Lady Sophie's Christmas Wish by Grace Burrowes Page A

she’d watched her papa in action any number of times. She knew exactly what Vim was up to, but she took the bait anyway.
    â€œHe loved the apples.”
    This time when Vim offered her his handkerchief, she took it, stepping back even as a final sigh shuddered through her.
    â€œHe loves to eat,” Vim said, “the same as any healthy male. What were you thinking of baking today?”
    Another seemingly innocuous question, but Sophie let him lead her by small steps away from the topic of Kit’s uncertain future.
    â€œI was going to make stollen, a recipe from my grandmother’s kitchens. I make it only around the holidays, and my brothers will be expecting it.”
    â€œMay I help?”
    She was certain he’d never intended to offer such a thing, certain he’d never done Christmas baking in his life. “There’s a lot of chopping to do, depending on the version we make. Do you like dates?”
    They discussed Christmas baking and sweets in general, then various exotic dishes Vim had encountered on his travels. Sophie had to brush the white flour off Vim’s cheek when he offered to take a turn kneading the dough, and Vim snitched sweets shamelessly. Sophie scolded him until he popped a half a candied date in her mouth, and when she would have scolded him for that, he fed her the other half.
    While the baby, oblivious to the adults laughing and teasing and even getting some baking done around him, slept contentedly in his cradle.
    ***
    â€œNow this is odd.”
    Percival Windham folded the copy of The Times he’d been enjoying with his late afternoon tea and peered at his duchess.
    â€œWhat’s odd, my love?” He topped off her tea and passed her the cup.
    â€œMurial Chattell has written to say they just made it out to Surrey before the storm struck London, and the weather is being blamed for her daughter’s early lying-in.”
    â€œPopping out another one is she? Old Chattell will be bruiting that about in the clubs until Easter.”
    His bride of more than three decades gave him the amused, tolerant look of a woman who could read her husband like the proverbial book. “Don’t fret, Husband. Devlin and Valentine are both putting their shoulders to the wheel, so to speak. There will be more grandbabies soon.”
    And Emmie and Ellen were mighty fetching inspiration for a man to pull his share of the marital load. Her Grace, as always, had a point.
    The point she’d been trying to make belatedly struck him. “Sophie was supposed to be spending time with Chattell’s middle girl, wasn’t she?”
    Her Grace took a placid sip of tea. A deceptively placid sip of tea. “That was Sophie’s plan.”
    â€œThat girl takes entirely too much after her mother, if you ask me.”
    â€œOh?”
    What a wealth of meaning a married woman could put into one syllable.
    â€œYou, my love, are subtle. A braver man might even say devious when you want to achieve your ends. You agreed to Sophie’s plan to linger in Town with friends because the Chattells boast a houseful of empty-headed sons whom Sophie could wrap around her dainty finger, were she so inclined.”
    â€œBut Sophie is not with the Chattells, Percy.” A small frown creased Her Grace’s brow. Had they been anywhere but His Grace’s private study, she wouldn’t have given even that much away. “Muriel mentions how crowded the traveling coach was with the two younger girls and all their winter finery, and she goes on and on about the difficulty of traveling in such bad weather. She does not mention Sophie.”
    His Grace enjoyed very much the machinations necessary for parliamentary schemes. He enjoyed advising the Regent on national and foreign policy when that overfed fellow deigned to listen. His Grace enjoyed very, very much the company of his grandchildren, and there was no greater joy in his life than his marriage.
    He did not always