Imposter Bride (11 page)

“That is,” She arched a brow. “If one desires to be
stamped.”

Her wry reply caught him off guard. Ramsay nearly
sputtered wine over his empty plate. He grabbed his napkin and
covered his mouth to smother his grin. Did she know how utterly
sexual was the undertone of her remark—at least to him?

Miss Hinds’ brows drew together and she leaned
toward him. “Are you all right, sir?”

He nodded, his shoulders still shaking with
laughter. She would have to learn to curb her tongue when speaking
to Metcalf and his crowd, or she would be shunned in all the
salons. Women with clever minds and unbridled tongues did not fare
well in this society. And he should not encourage her by displaying
his amusement.

“Still,” he remarked, coughing behind his fist. “You
must learn to dance to their tune.”

“Why? I doubt you do.”

“Yes, but I am not marrying a peer of the
realm.”

“Oh yes. That.”

He watched her, a slight smile on his lips,
immensely enjoying the way her emotions played freely across her
face when she allowed it.

“And do you dance, Miss Hinds? The minuet? The
quadrille?”

She shrugged prettily and the banyan slipped
dangerously low on her right shoulder. “I’m afraid not.”

“You must. Your grandmother will want to take you to
a score of parties while she’s in town. That’s how it is done
around here.”

“What if I cannot?”

“I will hire a tutor to refresh your memory. You
must show no lack of accomplishment.”

She took a sip of wine and slipped her fingers
around one bare ankle, seemingly unaware of how provocative she
appeared in the overlarge robe. “Why are you so kind to me,
Captain? Why is it so important to you that I succeed?”

He swallowed, knowing he must never reveal the
selfish reason for his aid, but suddenly unwilling to lie to her
either. What could he tell her that wasn’t a falsehood? What could
he say that wouldn’t show him for the selfish driven bastard he
actually was?

Ramsay rose. “Because you’re an outsider,” he
replied brusquely. “Like myself.” He gave a curt nod in her
direction, cutting short their conversation again. “Thank you for
dinner, Miss Hinds. Goodnight.”

The French modiste had worked miracles in assembling
a make-do wardrobe for Sophie. She’d found three dresses that were
easily altered to fit, a variety of undergarments, two nightgowns,
a robe, a warm wool cloak, gloves, muff, slippers, lace bonnet, and
a beautiful silk shawl, all of which she delivered promptly at 2
pm.

The modiste had done an excellent job, and Mrs.
Betrus insisted upon giving her a generous tip, assuring Sophie
later that the master always rewarded good work. Whenever she spoke
of Ramsay, she did so with pride, which Sophie took as a mark in
the man’s favor. If household servants were loyal to the master, it
spoke not only of his generous purse but also to the man’s
character.

Not that Ramsay must prove himself to her. After
all, he was but a wayside inn, a stopping place on her flight from
the law. She had to admit, though, that she could have done far
worse than to land in Ramsay’s household. He was a man of simple
tastes, with a house that was warm and comfortable but in no way
ostentatious. She enjoyed talking to the captain, too, for she had
discovered a certain dry humor in his curt conversation, which
hinted at an equally wry intelligence. She also enjoyed looking at
him. Though some might think him too grim and dark to be handsome,
she found a harsh beauty in his sharp features and stern set of his
jaw. Something about him reminded her of a watch spring a tinker
had shown her once—a plain coil of metal that could power a
timepiece for hundreds of years, if cared for properly, but if set
askew could whip out of its bindings and cut a man’s finger to the
bone.

Sophie guessed Captain Ramsay was much like the
watch spring: steady, powerful, biding his time. But once that dark
power was set off—he would make a deadly enemy.

A thrill passed through her as she thought of
another facet of Ramsay that could possibly be set off—his
simmering, pent up passion. She could read it in his eyes, the way
he would glance at her, his eyes feasting on her, and then would
quickly avert his gaze. The very thought that he found it difficult
to look at her made her heart race, because she knew she possessed
a slight bit of power over the man. She’d never met a man quite
like Captain Ramsay—and wished she had made his acquaintance before
all the trouble had begun.

Now it was too late. It was useless to consider the
possibility of getting to know him more. If he ever found out she
was an imposter, and that she was taking advantage of him, she was
sure those dark eyes of his would turn as black and cold as
obsidian. The thought made her flush with shame. She couldn’t allow
that to happen. She would never let Captain Ramsay know the truth
about her. Yet the more she got to know him, the more she wished
she could confide in him—tell him everything. Confess.

Shortly after the modiste left, Maggie appeared
upstairs to help Sophie dress for afternoon tea at Blethin Hall.
First came a bath, then the preparation of her hair. Since tea was
not a formal evening affair, Maggie swept up Sophie’s chestnut
curls into a simple roll, leaving a few strands to fall upon one
shoulder, which she curled with hot irons. Then came a lace cap,
which she pinned into Sophie’s auburn locks.

Sophie held out her arms and watched in a mirror as
Maggie carefully dressed her in the blue and white striped bodice
and skirt, a very smart gown that fit her tiny waist, which had
been cinched to even smaller dimensions by a tight corset. She
could not believe she was wearing such a gorgeous gown and that
someone else was waiting upon her, seeing to her every need. In
fact, she’d been surprised to be informed that another delivery had
been made that morning, slippers and shoes for her, compliments of
Ian Ramsay. Being cared for like this made her nervous and
accepting such luxuries made her uncomfortable. For a decade she
had done nothing but care for other people, and it was difficult to
switch to the role of mistress.

Sophie reminded herself that she was playing a part
and that it was imperative she accept the maid’s attention without
pause, or she would reveal her real nature to the world.

She caught a glimpse of her drawn face in the mirror
and tried not to worry about the endurance test ahead, where she
would have to meet a bevy of future in-laws who would be assessing
her every word and judging her every movement. She had always
considered herself an equal or better than Katherine in everything
but social standing. Soon would come the moment of truth, when she
would have to prove her claim.

Vaguely she wondered if she would be attracted to
the earl—though it wasn’t important because she wasn’t really going
to marry the man—and doubted she would find anyone as attractive as
Captain Ramsay. Something about that man had struck her more than
anyone she had ever met, including the young men the household
servants had pushed her way. They had seemed silly and immature
back then, and even more so now that she had met the captain.

She must stop thinking of him. What good would it
do? Instead, she turned her thoughts to a more important goal of
her afternoon, that of visiting a jeweler and finding out if she
could sell the buckle, and if so, how much it would raise.

She had already concocted a plausible excuse for
telling Charles to stop along the way, that she wished to buy a
gift for her betrothed. She was just pulling on her gloves at the
door, ready to depart, when Captain Ramsay arrived on horseback,
his shoulders and hat covered with snow, his cheeks rosy with
cold.

“Good afternoon, Captain,” she greeted, wondering at
his sudden appearance, and trying to hide her dismay that he would
arrive at the last minute to detain her.

“Miss Hinds.” He swept off his hat in greeting and
quickly replaced it. “I didn’t think I’d make it.”

“Make it?”

“In time to accompany you.”

“I thought you weren’t invited.” She tried to
conceal her disappointment.

“Yes, but I thought I could at least provide
protection along the way.” He seemed surprised at her reaction and
glanced once at Charles and then back at her. “The streets are
treacherous in a storm like this.”

“I shall be fine, Captain.” She drew up the hood of
her cloak and stepped toward the coach. “But thank you for the
offer.”

“Nonsense. You are from Santo Domingo. You can’t
begin to know what it’s like here in winter.”

“Charles shall see to my safety, won’t you,
Charles?”

“Of course, miss.” He touched his hat.

“But what if you get stuck? Caught in the cold?”

“I am warmly dressed, thanks to you.”

His gaze traveled over her from her booted feet up
to the metal supports of her calabash, and she suddenly realized he
was disappointed in not being welcomed to serve as her companion,
as her protector. He had
wanted
to go with her? She wondered
if he had made a special trip just for her.

Any other time she would have been flattered by such
a gesture and would have desired the opportunity to talk with him,
to sit in the intimacy of the coach and exchange conversation. But
not this time. It was imperative that she make her inquiry at the
jeweler’s. The sooner she rid herself of the buckle, the
better.

“Really, Captain. I shall be fine.”

“So be it. Then I wish you luck, Miss Hinds.” He
held out his hand and she raised hers in response. His gloved
fingers gently grasped hers at the tips, and then he drew her hand
to his mouth. She watched him, unable to disengage from his dark
regard as she felt the warmth of his lips permeate the thin fabric
of her kid glove. The heat of his mouth coursed all the way through
her.

“You will entrance him,” he remarked, his expression
unreadable.

“Then I look presentable?”

“More than presentable.” Their gazes held, their
hands lingered together, and she felt her pulse race from being
this close to him, this connected. She could barely take a
breath.

All too soon he released her hand, and she turned
for the waiting coach, knowing her cheeks were aflame. Still, she
paused and looked back, reluctant to leave him now.

“Will you be home for supper?” she asked. A quiet
evening with the captain waiting for her at the end of the day
would be enough to get her through the upcoming trial by fire.

“Yes,” he replied. “Will you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll bring something special to drink from the club
then. And you can tell me all about the Metcalfs.”

“I shall look forward to it.” She smiled and waved,
and then Charles helped her step into the coach. She looked out the
window and watched Ramsay standing there with his horse, observing
her departure for the house of a great lord—the snow swirling
around his broad shoulders, his cloak flapping around his tall
shining boots, but his face lost in shadow.

She was certain he had ridden from his club just for
her sake, and that when she disappeared from view, he would ride
back again in the blinding snow.

His gallantry touched her.

A bell tinkled at the door of the small glittering
jewelry shop, alight in the storm with clusters of candles
reflecting upon the glass-fronted cabinets and a huge chandelier
hanging from the high ceiling. No one else was in the store,
probably due to the inclement weather.

“Good afternoon, miss,” the shopkeeper greeted,
assessing Sophie instantly as a person of quality and a potential
sale, something she had never before experienced. She flushed. It
was wonderful to enjoy the respect she was afforded as Katherine
Hinds, and would be even more wonderful to be treated this way for
the rest of her days. But this new life she led was fashioned of
lies. In fact, she had told Charles she wished to buy a present for
her betrothed, when she had no intention of purchasing
anything.

Lying did not sit well with her conscience. She
worried that after a few more falsehoods, her shaky new identity
would come crashing down around her, as punishment for her many
fabrications. Still, she had a few more tales to tell before she
could escape London.

“Good day.” Sophie swept forward, trying her best to
disguise her slight West Indies accent. “How do you do?”

“Very well, miss, thank you.” The man bowed slightly
and swept his arm out toward his wares. “May I show you
something?”

“Actually, I have a piece of jewelry I would like
assessed.”

She saw his eyes flick to the small reticule she
carried. “Oh?”

“It’s something I was given by a former admirer.”
She opened her bag and fished out the buckle. “And I have cause to
suspect its true value, knowing what I know of the man now.” She
gave him what she hoped was a pretty frown, and he seemed to accept
her story as truth.

“Not exactly a genuine character was he, miss?”

“One might say that.”

The man skittered sideways like a crab at the beach,
and stopped behind a table upon which sat a lamp and an eye glass
upon velvet cloth. He held out his hand. “May I?”

She dropped the bauble in his hand. He looked at it
and then shot a quick glance at her. For a moment she froze in
alarm, wondering if news had spread that quickly about the missing
buckle and the woman who had stolen it.

“Where did you come by this?” he asked, sticking the
small magnifying glass to his right eye and bending over to the
light of the oil lamp.

“My former fiancé. Very former, I might add.”

“It’s genuine. In fact, of very high quality.”

“How much is it worth, would you say?”

“Hmm. Perhaps a hundred pounds.” He titled the
buckle and looked at it again, turning it over to look at the back.
“Yes, I would venture to say about a hundred pounds.”