Page 95 of One Day for a Valet

They lay entangled for long minutes, warm and content, his fingers carding through her curls and smoothing the tangles formed in their exuberant bed sport.

“I’m afraid it’s a lost cause. I should have plaited it before bed,” Sofia said.

“I would have taken it down anyway.” Christopher worked his fingers through a snag. “Where’s your comb?” He stood, pausing long enough to clean himself with the towelling and then hand the cloth to Sofia with a sheepish smile.

“You don’t have to. It’s tedious, time-consuming work.”

He shook his head. “Scoot forward sweetheart.” He found her brush and slipped behind her body, untangling her curls in slow, careful strokes. “Your hair is magnificent. You are magnificent. I’ve wanted to pluck out every pin and sink my fingers into those wild curls since the moment I met you.”

She could feel her cheeks warming as old wounds began their steady throb. Sofia did not want the memories of her past intruding on this moment and casting their ugly shadow on her unfiltered, luminous joy. But they were there, and she could not entirely push them away. “It’s not magnificent. It’s a nuisance. Ten minutes after I’ve combed it, it’s in disarray again.”

“Then in ten minutes, I’ll do it again. And again ten minutes after that. Caring for you, Sofi, it brings me so much pleasure. Here, I’ll plait it for you. Gabriel can do it, so how hard can it be?”

Sofia didn’t dare respond. If she opened her mouth, the sob lodged in her throat would burst free. Instead, she focused on the path of his fingers, basking in his all-encompassing love, centred solely on her.

His strokes slowed. In the silence that followed she could almost feel him searching for a topic to extend her reprieve from the feelings that threatened to overwhelm her. This man. How he saw her. How he nurtured her, even in ways so different from what he, himself, required. “You know, your brother sent me to find you here tonight. After making such a pest of himself this morning.” Christopher divided her hair into three segments and began fumbling over his own hands.

“Left over centre, right over centre,” Sofia instructed with a wobbly smile. “He was just excited to show us the house.”

“Hold still, Sofi, this is complicated work.” He sighed theatrically, untangled his knot, and began again. “Given the choice between receiving this beautiful house and watching you pleasure yourself … well, the house could have waited for ten more minutes.”

And suddenly, she could breathe again. She laughed, and, for her squirming, Christopher gave a quick tug of chastisement to the hair gathered at her nape.

“Be still, woman.”

She wiggled again just to be contrary and he chuckled softly.

Christopher’s hands slowed in their work, nearing the end of her plait. “I’m afraid I’m in want of more practice. Lucky for me, I have an hour each night to court your friendship, so I’ll get a lifetime’s worth of practice. Pass me that ribbon.” He indicated to a white slip of satin, then tied off the bottom and surveyed his work.

Sofi felt her plait droop, curls sliding from both sides. Turning slowly to prevent the fruit of his labours from falling loose entirely, she twined her arms around his neck and brushed a kiss across his lips. “In case you were wondering, I have decided that I’ll be your friend tomorrow.”

With aching tenderness, he met her gaze. “Those words are my favourite part of every day.”

Epilogue

The first of Violet’s contractions came an hour after the conclusion of the long-awaited game of calcio storico … which happened to coincide with a rare March snowfall that had blanketed the ground in unusually significant quantities. The end result was a gentler version of the traditional rules intermingled with an impromptu snowball fight.

Zachariah planned strategies with Philip, the stableboy he’d befriended, Sofia took an accidental elbow to the nose and lost quite a bit of blood, and several snowballs were lobbed at Gabriel’s head for abandoning his team in order to cluck like a mother hen over his wife. Violet sat restlessly on the sidelines, buried in blankets, no doubt wishing she could be in the thick of the fun.

All activity came to a comically abrupt halt when the dowager’s carriage pulled up the drive beside them. Oliver, who was closest, threw the ball to Hamish and strode over to assist her down the step.

Her eyes swept across the snow-speckled, bedraggled group, then landed accusingly upon Oliver. “Why am I not surprised that I return home early only to find you all behaving like a pack of feral arctic animals?”

As ever, Oliver appeared amused by her insults. “Just having a little fun, Dowager. Had we known you were to return today, I would have insisted upon delaying the match so you could take part. I wouldn't dream of denying you the opportunity to throw snowballs at my head under the guise of fun and games.” He gave her a courtly bow, snow dusting down from his hair. “Welcome home, Your Grace.”

“So much sass is unbecoming of a duke, young man.”

He winked. “I tried my hardest to get all the sass out of my system before probate was finalised, but there’s just so very much of it.”

Gabriel stepped between the squabbling pair. “You’ve had a long journey, Mother, and it’s cold. Allow me to escort you inside and ring for tea.”

“In a moment. I’ve been sitting for too long in that poorly sprung hunk of metal, and I wish to share a bit of news that may prove interesting.” Her lips twitched, which for the dowager was a show of enthusiasm equivalent to leaping into the air with a click of her heels.

All eyes had settled on her, and she looked from one expectant face to the next, ensuring she held the undivided attention of every adult present before continuing to hold court. “I’m not one to sling mud, you know⁠—”

“Not unless you know you can win,” Oliver interrupted in a mumble.

The dowager continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “But given the vicious nature of the attacks by the Duke of Vainblack and his puffed up poodle of a wife, I found my tolerance quite exhausted. They seemed to be the last of the dwindling rabblerousers opposed to Oliver’s ascension to the title. So, with a few well-placed comments to the Duchess Vainblack over a scone, I hinted—tactfully, of course—that I possess information pertaining to the illegitimacy of her husband’s only son and heir. Ironic that they’ve been so determinedly after our blood.” She raised one delicately sloped eyebrow. “Naturally, she has had a change of heart about Oliver and our situation.”