Imposter Bride (10 page)

“Exactly.”

“And have you lived here long?” she asked. “I notice
a slight accent in your speech.”

“I’m from Boston—Massachusetts Bay Colony.”

“Oh. And yet there is something else, too, when you
say your Rs.”

Observant little chit. He’d gone to a great deal of
effort to smooth the Scottish burr from his tongue. His glance
swept over her, taking in the fine-boned lines beneath her yellow
dress. She had amazingly small wrists and ankles, wrists he could
easily pin behind her willowy back if he ever chose to ravish
her.

“You weren’t born in Boston, were you?” she added,
prodding for information he did not usually provide.

“No.” He stood. Ravish her? Where had that idea come
from? His thoughts had leapt far past propriety’s bounds. And her
questions had grown far too personal. He had no intention of
subjecting himself to an interview by a girl almost half his age
and on the run from the law. Ramsay reached for his empty
glass.

“Have I offended you?” She jumped to her feet,
noticeably agitated, and he saw her wince from the pain of her
burns. “I only meant to make conversation.”

“I’m not one for chatter,” he replied, sounding more
gruff than he intended. “And ‘tis late besides. Goodnight, Miss
Hinds.”

“Goodnight.”

He didn’t look back. He didn’t care to see the
wilted look on her pretty face. And he didn’t want to admit that he
could have lingered by the fire and talked with her all night.

The next morning, the seamstress came in a flurry of
snow and left an hour later in a howling wind. Betty Betrus closed
the door after her and commented that she doubted anyone could
travel far in such weather.

“I worry about my grandmother,” Sophie lied,
although she truly hoped the old woman was out of harm’s way.

“She’s probably still at home, if she knows what’s
good for her,” Betty replied. “No one should be out in such a
storm. Lord!”

“And the captain?”

“Oh, he’s at his club.” Betty smiled and hobbled
toward the central hallway. “The man spends more time there than
here.”

“Have you been with him long?”

“Two years. Since his arrival in London.”

Sophie nodded and glanced at the entry of the
townhouse, imagining the tall captain ducking through the doorway,
his cloak flapping about him, his color high. He had amazingly dark
eyes—almost black—eyes that could arrest her with a single glance.
She could imagine being on the wrong end of a dueling pistol from
Captain Ramsay with those eyes staring down the length of his arm,
and experiencing true terror.

But there was something about the captain’s intense
eyes that spoke of courage, too, of loyalty and sincerity, and a
deep smoldering fire that few people possessed—a fire that
intrigued her. What directed this man? What did he live for? What
would he die for?

“Do you think Captain Ramsay will be home for
supper?” she inquired.

“It is hard to tell,” Betty replied. “He’s a busy
man. Often stays quite late at Maxwell’s.”

“I wanted to repay him for his kindness by making
him a special supper.”

“You mean cooking, Miss?”

“Yes. I like to cook and don’t often get the
opportunity.” Sophie thought of the velvety rich sauces she’d
concocted, the buttery soft beef and fowl she’d served to the other
servants when Katherine was not at home—so different than the bland
repasts of which she’d partaken at the Ramsay residence. “I would
like to make something special for the captain. If that would be
all right with you, Mrs. Betrus.”

“Oh heavens, yes. I grow weary of cooking!”

“Good.”

“In fact, if you wanted to cook tonight, Miss Hinds,
I could slip out and check on my sister. She’s all alone and
sickly, and I worry about her in this weather.”

“Then it’s tonight, Mrs. Betrus. What time does the
captain usually return home?”

Betty shrugged. “Any time between seven and
midnight, Miss. Which is why I never go to too much trouble. Half
the time he doesn’t want to eat anyway.”

“Well, choosing a dish for that schedule will take
some thought.”

“I can get you a chicken,” Betty ventured, “but
anything else in this storm—“

“A fowl would do nicely.”

“The captain is a man of simple tastes,” Betty
warned her. “He doesn’t seem to care what he eats.”

“Perhaps,” Sophie replied softly.

The clock at the foot of the stairs had just chimed
eight when Captain Ramsay returned, calling for his housekeeper. An
unfamiliar girl in an apron and mobcap helped him off with his
cloak and hat. She had to be the new ladies maid. What was she
doing downstairs? An equally unfamiliar savory aroma drifted upon
the air. Ramsay’s stomach growled in response, reminding him he
hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

“Where is Mrs. Betrus?” he asked the girl.

“Seeing to her ailing sister, sir.”

“And you are?”

“Maggie, sir.” She dropped a shy curtsy.

“Mr. Puckett hired you?”

“Yes, sir. For Mistress Hinds.”

“And why aren’t you attending her?”

“She’s busy, sir, cooking, sir.”

“Cooking?”

He sniffed the air again, and his stomach overrode
any objection his mind could think to make about Miss Hinds
performing domestic chores. He walked forward, expecting the dining
room to be alight with candles and overly decorated, which would
involve a weighty and unwelcome responsibility to entertain after
such a long day. Miss Hinds would expect him to linger over her
dinner, to congratulate her on a job well done, to discuss the
weather, to
chat
…all of which he had no patience for
tonight—or ever.

A lingering and all-too-familiar throb burned in his
temples. Tonight was a night for grabbing a plate of victuals,
downing the food with a glass of ale, and falling into bed.
Instead, he would have to endure at least an hour of polite
repartee. His head pounded at the thought.

Scowling, he stomped to the dining room, only to
find it dark and bare. A small hope fluttered to life in his chest.
He continued toward the back of the house, deciding at the last
moment not to make an appearance in the kitchen. Miss Hinds would
likely be bending over pots, her hair wrapped in a turban, her
yellow dress swathed in an apron, her face wet with sweat—not an
image he wished to validate.

Perhaps if he collapsed in his study, she would
never learn of his arrival, and he could escape her attentions.
Missing supper would be worth the solitude. He slipped through the
door and headed for his favorite chair, where he was surprised to
find a small glass of sherry on a salver, waiting for him. He sat
down and raised his feet upon the ottoman, for a moment ignoring
the tiny glass at his elbow. Nice touch, though, to provide him a
small libation after so difficult a day.

He sank his head back, grateful for the peace and
quiet of his study, marveling that his respite hadn’t been violated
by the female who had virtually taken over his townhouse.

After a few minutes, when his head throbbed less
fiercely, he reached for the sherry and took a sip. On the lower
level beyond the study, he could hear the soft clank of pans and
the clatter of dishes. Perhaps he’d been fortunate and Miss Hinds
had already dined and was cleaning the dishes. Yet the savory smell
made him wish he had arrived a few minutes earlier.

A soft rap on the door broke the silence.
“Captain?”

He hadn’t escaped after all.

“Come,” he barked. The sherry at least had kept his
migraine at bay.

She stepped in, wearing his silk banyan of all
things, which displayed a provocative expanse of ivory bosom—a far
cry from the unattractive culinary costume he’d envisioned. He
caught himself staring again.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“No.” He dragged away his stare and reached for the
news sheet Mrs. Betrus had left on the side table.

“Would you care to?”

How could he refuse? He didn’t purposefully wish to
hurt her feelings. Besides, he couldn’t deny the fact that he was
hungry, now that his headache had abated. “Yes, if it’s no
trouble.”

She disappeared and returned with a tray. A
delicious fragrance of rosemary and thyme wafted around her, and he
felt his mouth water as she offered him the tray.

“Bon appetit
,” she said, straightening and
turning to leave.

“Wait a moment,” he stared down at the dishes. “What
is all this?”

“My thanks for opening your home to me,
Captain.”

“You cooked this?”

“Yes. I enjoy cooking.”

“Chicken?”

“In a special rosemary butter sauce.”

“It smells good.”

“I hope you like it.”

He lifted the lid from the plate and she backed
away, and he suddenly realized he did not want her to leave after
all.

“You are wearing a fetching outfit there,” he
remarked.

She flushed and looked down. “Mrs. Betrus claimed
you never wear this—that you wouldn’t mind if I did.”

He drank in the vision of her in the maroon and
emerald silk banyan, from the hint of cleavage at the top to her
trim white ankles near the hem.

“You do it far more justice than I,” he commented
with a quick genuine smile that felt foreign on his lips.

”Would you like something to drink?” She nodded
toward the tray. “I wasn’t certain what you would prefer.”

“There should be a Bordeaux on the sideboard in the
dining room—if you will join me.” He couldn’t believe he’d just
blurted out a request for her to sit and talk. What was coming over
him?

A light glowed in her eyes. “Thank you.” She turned
for the door. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

When Miss Hinds left, Ramsay turned his attention to
the food: mouthwatering chicken that fell off the bone in succulent
mouthfuls, clouds of warm creamy potatoes flavored with garlic,
some kind of greens done with bacon and bits of boiled egg, with
pickled preserves that set off the herbs in the sauce. Ramsay
caught himself wolfing down the food. It was a better meal than
he’d had in recent memory.

By the time she’d returned with two goblets of wine,
he’d nearly cleaned his plate. She grinned as she handed him a
glass.

“Shall I get you more?” she asked.

“Is there more?”

“There is plenty.”

“But what about you? Have you eaten?”

She nodded and reached for his plate before he could
protest that it wasn’t necessary to serve him like this. She
disappeared quickly, her movements efficient yet graceful. As he
waited for her to return, he leaned back in his chair and closed
his eyes, expecting the telltale beat of his headache to resume.
Amazingly, he felt nothing but a strange satiated sensation that
permeated his entire being—almost as satisfying as a good round in
bed—but from this woman’s cooking! Ramsay couldn’t believe it, and
realized he was smiling.

He managed to resurrect his usual inscrutable
expression as she whisked back into the room.

“Thank you,” he said as she set another steaming
plate of food on the tray. “The chicken is delicious.”

“It’s a dish I concocted myself.” She sank to the
small chair which she’d moved closer to the fire the previous
evening, and tucked her small feet under her. The tasteful
informality of her dress and behavior had the odd effect of setting
him completely at ease.

He sipped the light wine. “And did the seamstress
come this morning?”

“Yes. She promised to have some things ready for me
by tomorrow at two.”

“Good. Lord Metcalf cornered me at the club this
evening and insisted that you take tea with his mother and sister
tomorrow at four.”

“Will you be accompanying me?”

“I was not invited.”

“That seems rude.”

He was sure the light in her eyes darkened slightly,
or perhaps he only wished it so.

“Does the earl not like you?” she added.

“Of course not.” He raised a forkful of the
succulent meat. “I am not English.”

“Surely there is more to it than that.”

“I also do not defer to men on the basis of their
social standing.”

She gazed at him evenly, her chin cupped in her
palm. “I imagine you do not defer to any man, Captain.”

Ramsay paused, the glass at his mouth, and studied
her over the rim. Who was this woman who could captivate him so
easily with her words and eyes? She continued to gaze at him, the
look in her eyes not nearly as empty as he had imagined the
expression of the real Miss Hinds would be. Intelligence and
perception glinted in her eyes.

“And this American habit of yours—this lack of
deference—has it made your life difficult here in England?” she
asked.

“At times.” He returned the wine glass to his
tray.

“And you’re a captain. Are you a seafaring man?” she
inquired, “Or did you acquire your rank on the battlefield?”

“Both.” She was back to asking personal questions.
Instantly his guard rose into position. “And you, will you keep the
plantation in Santo Domingo?”

“I haven’t decided.” She sipped her wine and turned
her gaze toward the fire, hiding her expression from him, as well
she should. He was not the only one with a past to conceal. “I’m
not certain I want to return to that life.”

“I see.” Why would she want to return? She was
nothing but a maidservant in Santo Domingo. He studied the side of
her face. “It is likely your grandmother will want to be assured of
your identity in some way, seeing that she’s never met you before.”
He waited for a telltale blush, a momentary flutter of lashes—but
saw nothing to betray her as an imposter. What a gifted little
actress! “Do you have a birthmark or some such thing?”

“No. Nothing. I hadn’t thought she would want
proof.”

“When a fortune is at stake?” He raised his glass in
a silent toast to her. “In fact, you will have to prove yourself a
bit to these Londoners, too. Anyone who comes from the hinterlands
such as ourselves, must work extra hard to earn their stamp of
approval.”