Imposter Bride (7 page)

She sank against the high mattress of the bed,
taking most of the weight off her tender feet. “And you are?”

“Mrs. Betrus. I’m the housekeeper.” The old woman
edged forward, her head cocked to one side, a ribbon dangling in
the air. “Are you all right, miss?”

“I shall be, thank you.”

“Do you need something? To relieve yourself?”

“No, no, I was just confused. I’m afraid I don’t
know where I am.”

“And why should you? Poor dear! You’ve had a
horrible experience.” She reached out and gently touched Sophie’s
elbow. “Get yourself back into bed and I will fetch you something
to drink.” She urged Sophie back into the bed. “The doctor said you
should take as much liquids as possible.”

“The doctor?”

“Dr. Pimm. He examined you last night.”

Sophie looked up in shock, worried that he might
have seen the telltale scratch on her arm. “A doctor examined
me?”

“It was nothing at all compromising. He just checked
for broken bones and looked at your hand.”

Sophie didn’t remember a thing about it. What else
had happened? “I don’t recall it at all.”

“It’s no surprise you can’t remember, dear. You’re
lucky to be alive.”

“I just don’t remember—” Her voice drifted off into
vagueness as Mrs. Betrus gently adjusted the bedclothes around
her.

“Don’t worry. It will all come back to you.
Meanwhile, you must rest and recover, dear.” She gave her a warm
smile and patted her hand. Sophie’s throat constricted with emotion
at the housekeeper’s touch. She could not remember the last time
someone had looked at her with loving kindness in their eyes and
spoke to her in such a gentle tone. “I’ll get that drink for you,
and then we’ll see about a bath and breakfast.”

“Thank you,” she stammered.

Through bleary eyes Sophie watched the housekeeper
leave the room and realized she still didn’t know to whose home she
had been brought. No matter. She would soon be gone anyway, as soon
as she found her clothes and a route out of the house.

Sophie dropped to her feet again and tip-toed across
the room, avoiding the squeaky plank and ignoring the pain whenever
she moved. She crept to the single window near the corner of the
bed and drew back the curtain with her uninjured hand. Cold air
brushed her cheeks, reminding her of how frozen she’d been for the
last few days. Snow fell outside the windowpanes, promising even
more discomfort should she leave this room and this house. She
looked down, once again trapped two levels up from what looked like
a fashionable street. If she leapt from the window this time, there
would be no one to break her fall. She might even break a leg. Then
how would she get on?

No, she must find another way to leave this place.
But how and when? And in what? Certainly not in bare feet and the
nearly transparent night dress she’d been given. She had to find
her clothes before she went anywhere, especially since one of her
pockets held the diamond buckle torn from the murdered man’s
breeches.

Sophie glanced around the room, dimly illuminated by
the yellow glow of the fire, and wondered where her belongings
might be. There was the wing back chair, a chest of drawers, the
bed, a night table, and a tall wardrobe near the door. Perhaps her
dress and shoes had been put away in the wardrobe. She crossed the
bare floor, determined to find her things. When she opened the
doors of the wardrobe, however, she was dismayed to discover the
shelves were completely full of books.

She was still standing there, staring at the books,
when she heard the baritone voice of a man just outside the door
say, “I’ll take it in to her, Betty.”

Sophie swiftly closed the wardrobe and stepped back,
just as the chamber door opened, and she came face to face with the
tall, dark-haired man who had crossed her path more than once since
she’d arrived in London.

Ian Ramsay was attired in riding boots, dark brown
breeches and a waistcoat of fustian, under which he wore a
finely-made shirt of holland, topped with a simple solitaire neck
cloth. He was very tall—his shoulders were level with the top of
Sophie’s head, and his shoulders were very wide when compared to
the span of a doorway.

Face to face with him, Sophie was struck by the
strength and authority radiating from his height and his posture.
For the first time in her life, she felt her breasts tighten in
response to raw male energy. With it, a curl of sexual awareness
uncoiled deep within her, startling her, and she would have stepped
away, but for the fact that she couldn’t move. Her breasts seemed
to rise toward the wall of his chest that loomed less than two feet
away—far too close for her to ignore.

With a rush of embarrassment, Sophie realized what
she must look like to him, standing there in the thin night rail,
her back to the fire, and the silhouette of her entire body plainly
visible through the cotton gauze.

Flustered, she glanced up at his face, to see if he
had noticed the strong reaction he’d caused in her. Above the black
neck cloth at his throat, his lean face was stark and stern,
accentuated by the firm set of his wide mouth and the flare of his
freshly-scraped jaw. It was then Sophie saw the flush on his cheeks
and the smoldering lights in his black eyes as he remained where he
was without saying a word, staring down at her.

It was obvious he’d noticed her breasts. She knew
that he was as acutely aware of her presence as she was of his, as
frozen in place as she, and that only the barest stricture of
convention kept them from leaping into each other’s arms and
tangling together like two rutting animals. Sophie knew all this
for a certainty, though she had never kissed a man in her life. She
just knew it about Ian Ramsay.

Her heart pounded in her neck with the shocking
truth of her attraction to him, and she saw his glance flick
downward to the place her pulse throbbed, as if he read her
thoughts. The prospect that he might guess what she was thinking
only aroused her more.

She raised her gaze back to his. “Captain Ramsay?”
she breathed, her voice cracking.

He swallowed. She saw his Adam’s apple rise and fall
above the silk of his tie.

“At your service.” His voice was gruff, strained. He
continued to stare at her and then broke off to glance at the
goblet he held in his right hand, as if suddenly remembering it was
there. He thrust it toward her, apparently to ward off the effect
she had upon him.

“For your health,” he added. “The doctor said—”

He broke off, recognizing words were unnecessary
between them. She filled the broken silence by reaching for the
goblet.

“Thank you.” She took the glass in both hands and
lowered her arms in such a way as to shield her breasts from view,
although she realized immediately the effort wasn’t necessary.
Ramsay had already averted his intense gaze and had slipped past
her, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Pardon my unspeakable manners,” he said, not
looking at her. From the back, the cut of his waistcoat made his
shoulders seem even wider than before. This was the man who had
caught her when she jumped, the man who had hovered above her as
she lay overcome by the smoke and flames of the fire, asking if she
were all right. This was the same man who had not betrayed her to
Constable Keener. She owed him more than mere thanks and would
certainly forgive him for staring. “My housekeeper told me you were
safely tucked into bed.”

“I was a moment ago.” Thirsty, she sucked down the
watered wine, closing her eyes as she did so. When she opened them,
she was surprised to find Ramsay studying her face again.
Instantly, he glanced away to the fire.

“My house is yours, Miss Hinds, for as long as your
recovery requires.”

“Thank you, and I thank you for rescuing me, too—but
I really can’t stay.”

“It will be all that is proper,” he added, “Barring
this slight incident of course. I have a housekeeper to serve as a
chaperone until we can locate your female companions. And I promise
never to enter this room again without knocking.”

He looked back and gave her a slight wry smile.

She couldn’t help but smile back. “You are kind,
sir, but I am not overly injured. I don’t need to stay.”

“Brave words, miss, but I’ve seen the burns on your
hands and feet and the cut upon your palm. The doctor’s advice was
that you stay off your feet for at least a couple of days.”

She knew she wouldn’t talk him out of helping her,
and if the truth were told, she didn’t want to talk him out of
it—at least not until she had a bath and a warm meal. Apparently,
Ramsay didn’t recognize her as the woman who had hidden in the
shadows of his carriage the previous evening. He, like his
housekeeper, thought she was someone entirely different. For the
time being, she would accept his offer of service and pray that he
didn’t learn the truth before she’d made her escape.

“I will send a dispatch to your grandmother as soon
as possible this morning, informing her that you are safe and have
arrived.”

Her grandmother? Katherine’s grandmother. Sophie
wondered if Lady Auliffe would be even more foul-tempered than her
granddaughter. She sipped the last of the weak wine. “Thank
you.”

“Do you know if she is traveling by sea or
land?”

“I’m not certain.”

“The weather must have detained her.”

“Yes. It must have.” Her voice quavered. She had
never been good at telling lies, had never desired to learn the art
of deception. She was certain he noticed her faltering reply, for
he turned and leveled his gaze at her again.

“You are so different from my first perception of
you, Miss Hinds.”

“Oh?”

“In fact, I find it quite remarkable.”

“In a good way?”

He blinked and she saw a ghost of a smile pass
across his face, which he quickly masked. “Different,” was all he
allowed.

Briskly he walked back to the door, where he turned
slightly. “I must travel out of town today. Mrs. Betrus will see to
your needs. Do not hesitate to ask for anything.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll have my man Puckett find out what happened to
your governess and servant, too, and fetch them here as well.”

“Thank you. I pray they both survived the fire.”
Sophie paused, thinking of her cruel mistress and her governess.
What had they gone through last night? Were they alive? Had they
been injured and were lying in hospital? Had they perished in the
flames? Though the women had treated her unkindly, she would never
have wished such an end for them. Yet she had to smile sadly at the
irony of her own thoughts, for she suspected that neither Katherine
nor Agnes would have cared whether she had lived or died in the
fire.

She looked up to find Ramsay gazing at her over his
shoulder, and she felt the same strong tug from within, urging her
to go to him. Sophie stood in the center of the room, tongue-tied
by the unfamiliar sensations this man produced in her.

Then he turned and pulled the door shut.

Sophie should have left the townhouse that day,
before the master of the house returned from his trip. She would
have left, too, but once she’d eaten and bathed, she fell
asleep—exhausted by her difficult time in London in the freezing
weather—and slept the entire day. When she woke for the second time
in the little bedroom on the second level, she was alarmed to find
darkness had already fallen outside, as well as a great deal of
snow.

Quietly, Sophie dressed in fresh underclothes, hose,
and a sack dress the housekeeper had procured for her and left
draped over the wing back chair. Fortunately, the loose-fitting
style of the garment allowed for a variance in feminine shape, and
its jonquil-colored folds slipped easily over her shoulders and
barely touched the floor. Sophie found the necessary contorted
combinations to fasten the bodice tight enough to suit.

On the seat of the chair were the linen pockets she
had worn under her blue dress. Sophie picked them up, gratified to
feel the weight in the left one. She checked to make sure the
breeches buckle was still there, and then tied the pockets at her
waist under the voluminous silk of her dress. At least the servants
of the household had been honest enough not to steal the diamond
buckle while she slept.

On the floor near the legs of the chair were her
well worn slippers, which were now torn and soiled and still a bit
damp, but they would have to serve until she could find another
pair. She pushed her feet into them.

Hoping the captain was still gone for the day,
Sophie let herself out of the bedchamber and tip-toed down the
hall, pausing at the top of the stairs to listen for any evidence
of human activity. She heard nothing but a distant rattle of pans
in the kitchen on the lower level of the townhouse. Carefully, she
made her way down the stairs, her heart pounding for fear of
discovery. Just as she gained the last step, she heard someone slam
the knocker against the plate at the front door. Startled by the
harsh sound, Sophie darted to the first room on her left and hid
behind the door.

“Just a moment!” Mrs. Betrus called.

Sophie could hear the housekeeper hobbling down the
hall toward the front door. The knocker clanged again, even louder
the second time.

“Lord!” Mrs. Betrus muttered as she walked past
Sophie’s hiding place. “Patience is a virtue, you know.”

Sophie peered through the crack between the edge of
the door and the woodwork and saw the housekeeper open the front
door of the townhouse. Wind from the street rustled the black wool
of her skirt around the housekeeper’s sturdy shoes.

“Yes?” Mrs. Betrus kept one hand on the latch as a
dark shape stepped into the glow from the candles in the hall.

“Constable Keener, madam. Good evening.”

Sophie’s blood froze in her veins. Had he discovered
her hiding place?