For years, he’d tried to refer to it that way, my youthful folly, but completely losing one’s dignity before every title and tattle in the shire—and Kent was rife with both—was more than folly. It was enough to send a man traveling around the world for years, enough to cost him his sense of home and connection with the people who’d known him and loved him since birth.

“In my head, I’m composing a new piece of music.”

Vim turned to see Lord Val riding along beside him. “It will be called, ‘Lament for a Promising Young Composer Who Died of a Frozen Bum-Fiddle.’ I’ll do something creative with the violins and double basses—a bit of humor for my final work. It will be published posthumously, of course, and bring me rave reviews from all my critics. ‘A tragic loss,’ they’ll all say. It could bring frozen bum-fiddles into fashion.”

“You haven’t any critics.” St. Just spoke over his shoulder, having abdicated the lead position to his sister. “Ellen won’t allow it, more’s the pity.”

“My wife is ever wise—”

“Oh, famous.” Westhaven’s muttered imprecation interrupted his idiot younger brother.

Lord Val leaned over toward Vim. “There’s another word, a word that alliterates with famous, that his-lordship-my-brother-the-heir has eschewed since becoming a father. Famous is his attempt at compromise.”

“I’ll say it, then.” St. Just sighed as another flurry drifted down from the sky. “Fuck. It’s going to snow again. Beg sincere pardon for my language, Sophie.”

She did not so much as shrug to acknowledge this exchange.

They got the horses moving at a faster shuffle, but it occurred to Vim as they trudged and struggled and cursed their way toward Sidling, that Sophie’s brothers—passing him the baby, making inane small talk with him, and even in their silences—had been offering him some sort of encouragement.

Would that her ladyship might do the same.

Inside Vim’s coat, Kit gave a particularly hearty kick, connecting with the rib under Vim’s heart.

While the snow started to come down in earnest.

From a distance, Sidling looked to be in decent repair. The oaks were in their appointed locations, lining the long, curving driveway; the fences appeared to be in adequate condition; the half-timbered house with its many mullioned windows sat at the end of the drive, looking snug and peaceful in the falling snow.

“It’s lovely.” Sophie drew her horse to a halt and crossed her wrists on her knee. “It looks serene, content. You must have missed it terribly.”

“It has a certain charm.” Which at the moment was completely lost on Vim.

Would the hall be tidy enough for visitors? Would there be sufficient sheets for their beds? Would Uncle’s antediluvian hound have chewed all the carpets to rags? Would Aunt be drifting about in dishabille, making vague references to friends no longer alive?

“You’re very quiet, my lord.”

He was anticipating more seasonal humiliation already. “My aunt and uncle are elderly. I’m hoping I haven’t overestimated their capacity for hospitality.”

“I daresay my brothers could enjoy each other’s company before a campfire with naught but horse blankets and a short deck of cards between them.” She sent her horse forward, leaving Vim no option but to do likewise.

“Is that what all this bickering is about? Enjoying each other’s company?”

“Of course.” She peered at him, looking lovely, the snow clinging to her scarf, the cold putting a ruddy blush on her cheeks. “Isn’t it the same for you? You come home for the holidays, and it’s as if you never gave up your short coats. The feelings of childhood and youth are restored to you just like you never left.”

“God, I hope not.”

She fiddled with her reins. “Perhaps this year can give you some memories to replace the ones you find uncomfortable. Tell me about your aunt and uncle.”

And now he’d hurt her feelings, which was just… famous, as Westhaven would have said. Bloody, famously famous.

“Sophie.” He reached over and covered her hand with his own for just a moment. Her brothers were allowing them some privacy by dropping back a few dozen yards, probably because the entire party was in full view of the house. “I will treasure the memories I already have of this holiday season for all the rest of my days.”

She urged her horse to a slightly faster walk, which meant Vim had to drop his hand or look as ridiculous as he felt. What had he been thinking, to offer hospitality to a litter of full-grown ducal pups who’d be used to only the best of everything?

He’d been thinking of spending just a few more hours with Sophie, of giving her another day or night before she had to face parting with Kit.

“Pretty place.” Lord Valentine rode up on Vim’s right. “I like the old-fashioned manors myself. I just finished restoring a lovely old place out in Oxfordshire. Don’t suppose you have a piano on the premises?”

“It will likely need tuning.” Unless the rats had chewed the thing to kindling.

“I always bring my tools with me. Soph! Wait up. St. Just and Westhaven have been picking on me without ceasing, and I want you to scold them properly.”

He trotted up to his sister, only to be replaced by Westhaven and St. Just on either side of Vim’s horse.

“It’s wonderful to see Valentine back to his old self,” Westhaven said. “The man was getting too serious by half.”

“We all were.” St. Just’s observation was quiet as he watched Val steer his horse right into the flank of Sophie’s larger mount, then threaten to drop his sister in the snow as he helped her dismount. “Her Grace was right to summon us home, even if means we don’t see our wives until Twelfth Night.”

“Maybe it was His Grace doing the summoning.”

Before they could wax maudlin over that, as well, Vim spoke up. “I will apologize in advance for the state of the household here at Sidling. We’ll keep you safe from the elements, but I can’t vouch for the particulars my aunt and uncle might be able to offer.”

Westhaven cocked his head when his horse came to a halt. “Like that, is it? Always a bit sticky taking over the reins from the old guard. I wrested a power of attorney from His Grace not long ago.” He swung down easily. “In hindsight, I’m not sure His Grace put up more than a token fight. Be a good lad and distract dear Sophie while I rub some feeling back into my abused fundament.”

Vim dismounted, his frozen feet and ankles suffering agonies when they hit the driveway. “I have never heard so much about a grown man’s miserable backside in all my days. How do your brothers put up with you?”

Westhaven paused in the act of running his stirrup irons up their leathers. “I do it for them, mostly.” Westhaven’s voice was low and devoid of humor. “They fret I’ll become too much the duke. I won’t ever be too much the duke if it costs me my siblings’ friendship.”

Vim was puzzling out what reply to make to such a confidence when his uncle’s voice boomed from the main entrance. “Vim Charpentier, get yourself into this house this instant lest your aunt fly down these steps and break her fool neck welcoming you!”

“And you.” Vim’s aunt emerged from the house, wearing only a shawl to protect her from the elements. “You get back into this house, my lord, before you blow away in the next breeze. Come in, Wilhelm, and bring your friends.”

His aunt pronounced his name in Scandinavian fashion: Villum. It was a small thing, but others typically used the English version: Will-helm.

“Come along.” His uncle gestured to the assemblage. “Let’s get this pretty young lady ensconced before a fire so your aunt can quiz her properly. And you fellows can use a mug or two of wassail, I’ll warrant.”

His uncle sounded the same: bluff, gruff, and quite at home in his own demesne. When Aunt Essie presented her cheek for Vim to kiss, she bore the scent of lemon verbena, just as she had from his infancy.