“My uncle anticipates my company at Sidling, Your Grace. Perhaps another time.”
“We’ll see you at dinner, then,” the duchess said. “I daresay His Grace will at least let me feed the child sometime this afternoon.”
“Of course you can feed him,” His Grace replied. “But he’s joining me for a nip in the study first. Come along, Esther, the boy doesn’t need to be out in this weather, particularly when it looks like more snow will descend any moment.” They made a dignified progress to the house, leaving Sophie and Vim standing in the drive.
“You’ll travel back here in time for dinner tonight?”
“Assuming Uncle permits me to leave the grounds. Now that he knows we’ll be residing primarily at Sidling, he’s come up with all manner of projects and ideas requiring lengthy discussion.”
And to Vim’s pleasure and surprise, those lengthy discussions were enjoyable.
“I’m looking forward to seeing your property in Surrey.” Sophie slipped her hand in his and started walking with him toward the stables. “The sky does not look very promising.”
When they gained the relative privacy of the barn aisle, Vim treated the horses to the sight of a man kissing his intended with almost desperate focus. When he managed to step back, the secretive smile playing about Sophie’s lips made a dip in an icy horse trough loom with desperate appeal.
“I will be back for dinner, and I’ll be back tomorrow morning to ride out with you. If the weather’s foul, we can bake bread or listen to your brother practice his pianoforte.”
Her smile faded while she rested her check against Vim’s chest. “They’ll be leaving soon, all three of them. They’ve promised their ladies to be home by Twelfth Night.”
“They’ll come for the wedding.” Vim hoped they would. Sophie hadn’t set a date, and he hadn’t pressed her to, though tomorrow would suit him admirably. That very afternoon would suit even better.
Sophie smoothed her hand down his chest. “You’d best be going. I have to rescue Kit from Papa, lest the two of them get to sampling the brandy. Mama will not forgive me if Kit is a bad influence on the duke.”
Kit was a wonderful influence on His Grace, but Vim took the hint. The sooner he got to Sidling, the sooner he could return to Morelands. He kissed his intended again, mounted up, and rode out into the chilly air.
When he got to Sidling, not just his uncle but also his aunt waited for him in the estate office. They had plans, it seemed, for a reception in the portrait gallery in recognition of Vim’s engagement. And while Vim eyed the clock and the lowering sky, and his Uncle prattled on about the next full moon or possibly the one following, pretty little snow flurries began to dance in the air.
“Your swain came to you despite the weather.” Evie Windham kept her voice down, which was a mercy, because with three brothers in residence and Sophie being the first sister to become engaged, the situation was ripe for teasing.
“I don’t expect he’ll stay long.” Though with the way the snow had picked up, Sophie wished he’d stay at least until morning.
Evie looked like she might be the first to begin the teasing, when His Grace approached his daughters.
“If I’m to lose my dear Sophie to the charms of Rothgreb’s heir, then I must at least insist on accompanying her into dinner, mustn’t I?”
Evie patted her father’s arm. “You must, and you must protect her from our brothers, who have taken to dispensing advice on how to raise boy children, though between them they have about a year’s experience at it themselves.”
His Grace smiled. “They get this propensity for dispensing unwarranted advice from their mother.”
“Of course they do, Papa.” Evie swanned off, leaving Sophie the perfect opportunity to put a few quiet questions to her dear papa, questions she made very, very certain nobody—not a brother, not a sister, not even a duchess—overheard.
And if her questions perturbed His Grace, it wasn’t evident at dinner. The duke presided over a genial family meal, while Sophie sat next to Vim and tried to ignore the urge to surreptitiously explore the exact contours of her intended’s lap.
“My love.” His Grace addressed his wife down the length of the table. “We must not be sending young Sindal out into the elements tonight. There’s been entirely too much of that sort of thing in his courtship of our Sophie for an old man’s peace of mind.”
“Baron?” Her Grace aimed a smile at Vim where he sat beside Sophie. “Can we prevail upon you to accept our hospitality? I wouldn’t want to tempt fate by asking you to travel yet again in a worsening storm.”
Sophie slid her hand up from where it had been resting on Vim’s muscular thigh beneath the table. She squeezed the burgeoning length of him gently but firmly.
“I’m pleased to accept such friendly overtures, Your Graces.” His voice sounded only a little strained, and that was probably because Sophie was listening attentively. “My aunt and uncle urged me to tarry here if the weather became challenging.”
He settled his hand over hers, giving her fingers—and thus himself—another little squeeze as he said the last word.
And then, damn and blast, Her Grace gave the signal for the ladies to rise and join her for tea in the parlor, while Sophie’s brothers started exchanging the kinds of grins that assured her Vim would not be retiring yet for hours.
Sophie kept her features placid, even when Evie winked at her, Maggie rolled her eyes, and Her Grace rang for the cordials instead of the teapot.
Just knowing Sophie was down the hall—Vim’s room was in the family wing—was both a torture and a pleasure. He wanted to go to her, but God knew which brother, sister, or parent Vim might meet in the corridor.
He sighed, and for the twentieth time since retiring, rolled over in the vast bed.
A slow creak came to his ears. The creak repeated itself—a door opening then closing.
A scent drifted to his nose, a flowery, clean fragrance he was coming to treasure.
“Sophia Windham, you have developed a lamentable penchant for sneaking into gentlemen’s bedrooms.”
“I’m going to sneak into your bed, as well,” she said, parting the bed curtains. “It’s chilly out here.”
Trying to formulate a stern lecture about propriety was an utter waste of time as Sophie unbelted her wrapper, tossed it to the foot of the bed, and drew her chemise over her head.
“Can’t have you catching your death.” He flipped up the covers and admonished himself to plead shamelessly for the wedding to be held sooner rather than later—much sooner. The Good Lord was going to bestow only so many providential snowstorms on a man and his bride.
“I would rather catch my prospective husband at his slumbers.” She tucked herself against Vim’s side, a warm, lovely bundle of female. His arm came around her shoulders to gather her closer, and she sighed.
“I suppose, being a woman in contemplation of matrimony, you came here to talk?” He tried not to sound long-suffering, but her brothers had lectured him at great length about the adult woman’s need for, and entitlement to, private conversation with her spouse.
Sophie’s hand drifted across his bare abdomen. “Of course I came to talk. I love talking with you.”
He’d work the conversation around to the wedding date, then. Work the situation to his advantage while he tried not to take advantage of Moreland’s hospitality. And then, who knew where the conversation might lead them?
Sophie’s hand trailed up across his chest then traced his sternum down to his navel. “I came here to talk, because snowstorms are not a very reliable means of acquiring time with one’s beloved.” Her hand moved south and closed gently around Vim’s straining erection. “But I didn’t come here merely to talk.”