One Day for a Valet

Chapter 29

After arriving at the conclusion that one of the maids must have taken pity on his poor neglected footwear and brought his boots down to be cleaned, Christopher set off in the direction of the boot room. Noting the muted sounds of shuffling from within, he paused, peeking through the partially open door.

Not a boot boy. Sofia.

Thanks to the silent pad of his stockinged feet and the relative position of the bench and table, Sofia remained unaware of Christopher’s approach. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched her work.

Sofia had her head bowed in concentration and her skirts rucked up, his filthy boot gripped between her knees. Her navy dress, normally unremarkable but for its tidiness, was mottled with dust, and a thick smear of mud was ground into the fabric from the heel of his boot.

Awestruck, he could not tear his gaze away from the countless indications of her exertion as she laboured. Laboured for him. Tendrils of her upswept hair had tumbled free, clinging to the sheen of sweat at the nape of her neck, and her delicate fingers trembled with effort as she worked the boot pick through every dip of his tread. While her wounded arm remained secured in a sling, mud had mashed beneath her nails and around the cuticles of her right hand.

Beside her, his left boot gleamed, the supple leather buffed to a shine worthy of any aristocratic foot.

“How did you know about the last steps? As I recall, you missed that part of the tutorial, trying to fall asleep on my shoulder instead.”

Sofia startled at his unexpected voice, then a blush bloomed across her skin as if she had been caught stealing his boots rather than cleaning them. He gave her a reassuring smile, then sat down beside her, lifting the finished product up to admire. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

Picking up a clean, damp cloth, he took her hand in his and began gently cleaning away the mud that had been pressed deep into the lines of her skin. A realisation washed over him then. She was speaking to him in his native tongue, caring for him to show her affection. She loves me.

“George explained how.” Her voice was tentative. As if she was aware her gift had tipped his world on its axis but wasn’t sure if he liked the altered view.

Up and down each finger and into the vulnerable spaces between, he bathed her skin with unhurried strokes. “I’m surprised he didn’t step in to do it himself.”

“He wanted to, but this was for me to do alone… for you.” She looked up from where she had been tracking the movement of his hands, and the emotion he saw in her eyes made his stomach flutter with pleasure.

“Because you wish to express your affection.”

“Yes.”

“And your regard.” He rubbed slow circles into the tender flesh of her palm.

“Si.”

He swallowed hard. “And because you love me.”

“Deeply.”

The smile she gave him took his breath away.

Sofia didn’t tip the axis of my world. She righted it. He had been staggering on off-kilter ground for so long that he had stopped noticing the effort in it. Gabriel was right. Christopher had spent so many years trying to earn the affection of others that he’d forgotten he deserved it just for being him. But she had seen his heart and placed his boots at the front of the line.

The boot toppled from his lap with a thud and his mouth found hers. It took every ounce of his restraint not to pull her into his arms and show her an altogether different way he’d like to labour for her. Still, he kept his touch soft against her cheek and his kisses gentle, easing away when his blood began to heat.

Retrieving the fallen boot, he reached for the tin of conditioning oil and two soft cloths. Applying a liberal amount to each, he handed one to Sofia. How desperately he wanted this, exactly this, for the rest of his life. The pair of them together, navigating the thousands of beautifully ordinary moments that span a lifetime.

“Sofia?”

“Hmm?” She didn’t look up.

“Marry me.”

She did look up then.

“I know I promised to make the next proposal better, and, with my hands smelling like dead fish and the questionable origin of that smear of muck on your dress, this attempt may be even less romantic than the last, but I promise to be better at loving you every day than I am at proposing marriage. It’s only that?—”

“Christopher.”

He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “Yes?”

“You could have stopped at, ‘Marry me.’” She kissed him once, hard on the mouth.?“I love you, Christopher Keene, and it wouldn’t matter how, when, or where you asked me to be yours. I don’t care if your hands reek of fish or my dress is utterly defiled. My answer is a resounding yes. Yes to your ridiculously persistent friendship. Yes to loving you every day. Yes to pear trees and biscotti and waking up to your smile every morning.”

He laughed then, his joy bubbling over. “You really should have done the proposing. You’re far better at it.” Then he tipped her face up to his and brushed a smiling kiss against her lips.

Sofia met his smile with her own before softening against him, the coaxing slide of her tongue and drag of her fingers through his hair scattering his wits. He groaned and tried to pullaway.

“It’s completely unfair you know. Wooing me with boot conditioning and romantic words, then taking advantage of my weakened state. Rude, Sofia.” She laughed into his lips and then kissed him again.

“Areyou trying to turn me grey prematurely, madam? Please tell me you are not scaling furniture like a monkey just two weeks after being shot in the shoulder.” Christopher briskly crossed to the library ladder where his betrothed was awkwardly pulling her way up.

“It wouldn’t really be premature, Christopher. Plenty of men have silver strands at thirty-seven. And you can see very well that I am, so why would I tell you otherwise?”

Gripping her waist, Christopher tugged her down and spun her to face him, glowering. “Sofi, have you no sense of self-preservation?” He sighed and gave her a baleful look. “No, don’t answer that. I can see that you don’t.”

She kissed him. “Truly Christopher, I don’t need to hear a physician’s report to know that I am well. It scarcely hurts at all.”

He narrowed his eyes. “And do you think you’ll continue healing rapidly if you slip while climbing and have to catch your weight with your left hand?”

Her eyes drifted away guiltily.

“Sofia.” He drew out the syllables and took her face between his hands, directing her gaze back to his. Since the night in the boot room, he had gone out of his way to ensure they were not alone. Now, the relief of touching her, of feeling her flushed cheeks beneath his palms after nearly a fortnight of restraint, sizzled through his nerves. His body tipped towards hers, lust mingling with his anxiety. “Do you not know what the sight of you fighting for your life did to me? My God, Sofi, I cannot?—”

Sofia’s lips, patient and reassuring, feathered across his, barely touching. Their breaths mingled as he allowed himself to be soothed. Her palm, cool against his jaw, drew him closer, coaxing his mouth open against hers.

Pulling in a harsh breath, Christopher broke the kiss, dropped his forehead to her shoulder, and turned to rub his cheek and nose into the sweet curve of her neck.

“Surely I am well enough for kissing, Christopher.”

He let out a humourless chuckle. “I wish I had the self-control to stop at kissing you. Or, to be more accurate, to stop at kissing just your mouth.”

Sofia’s fingers curled into Christopher’s hips and he pressed his face deeper into her throat, luxuriating in the spill of escaped curls tickling across his temple.

“The problem is that I so clearly recall the taste of your arousal. The texture of your breasts… decadent satin and taut little berries. The scrape of your nails on my scalp just before your swollen bud throbs against my tongue.” He made a contented little hum in the back of his throat. “And what those memories do to me… stirring and sliding through my thoughts, settling heavy in my groin. The thought of touching you thrums like a heartbeat beneath my skin, impossible to ignore.”

Her hands slid down to knead into his arse and she urged him forward so that his thigh pressed snuggly between hers.

“And there is no relief from the clawing urge to sink into you.” He filled his lungs with the fragrance of her skin, released a long, unsteady breath. “So, you see, my sweet, why I cannot simply have a taste of you.”

Her hips canted then, her quim dragging against the long muscle of his thigh.

“Mmm. Does that feel good, Sofi?

She did it again, more deliberately this time, her lips parting in a soundless gasp. Christopher wondered if he had ever seen anything more magnificent than the sight of Sofia aroused by his words and rutting against his thigh.

“I cannot touch you, my sweet, but I want to see you find your pleasure. It seems a travesty that you should suffer for my poor self-control. There you are. Yes, just like that.”

A knock sounded at the door.

“Christopher.” Gabriel sounded nearly as reluctant to interrupt as Christopher was to be interrupted. It did not make Christopher any less annoyed.

“Go away.”

Sofia let out the most adorable growl of irritation.

“Oh, Christopher,” came Oliver’s singsong taunt. “Enough fondling my sister. We want to show you something.”

“Ten minutes,” Christopher replied.

“Two minutes. You’re not married to her yet.”

Three weeks and Sofia would be his wife. Two days and six hours and the doctor would return to check her progress. Wife or not, there was no meddling from Oliver or reproach from Gabriel that would keep him from Sofia’s bed when the doctor deemed her fit to return to regular activities. She was his, and God willing, very soon he would spend every night making her abundantly glad of it.

“I swear to you Oliver, if you do not turn around and go back the way you came…” Christopher’s teeth gnashed in frustration, but a glance at Sofia showed she was shaking off her lust-filled haze. She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed.

“Five minutes,” Oliver replied.

The footsteps retreated, and Christopher covered Sofia”s hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss the tender inside of her wrist.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I never should have let things get so out of hand without locking the door. Shall we go and see what they want?”

“If we must.”

“I’m not sure which of the brothers Anson is more obnoxious.”

Oliver,Gabriel, and Violet were waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs. Sofia had allowed their interruption to pass without complaint, but Christopher was still holding a grudge, and he made no attempt to wipe the annoyance from his face.

“My goodness. I had no idea Christopher could even make such a face.” Oliver shot Gabriel a look of mock surprise. “Good Lord, he is grumpy when he’s unsated.”

Gabriel pinned Oliver with a disapproving glare. “If you aren’t going to be respectful to your sister, at least have a care for my wife and mind your manners.” Shaking his head, Gabriel glanced down at the rolled-up piece of parchment he was holding and returned to the task at hand. “Christopher, Sofia, we have something for you. It’s a wedding present from all of us. A house,” he said, extending the offering.

Christopher carefully unwound the parchment, expecting to uncover a rudimentary set of blueprints. Clearly, however, Zachariah had played a part in their gift as well. The parchment in Christopher’s hand wasn’t just a house. It was a home. A home conjured from Violet”s imagination with cheerful flowers, quaint architectural lines, and a bright blue front door, and brought to life by Zachariah.

Home.The rush of belonging Christopher experienced nearly brought him to his knees. A home of their own. Space to build a life with Sofia where their sons would never part with their wooden boats and their daughters’ would chatter to their mama each night as she lovingly braided their hair. He wanted to step into the picture beside Sofia and build that life with her. He glanced at Sofi, who seemed to be experiencing speechlessness as well, then up to the faces of his friends. His family.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you,” Christopher said.

“Just wait until you see it,” Violet replied. “It’s really very lovely.”

Christopher turned to Violet. “See it?”

Gabriel stepped in then, clapped him on the shoulder, and led them out the door. “You two have been rather conveniently distracted by one another. A team of workmen began building your home the morning Sofia awoke from her fever. The land on which it sits is entitled as part of the ducal estate. I know your funds are more than sufficient to purchase and build wherever you want”—Gabriel glanced down at the picture then back to Christopher—“but we wanted you both to know that you have a home here, always. Even if you decide to start a family elsewhere, this cottage will be waiting for you should you ever have need of it.”

Sofia threw her arms around Gabriel. Startled, he chuckled then returned her embrace.

“I helped too. Where’s my hearty embrace?” Oliver complained.

A buoyant laugh bubbled up from Sofia. She redirected her affection to Violet first, then to Oliver, who picked her up and swung her in a circle.

“Be easy with my betrothed.” Christopher peeled Oliver’s bear hug grip from around Sofia, then embraced Oliver himself.

Violet bounced excitedly on her toes. “It’s furnished from the estate, but I have stacks of catalogues for you both to look through so you can decorate it as you’d like.” She grinned impishly. “We did order a rather impressive bed, which arrived only just this afternoon. And there is a massive mahogany table waiting to be retrieved from the carpenter.”

“I thought that if Sofia is feeling up to it,” Oliver interjected, “we might move her belongings today so she has time to get settled in before the wedding. Are you feeling well enough sister… to settle into your new home?”

Sofia looked up at Christopher with a glint of mischief that mirrored her brother’s. “I am feeling very well indeed.”

Moving Sofia’s few belongings took no more than two hours, including time to tour and explore the house. When it was done, they relaxed over tea in Sofia’s new sitting room and played a few games of whist while Gabriel, Violet, and Oliver discussed their plans to travel to Gabriel’s London townhouse after the wedding. There, they would present evidence and hereditary documentation to a veritable army of solicitors and begin the ungainly pile of paperwork required for the legal proceedings to begin.

Oliver would visit Gabriel’s tailor and be dressed in accordance with his new station, and Gabriel planned to write a public announcement for the papers. It would, no doubt, be the catalyst for unprecedented upheaval amongst the upper class.Sofia and Christopher would remain at the estate while Jeremy acted as valet to Gabriel. Oliver, for his part, stubbornly insisted that he could bloody well put on his own trousers and did not require a man to tell him which leg went into which hole.

Across from Christopher, Zach perched awkwardly beside his mother on the settee, sketchbook in hand, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else having any other conversation.

Violet buffed her palm up and down Zach’s arm. “You don’t have to come to London, sweetheart. I would miss you terribly, of course, but it should only be a fortnight and?—”

Zach covered her hand with his, halting the anxious movement.

Christopher watched Zach’s eyes and saw the effort it took to drag his gaze up to claim his mother”s. “No, I can do this. I won’t leave the townhouse, but if you could bring the tailor to me… My trousers are all too short and Gabriel uses a man in town. I should as well. Just one tailor. No assistants.” He repeated his words slowly, as if to feel the shape of each one. “It won’t be too much to manage one tailor and a handful of servants I don’t know.” He glanced up at Gabriel, who had long since stopped paying attention to his cards. His expression radiated pride.

Zach shifted on the settee, removing his hand from his mother’s arm and planting his elbows on his knees. “How many servants again?

“Twenty-two. Nineteen that you have not met,” Gabriel replied, dropping his cards and crossing to sit in the chair adjacent to Zach.

Drawing in a long audible breath, Zach nodded. “I can exclude the gardeners, coachmen, and scullery maids. I probably won’t see them at all. That would leave?—”

“Around eleven once you exclude those servants you already know.”

Eyebrows furrowed, Zach looked up at Gabriel. “Tell me about the tailor. Where on my person will he measure? What is he like? Mama has always purchased ready-made clothes for me.”

“Frank is his name. He doesn’t speak much and he gets the job done quickly. He will measure the length of your arms, from your shoulders to your wrist, and the breadth of your chest, abdomen, limbs, collar, and waist.”

Zachariah ran his own finger down the length of his arm as if to imagine the touch of a stranger along those same parts.

“He’ll measure from hip to ankle as well as your inseam.”

Zach sputtered, “My… in-inseam!” He shook his head. “No.”

Gabriel tapped one finger rhythmically on the arm of his chair. “Would you prefer your mama take the measurements while Frank supervises the task?”

Zach’s eyes widened.

“No, then. How about me?”

The young man considered for a long moment before nodding. “Yes. You.”

Still seated at the card table, Oliver watched with interest, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“If you think of any further questions, there’s plenty of time to ask. We won’t leave for another month. You’re certain this is what you want?” Gabriel asked.

Zach’s nod looked rather more like a “no,” but when he glanced over at Oliver, his shoulders straightened. “Yes. I can do this.”

Already, the family dynamic was shifting again, making room for its newest members. Oliver’s advice had resonated with Zach in a way that would not have been half so effective coming from Gabriel or Violet. He’d offered the guidance of a favourite uncle.