Imposter Bride (9 page)

“Very well,” Edward said, obviously cross. “I see
that I shall get no satisfaction from you.” He glared down at his
sister. “You write something, Lotty. You’ll know what to say.”

Charlotte obliged and happily took a seat before the
small secretary that Ramsay directed her to. He drew out a sheet of
paper and carefully dipped the quill for her, remarking to himself
that he had written less than a dozen personal notes in his entire
lifetime—the result of having lost his family at the age of ten. He
wondered if his hand would ever write words of love to someone upon
a page, and if his fingers would know how to form the shapes of his
sentiment should he ever know what it was like to care deeply
again. Perhaps he never would. He had learned his lesson well and
at a painfully young age, that loving deeply was dangerous, for the
loss of love was one of the harshest blows to withstand.

He watched Charlotte form large loopy letters,
gracefully adding flourishes as she leaned toward him and giggled
gaily. She said something to him that floated away—sparks of light
quickly swallowed by the blackness of his mood. Her winsome
laughter and glances had no effect upon him, just as the glances of
women from Charleston to Calcutta had never overly warmed him.

Yet he suddenly remembered the way he’d felt only
that morning when he’d glimpsed Miss Hinds’ delicate breasts
beneath her night rail and had seen the flustered innocence in her
soft blue eyes. He realized that after all this time, something
within him was shifting, something dangerous and unbidden was
coming alive inside him and reaching out for her. He shut down the
vision of Miss Hinds, just as he had repeatedly turned away from it
for the past eight hours.

He saw Charlotte dust her note and then neatly fold
it while she directed some apparently witty remark his way. Ramsay
smiled in reply, not in the least registering her conversation, and
then pulled out the chair for her when she rose to her feet.

“I would appreciate hearing from Miss Hinds as soon
as possible,” Edward said as he guided his sister to the parlor
door.

“I understand your concern,” Ramsay answered, though
he was highly aware Edward had made no comment concerning Miss
Hinds’ personal injuries and had not inquired after her slightest
need—displaying the shallowness of his regard for the young woman.
Who was going to use whom? Ramsay felt a flare of anger at the
thought that this man, with his blatant lack of sensitivity, should
be allowed to marry the young heiress, or any woman for that
matter.

“I’m certain she will be gratified that you
called—and you, Lady Charlotte.”

Charlotte turned and offered her hand. “It was a
pleasure to meet you at last, Captain Ramsay.”

“And you.” He raised her hand and briefly paused
over the back of it, without allowing his lips to brush her
skin.

“Do promise to stay and dine when you deliver Miss
Hinds into our care.”

“I’ll do my best to oblige, dear lady.”

She gave him a sultry smile and then turned for her
wraps. Edward shot Ramsay a dark glare over the head of his sister,
warning Ramsay of the consequences should he even dream of
accepting Charlotte’s invitation.

“A pleasant good evening, Metcalf,” Ramsay remarked
with a smile.

When Ramsay returned to his study a few minutes
later, he was surprised to find Miss Hinds curled up in a chair
near the fire.

Ramsay paused in the doorway, a book in one hand and
a brandy in the other, finding himself staring at the uncommon
sight of a female in his study—and such a lovely female at that.
Her natural beauty continued to take him by surprise. Firelight
played in the tousled mane of her hair, transforming it to a copper
nimbus that caught and held his attention until she moved to slip
her bare feet to the floor next to a pair of shoes. The gesture was
simple and fluid, but highly provocative.

“What is he like, this Lord Metcalf?” she asked
softly.

He shook off the spell she could so easily throw
over him and stepped into the room. “Lord Metcalf?” He strolled to
his chair, wondering how difficult it was going to be to induce her
to leave him to his reading. “I’ll let you decide for yourself what
kind of man he is.”

“Why? Is your opinion of him that unfavorable?”

Ramsay set his glass and book upon a small side
table near the arm of his chair. “Let us say that my judgment of
him would differ from that of a young woman.”

She gave a low laugh. “Then he must be handsome and
useless.”

The sound of her laugh washed over him like the
balmy waters of the tropics. He glanced at her, intrigued and
amused at the cleverness of her comment.

“I did not say that, Miss Hinds.”

“Oh, yes you did,” she retorted playfully, tilting
her head, “In your tone, in that scowl of yours.”

“What scowl?”

“What scowl?” she repeated with another musical
chuckle. “You scowl all the time.”

“I hardly think so.” He sat down, frowning, and
caught himself taking on the very expression she’d accused him of
wearing.

“Do you not want people to know what you’re
thinking?” she ventured, “By scowling like that?”

“Is it not effective?” he replied, picking up his
book as if unconcerned with her answer, but listening intently to
her words just the same.

“Effective? Not in my case.”

He glanced at her again. “And what do you take my
scowl to mean?”

“I think you put that scowl on as a mask because—”
She studied him, her fragile face suddenly grave. She did not have
the large, luminous eyes common to most beauties of the day.
Instead, hers were small and finely drawn, with the barest of lid
above, and angled lashes that threw two faint lines of shadows upon
her cheekbones. “—because you don’t want people to see how kind you
are.”

He could make no response. Her words confounded him
and disturbed him on a level that he refused to allow to be
affected. And the sound of her words disturbed him even more. The
way her tongue pushed through her teeth to pronounce the clumsy
English phrase “don’t want” made his blood rise. He had to look
away.

“Am I wrong?” she prodded.

“Far from the mark, I’m afraid. Ask anyone how kind
I am,” Ramsay opened his book. “They will likely laugh in your
face.” He flipped to his place in the novel and lowered the book to
his lap. “I am a bastard of the first order, Miss Hinds. Make no
mistake.”

She smiled but he could tell she was not
convinced.

Ramsay straightened in his chair, wishing she would
put her small delicate feet into her slippers, for the sight of her
long pink toes aroused him. Then he remembered the burns on the
soles of her feet. It must be painful for her feet to come in
contact with anything—even the worn shoes beside her chair. He made
a mental note to buy her a pair of soft slippers and some decent
shoes.

For a moment he wondered what kind of life she’d
led, what type of man had looked after her. She was obviously
well-bred and well-mannered. Had she a father, a family? Ramsay
dashed away such questions, knowing they were pointless to ask—not
if he wished to continue the ruse they were playing—and decided to
change the subject.

Would you care for something to drink?” he asked.
“Some claret?”

“Thank you, no,” she replied, laughing softly again.
“I confess the wine with dinner has gone to my head.”

“Not enough to muddle your wits, surely.”

“I am not certain of that, sir.”

He met her glance and their gazes locked and held,
and in that moment he felt a wave of vulnerability and hope so
strong that he broke away and reached for his glass. He gulped down
the fiery cognac, choking on his thoughts. This woman was not for
him. She was a criminal, a tool to be used for his own gain. To
harbor any physical attraction or develop the slightest fondness
for her would spell disaster. And yet he constantly had to remind
himself that she was off limits.

“And may I ask what arrangements were made with my
betrothed?” she inquired, breaking the strange silence once again
with her soft voice.

“Ah, his sister penned a note to which I promised
you would make a quick reply.” He retrieved the folded paper from
the cuff of his frock coat and was forced to rise and step closer
to the young woman. He made certain he got only near enough to hand
her the note, and not one step farther.

“Do you read?” he asked.

“Of course.” She took the note and opened it as he
retreated to a safer position at the fire, where he could observe
her in a seemingly casual manner.

It took but a moment for Miss Hinds to scan the
short missive.

“She seems most kind, his sister.” Miss Hinds
refolded the paper.

“Charlotte?” Ramsay nodded his head. Charlotte might
serve as a valuable ally during the interlude before the wedding,
an interlude which Ramsay hoped would be short. “Yes, she is an
agreeable sort.”

Agreeable was much too tame a term. He knew he could
say a single word to Charlotte Metcalf, and she would spread her
arms for him, and most likely spread her legs as well. The
daughters of Englishmen had no pedigree requirements for their bed
partners. In fact, a countess had told him once the less
blue-blooded a man was, the more hot-blooded he usually proved to
be.

“Lady Charlotte wants me to stay with her and her
family at Blethin Hall.”

“How kind.” Ramsay grabbed a poker to reposition a
lump of coal upon the grate. The sooner Miss Hinds was out from
under his protection the better. The sooner his quiet routine
resumed and she was no longer plaguing his thoughts, the better for
him as well.

“I’m not certain how I will answer.”

“I have pen and paper in the parlor.”

“No, I mean to say, I’m not certain if I should
accept her offer.”

Ramsay paused and glanced over his shoulder at her.
“And why not?”

“I don’t wish to impose upon you longer than
necessary, Captain, since you’ve been so kind to me, but as you
said at dinner—perhaps marriage to Lord Metcalf would be an overly
hasty move that I may later regret.”

“I spoke out of turn at dinner,” Ramsay growled. His
advice had been given before he’d discovered the truth, that the
woman he harbored was not an heiress but an imposter, and one he
must see wed to Metcalf as soon as possible before anyone
discovered the ruse. Once Metcalf was married to a pauper, he would
have no hope of making good on his debt, except by deeding over
Highclyffe. Ramsay could not allow this woman to drag her heels or
change her mind. “I should have held my tongue.”

“You were thinking of my welfare, like the gentleman
you are.”

Ramsay cast her a dark look. He was not gentleman,
and the last thing he wanted was to be worshipped as such by an
innocent girl.

“I am thinking of your welfare when I say this, Miss
Hinds—that some would not approve of the current situation.”

“Of me staying here with you?”

“Precisely.”

“Why ever not?”

“I am a single man, Miss Hinds. A bachelor. And you
are a young heiress. Tongues will wag.”

“Only if I do not go forward with this
marriage.”

“Exactly. And that is why you will. As soon as
possible. To preserve your reputation.”

“But how could anyone fault your behavior, Captain?
You seem like such a fine man.”

“Believe me, my dear,” he thrust the poker back into
the rack near the hearth. “I am not.”

“Oh?”

He shot her another glance and was surprised to see
a small smile pulling up one side of her mouth. Damn it all, his
direst warning had
amused
her, and his scowl had no effect
whatsoever upon the chit.

Ramsay stormed to his chair, uncertain as to his
next move—to continue to suffer her presence in his study or to
quit for bed. A swallow of brandy remained in his glass, and the
hour was still early for retiring. Surely, he was man enough to
withstand the threat of this female’s company.

She seemed to sense his reluctance. “Am I intruding
upon your time?” she asked, nodding at his book. “I see that you
came prepared to read.”

He glanced at the novel and shook his head. “’Tis a
habit of mine in the evening to read.”

“I wish I had more time to do pursue such
pleasures.”

“You are that busy at the sugar plantation?”

“Yes, it keeps me very busy.”

He decided to sit, committed at last to remaining in
her presence, however disturbing. No woman was going to run him
from his own study. “It is best that you are here to discuss some
items anyway. I took the liberty to make arrangements for
tomorrow.”

She startled and caught herself masterfully, raising
her fine dark brows. “In regard to what?”

“For one, acquiring a maid for you.”

“One who can trim my singed hair, I hope.” She
batted a mass of curls at her shoulder, and he did not allow his
gaze to linger there more than a moment.

“Yes. I’ve also arranged for a seamstress to take
your measurements for a few gowns. She’ll be here at 9:30 tomorrow
morning.”

“Thank you, Captain. I’m sure my grandmother will
cover all expenses that you incur.”

“No need.” He waved her off. “They are but trifles,
Miss Hinds.”

“But you need not be responsible for me.”

“It is no trouble.” In fact, the thought of taking
care of her, of looking out for her, sent an unfamiliar sensation
of warmth washing over him.

A brief lull settled over them, as the fire popped
and flared. Ramsay picked up his book again. Out of the corner of
his eye, he glimpsed her face turning toward him again.

“And have you met my grandmother?” she asked.

He lowered the book. “No, I have not. I am not what
one would call a popular man about town.”

“As is Lord Metcalf.”