Chapter 12
Two weeks later, Sophie walked down a short gallery toward the ballroom of one of the finest houses she had ever seen, the home of the Duke and Duchess of Hartford. The newly built brick mansion made the Carlisle House seem like a cottage in comparison, and was reportedly designed by the much-in-demand architect, Christopher Wren.
Sophie felt as if she entered a palace, not a residence, as they were shown into a rotunda whose ceilings soared two stories above her head, complete with liveried servants standing at every corner and doorway. The new marble floors, barely touched by human feet, looked like pristine fields of French-milled soap.
For once Sophie was thankful for the company of Edward Metcalf, upon whose arm she glided. He seemed to take such grandeur in stride, his ennui as fashionable as the appointments of their surrounds. Sophie caught herself gawking at the marble sculptures, the luxurious blue velvet draperies, and the silver fixtures, and admonished herself for betraying her humble upbringing with a much too obvious display of awe. To keep from staring, she initiated a light banter with Edward, hoping to ward off her increasing sense of anxiety for the evening to come, when she would be presented to the most discriminating people in London.
Edward had barely let her out of his sight since she’d moved to the Carlisle house, and had kept her time so occupied that she hadn’t had a chance to pursue the sale of the buckle, and no opportunity to pass by Maxwell’s where she might have providentially run into Ramsay on the street. Every day when she took her exercise with Edward at Hyde Park, she had looked vainly for Captain Ramsay, but had never seen him among the fashionable crowd, not that she truly expected to find him there.
Now, here she was on the earl’s arm once again, draped in apricot-colored satin and pearls, attired in the finest gown she’d ever worn, much less seen. Ahead of her moved her grandmother, as elegant as a queen, on the arm of an old acquaintance, nodding and greeting everyone she passed, the ostrich feathers in her hair trembling with every gesture.
At the top of the ballroom stairs, they paused to be announced. Sophie waited, her gaze on the glittering crowd below as the dancers twirled to the gay music that drifted up to meet her through the glittering crystal chandeliers.
“How beautiful!” she remarked.
She felt Edward’s stare on her profile. “Yes,” he agreed.
She wished she could return his obvious regard for her, but she was no fonder of him than she had been a fortnight ago. His remarks bored her with their predictability, and his habit of disdaining or criticizing everything and everyone had the effect of dampening her usual good humor. Often his observations were on the mark but always carried with them a barb, which only the most astute of listeners comprehended. Sophie thought his remarks were unnecessarily cruel for the most part, and underhanded for those too innocent to catch his true meaning. She wondered why he felt the need to cut other people at every opportunity. She had begun to wonder what Edward thought of her, and what comments he made about her behind her back. Fortunately for her, she would not have to marry the man.
Sophie heard her grandmother’s name and title announced and then it was her turn to descend.
“Miss Katherine Hinds and Lord Edward Metcalf, Earl of Blethin.”
She felt Edward tug her forward, sweeping her down the staircase, guiding her into a world she could never have imagined, never having viewed such luxury before, and never having dreamed it existed. Down the steps she went, feeling as if she were in a fantasy, aware of the faces turned her way, the smiles of delight, the fans fluttering, but all was just a blur, as she still found it hard to believe she had so easily been accepted as a member of this society.
Out of the crowd, she suddenly glimpsed a familiar face, that of Captain Ramsay, and at the sight of him, she felt the ballroom shift into a sharp clarity. He stood at the edge of the crowd, his back to a huge marble column, standing with Charlotte Metcalf who chatted to him animatedly, unaware that Ramsay looked past her, his gaze locked with Sophie’s as she stepped onto the ballroom floor.
Her heart rose to her throat at the sight of him, after two long weeks of aching for his company—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hands, and the dryness of his quick wit. He was dressed formally in black velvet and silver waistcoat with a sapphire glinting in his cravat. Once again, she had to remind herself not to stare.
“Katherine?” Edward inquired, urging her forward again.
“Pardon me,” she murmured, knowing she must seem a ninny, standing at the stairs and gaping at a man across the floor.
Lady Auliffe reached back and motioned with her fan. “Come Katherine, there are so many people you must meet!”
Sophie glanced over her shoulder at the captain to reassure herself that she hadn’t been imagining him. He remained by the column, his attention returned to Edward’s sister. She wondered how he’d managed to wrangle an invitation to such an exclusive gathering, and couldn’t wait to talk to him. However, she also knew that with her grandmother, business must come first. She followed Lady Auliffe to a table laden with sweetmeats and cheeses where a group of older people stood talking. What were a few minutes delay after an entire fortnight?
She never would have dreamed a few minutes would turn into a few hours. Not until the clock struck one was Sophie able to disengage. She excused herself to get refreshment, having been barraged by scores of dancing partners and relatives of the Carlisles and Metcalfs who wished to meet her. The ball had been quite different than what she imagined, being far more work than pleasure. The past few hours of meeting so many strangers and sustaining witty conversations with them had exhausted her. She fled to the nearest refreshment table, hoping for a cool drink and a moment of solitude, preferably somewhere in the shadows where she could close her eyes and take a deep breath.
Just as she reached for a cup of punch, she sensed someone step up behind her.
“Surviving the onslaught?” a dry voice asked.
The sound sent a warm shimmer through her and banished her fatigue. She turned, smiling, sure of whom had spoken. “Ian!” It was all she could do to keep herself from flinging her arms around his neck.
He grinned and gazed down at her, the reflections of candlelight and silver dancing in his eyes. She raised her hand, wanting his kiss, craving his touch and the connection they’d once shared.
He carried her hand to his mouth, all the while gazing into her eyes and drawing out the moment until she thought she would burst if he did not say something. And then his warm lips were pressing the back of her hand, and she was staring at the top of his head, thinking how it would feel to stroke his coal black hair, and all the while wondering that the entire crowd hadn’t fallen silent in witness of this moment, which she had fantasized about for the past two weeks.
Then he straightened and looked down at her, and she saw his gaze slip down her throat to the low décolletage of her gown. Her skin tingled as if he had reached out and touched her, quickening her pulse.
“You were a vision coming down those stairs.”
“Thank you,” she replied, barely above a whisper. She drank in the sharp lines of his face, knowing his presence at her side this evening was nothing short of miraculous.
“How did you manage to be here tonight?” she asked at last.
“I was invited.” He smiled.
“Really,” she teased, “A provincial such as yourself?”
“You cut me to the quick!”
“But you told me once that you are not acceptable to this crowd, nor they to you.”
“True. Still,” he offered his arm, “Here I am.”
“I’m glad.” She took his arm in both her hands, loving his height and the strength she felt beneath his sleeve. Standing next to him was a different experience than linking arms with Edward. She had never wanted to pull Edward close to her breast or lay her cheek against his shoulder as she did with Ramsay.
“Care for some air?” he asked.
“I’d love some.”
Suddenly the magic of the evening became real to Sophie. The light strains of the music tinkled into her heart and lifted her spirits. What had been mere glittering costumes and carefully crafted repartee suddenly merged into a fairy tale backdrop to the main event of the evening—that of sharing the moment with this understated, confident man. His was the only conversation that seemed real, the only presence there to enjoy the moment with her, not stand in judgment of her.
This was the time to tell him who she really was, the time to put their friendship to the test, the time to declare her heart before marriage to Edward Metcalf divided their paths forever. She might never have a chance like this again.
Together they strolled past the dancing couples and out to the veranda which was lit by new gas lights and decorated with wreaths of holly, raffia and red berries. Though the winter night was chilly, the cool air felt wonderful after having been trapped in the hot ballroom for hours upon end. A servant passed by, offering a tray of drinks.
“Care for a glass?” Ramsay inquired.
“Yes, I’m dying of thirst. All that talking!”
He selected two flutes of champagne and gave one to her, raising it up in salute.
“To the most beautiful woman here,” he said.
She blushed and watched him take a sip.
“I am not accustomed to flattery from you, Mr. Ramsay,” she chided.
“‘Tis not flattery. I meant it.”
“Then I thank you.” She raised her glass to him while a lively minuet struck up in the ballroom behind them. Most of the couples drifted back to the house, leaving them alone.
“So my grandmother invited you,” she mused, still marveling at his presence.
“I gather she did.”
“I think she fancies you.”
He smiled. “Should I be alarmed?”
“I’m surprised you accepted.”
“And why is that?”
“You strike me as a man who has better things to do than stand around listening to gossip at a ball.”
“I did not come for the gossip.”
“No?” Her heart skipped a beat. “Why then?”
He sipped the champagne as if deciding upon a fitting reply. Then he looked out across the garden beyond. “I came to see how you were faring.”
“Oh.” She fingered her glass, wondering how far this conversation would go before he broke it off. “And what is your opinion on the matter?”
He looked back down at her, his gaze raking over her from her powdered coiffure to the hem of her silk petticoat.
“I see that I need not have worried.”
His concern warmed her. “You were worried about me?”
“Of course.” He set aside his glass and leaned closer. “You know what I think of this lot. They’re a pack of wolves. Dressed like royalty, but with claws under all the finery.”
“I’ve been treated very well by the pack so far.”
“That I am glad to hear. May their good behavior continue.”
She chuckled. “You’re a pessimist.”
“No, my dear. I’m a realist.” He sighed.
At the sound, Sophie sobered and gazed at him fully in the face, appreciating this conversation as she had always enjoyed their talks. No chat with Ian Ramsay had ever felt like small talk.
“I have missed you,” she said softly. When he made no reply, she wondered if she had overstepped his boundaries again. Still she had to ask, had to know if he had spent at least one moment wishing she were still a part of his life. “And have you missed me, Ian? Have—”
He cut her off with a finger to her lips, smothering any more of her questions before they could be raised.
She stared at him and for a long moment his eyes swept over her face, as if he were branding the sight of her onto his memory.
“I had not expected to,” he replied at last, his voice low and gravely. “But yes.”
His admission thrilled her. She kissed the finger that pressed against her lips. She couldn’t help herself. She didn’t care who saw them or if anyone heard what they were saying to each other either. Shocked by her kiss, Ramsay stood unmoving, his hand still raised as she kissed his palm and closed her eyes, remembering how it had felt when he’d kissed her fully upon the mouth so long ago, and conjuring up the rapturous feeling of that night.
“Miss Hinds—”
His breathing seemed constricted. Good. Perhaps she was not the only one out of her mind with loneliness, and not the only one bursting with happiness that he was here with her now, speaking to her like this. She kissed his wrist.
“Lord God,” he murmured. He reached for the side of her face, and she thought he might try to stop her and push her away. Instead, he cradled her cheek, his long fingers pushing into the hair at her temple as he bent to her mouth. She felt his left hand easing around her waist to draw her close, and then for a long, glorious moment he kissed her—deeply and hungrily, his tongue pushing into her until she thought she would swoon with desire for him.
She embraced him, one hand still clutching the empty champagne glass, the other at his throat, moving up to touch his flaring, very masculine jaw. Her heart sang, and she was sure he must feel it glowing, as she surrendered to him, melting in his arms. Nothing in the world seemed as right to her as when she felt this man’s arms around her and his mouth upon hers. She savored his kiss, knowing—as she had known since the day she’d left his house—that she was in love with him.
When at last Ramsay drew back, she opened her eyes and looked up at his serious face, loving him for his lack of pretenses and his true concern for her welfare. How would he react when she told him of her deceit? Could she count on his feelings for her to carry them through? She had to take the risk. If she didn’t tell him the truth now, he might be lost to her forever.
“Ian,” she began, a lump in her throat choking her. “I have something to confess.”
A shadow darkened his eyes, and she paused for an instant, wondering why he would be reluctant to hear what she had to say.
“Katherine—”
“No, please. Let me speak.” She put her glass next to his on the balustrade, taking the time to bolster her quickly faltering vow to tell him the truth and struggling to find the right words.
“There is something I should have told you, right from the—”
“Don’t,” he warned, touching her lips again.
“But it’s something you have to know.”
“No.” His eyes turned flat and hard. “There are some confessions better left unspoken.” He continued to stare at her as he slowly released her. Why wouldn’t he let her talk? Was he afraid that she might say she loved him? The sudden cold air between them was like a slap on her cheek.
“Ian, please!”
“No. Not now, Katherine.”
“Yes, not now, Katherine,” a third voice echoed near the doorway.
Sophie whirled to see her grandmother standing on the veranda, clutching her fan in front of her like a punitive instrument.
Sophie’s heart plummeted. The last person she would have wanted to witness these past few minutes of passion was Lady Auliffe.
Ramsay stepped forward. “Don’t blame Katherine,” he said. “I induced her to drink an entire glass of champagne. I took advantage of her.”
“He did not!” Sophie bristled, hurt that he hadn’t allowed her to confess. She wasn’t ashamed of her behavior, either, and wasn’t about to make excuses for it. “And I am not inebriated.”
“Captain Ramsay,” Lady Auliffe stood ramrod straight, her eyes blazing. “Have you seduced my granddaughter?”
“No, madam,” he replied. “Much to my regret.”
His frank reply caught Lady Auliffe completely by surprise. She stared at him, and then her fan came out, fluttering furiously. “Young man, really!” she gasped.
He didn’t seem embarrassed. “I thank you for the invitation for this evening,” he began, “but I see that I should not have come.”
“Ian!” Sophie protested, furious with him now that he intended to take his leave before she could say anything more to him. Didn’t he care? Didn’t he want to know what was troubling her? And why was he treating her as a child, as if she had little command of herself?
He threw a hard glance at her and then addressed the older woman. “And I promise that I shall not further endanger Katherine’s reputation.”
“I knew there was something going on between you two the moment I laid eyes on you.”
“I would not dream of ruining Katherine’s chances of a good marriage. Please accept my deepest apology.”
Lady Auliffe snapped shut her fan and regarded him frostily. “Accepted.”
“Thank you.” He gave a curt bow. Then he turned to Sophie.
“Your servant,” he said, bowing again and avoiding her glance. She wanted to grab him, shake him, and tell him that he was making the biggest mistake of his life. But she could do nothing but watch him stride away toward the din and light of the ballroom.
Sophie sank against the balustrade, her heart breaking, her shoulders slumping with disappointment and frustration.
“You can’t love him.” Lady Auliffe watched him go. “You simply cannot.”
“Didn’t you make a love match?” Sophie retorted, trying not to cry.
“Yes, but after I wed a fortune first.”
“I don’t care about money!”
“Then you are a fool.” Her grandmother finally looked at her, and Sophie could tell that she was not as angry as she had seemed at first. “At least Ramsay has the sense to bow out.”
Imposter Bride Page 16