Tomorrow, maybe.

A fresh bout of tears threatened—my goodness, she hadn’t cried this much in years—and she glanced over at where Kit was slurping on his fingers on the parlor rug. While she watched, he took his hand from his mouth and started twisting his body as if to look at the fire dancing in the hearth.

“You’re getting grand ideas again.”

His gaze went immediately to Sophie where she sat on the floor beside his blankets.

“Go ahead; amaze yourself with a change in scenery.”

As if he’d understood her words, Kit squirmed and twisted and gurgled until he’d succeeded in pushing himself over onto his stomach. His head came up, and he braced himself on his hands, grinning merrily.

“This is how it begins with you men,” she said, running her hand down the small back. “You have this urge to explore, to sally forth, to conquer the world. Next you’ll be going for a sailor in the Royal Navy, shipping out for parts unknown, all unmindful of the people you leave behind, the people who love you and worry about you every moment.”

Kit hiked his backside skyward and managed to get on all fours. Sophie wiped the drool from his mouth, but his grin was undiminished.

“Men. You must adventure; you must go; you must march and sail and charge about in the company of your fellows. No matter you could be killed, no matter you break hearts every time you leave.”

Kit slapped his blankets with one small hand.

“I’ve never understood men. Bart would come home on winter leave, and nothing would do but he’d go off to Melton, riding to hounds, hell-bent, in all kinds of evil weather. It wasn’t enough to taunt fate by charging into French lines. No, he must risk his neck even on leave.”

She fell silent, frowning as Kit raised his second hand and slapped it down, as well, slightly ahead of where it had been previously. He bounced with pleasure, cooing and rocking, until he scooted one small chubby knee a little forward. He rocked on his knees more exuberantly, thrilled with himself for simply moving one small leg.

He was… crawling. Amid more noise and rocking and drooling, he shifted the second knee, then a hand, until he was shortly pitched forward onto his little chest, smacking the blanket and kicking his glee. He struggled up to all fours again and started rocking once more, while Sophie felt another damned tear slide down her cheek.

When it appeared Kit had tired of his newfound competence and Sophie had regained control over her wayward composure, she picked him up and hugged him close.

“I am proud of you. I am most, most proud of you, but these exertions will work up an appetite.”

She herself had eaten quite enough, finding it did nothing to fill the sense of emptiness created by Vim’s absence. The kitchen was toasty warm and full of the scent of gingerbread when Sophie repaired there to make Kit’s dinner, but it was as if her usual misery at the holidays had descended manyfold.

“The house is decorated,” she told the baby. “There are presents under the tree at Morelands, the servants are all enjoying their leave, and I want simply to sleep until all the merriment is over. But I mustn’t sleep.”

Kit spit out his last spoonful of mashed potatoes.

“I can’t sleep because I must find a family to love you, and I can’t sleep now because both of the bedrooms hold too many memories, and besides, I let the fire go out in Vim’s room. Except it isn’t Vim’s room. It is Valentine’s room, or it was before he ran off and got married just like his brothers…”

She was babbling, babbling about her brothers leaving her, for death or marriage, it made no difference. They were all gone, her father had had a heart seizure, and he would be going in time too. Kit would soon be gone, and Vim…

Vim was gone. A sob, a true, miserable, from-the-gut sob welled up, propelled by the darkness falling outside, the effort of being good for an entire day, and God knew what else. Sophie caught herself around the middle and swallowed back the ugly sound which, should it escape her, she feared would signal a permanent loss of her self-control.

It did not stay subdued, though. No, her body was determined to have its unhappy say. But then the back door slammed shut, and despite her misery, Sophie heard the sound of booted feet stomping in the hallway.

Good heavens, Merriweather or Higgins would be coming to check on her. She rose, swiped at her cheeks, and set aside the baby’s spoon and rag.

Then a thought hit her that had her sitting down hard on the bench again: her brothers. Oh, please God, not those three. Yes, she’d missed them terribly, but at that precise moment, she didn’t want to see anybody, not one soul except the very person she would never see again.

Vim.

He stood in the doorway, looking haggard, chilled to the bone, and so, so dear. Sophie flew across the kitchen to embrace him, the sob escaping her midflight.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his arms going around her. “There were no coaches going to Kent, no horses to hire for a distance that great. No horses to buy, not even a mule. All day… I tried all day.”

He sounded exhausted, and the cold came off him palpably. His cheeks were rosy with it, his voice a little hoarse, and against his ruddy complexion, his blue eyes gleamed brilliantly.

“You must be famished.” Sophie did not let him go while she made that prosaic, female observation. Despite all she’d eaten, she was famished—for the sight of him, for the sound of his voice, and oh, for the feel of his tall body against her.

“Hungry, yes. How fares Kit?”

Still they did not part. “He started crawling today. Not far, not quite well, but he’ll figure it out quickly. He’s just finished dinner.”

Vim moved off toward the table but kept an arm around Sophie’s shoulders.

“Clever lad.” He smiled down at the baby propped amid blankets and towels on the table. “Making your first mad dash across the carpet, are you? And I missed it. You must have a demonstration for me before you retire, for it’s a sight I would not miss.”

“I missed you.” Sophie hugged Vim close, burying her face against his chilly shoulder.

She felt a sigh go out of him and wished she could recall the words. Yes, they were the truth, a defining truth, but still, she should not have said the words. When he did not give those unwise words back her to, she stepped away. “Put your wet things in the parlor to dry. I’ll see about dinner.”

* * *

Vim did as ordered, spreading his sodden greatcoat over the back of a wing chair, adorning the mantel with his gloves, hat and scarf, peeling off the knit sweater he’d worn all day, and removing his boots and the soaked outer pair of trousers from his legs.

In his life, he’d been colder, more exhausted, and hungrier on many occasions, but he’d never been so glad to come in from the weather.

The picture Sophie had made, sitting in a faded brown velvet dress at the table—her dark hair gathered sleekly at her nape, her soft voice a low caress in Vim’s mind as she’d spoken to the child—had been an image of heaven.

And then the feel of her…

No hesitance, no remonstrance for reappearing uninvited, nothing but her arms lashed around him in welcome, and those dangerous, wonderful words: I missed you.

“These are socks I knitted for my brother Devlin when he was wintering in Spain,” Sophie said, closing the parlor door behind her. “I made several pairs for him and for Bart, as well, but Bart’s things were distributed among his men, in accordance with his wishes. Devlin went north in summer, so all his winter socks were left behind.”

“My thanks.” He took the socks from her, letting his hand brush hers.

“You are chilled to the bone, Vim Charpentier. I cannot believe you wandered London the entire day.”

He sat to peel off his soaked and chilled footwear, struck with the precious domesticity of the situation.

Sophie sank to her knees before him. “Allow me.” She plucked the socks she’d just handed him from his grasp and scowled at his feet. “For heaven’s sake, Mr. Charpentier, could you not have paused to warm your feet up at the occasional public house?” She went on scolding him, taking a kitchen towel from her shoulder and applying it briskly to his feet.

“Easy, Sophie, the feeling comes back in an uncomfortable rush.”

She paused, the towel wrapped around his feet. “Did you really look all day for a horse?” She studied his feet while she posed her question, and Vim resisted the urge to stroke a hand over her hair.

“Not all day. First I made the rounds of the coaching inns in Mayfair, Soho, St. James, Knightsbridge, and halfway to the City. There were a few traveling due east, but I could not buy a place, even on the roof, not for any price. People are determined to join their loved ones for the holidays.”

She nodded and hugged his feet. Hugged his big, cold, red, soon to be madly itching feet. Hugged them right to her breasts.

It was ridiculous, that gesture. Extravagantly generous, personal, and practical all at once, given her bodily warmth. He allowed it and realized his heart would never recover entirely from encountering Sophie Windham.

“I tried to rent a horse, but nobody wanted to part with a sound animal for so great a distance when many people were willing to pay dearly for a local hire. I tried the abattoirs and breweries, everywhere. No luck.”

And no room at the inns he’d tried, either. He didn’t tell her that.

“I’m glad.” She let his feet go and resumed rubbing them gently. “I’m glad you came back where I can feed you properly and know you’re warm and safe and well fed.”