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.”
“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.
Chapter 6
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 he
r 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.
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