse. It was a short walk down to the village, and he’d need the time to clear his head.
“Where was Sindal going?” St. Just growled.
“I’m not sure, but he mentioned the curate’s house.” Westhaven’s brow knit. “He sounded a bit like he’d gotten into Deene’s white rum, but he had only the one drink with His Grace.”
“His Grace is involved now?”
The brothers exchanged a look, and they spoke in unison. “Let’s go.”
Vim was composing a speech, having failed utterly with his note to Sophie. He sought a means of explaining to the Harrads that he’d like to have the baby back, thank you very much, because Sophie Windham loved the child, and she should have whom and what she loved.