assembling
a make-do wardrobe for Sophie. She’d found three dresses that were
easily altered to fit, a variety of undergarments, two nightgowns,
a robe, a warm wool cloak, gloves, muff, slippers, lace bonnet, and
a beautiful silk shawl, all of which she delivered promptly at 2
pm.
The modiste had done an excellent job, and Mrs.
Betrus insisted upon giving her a generous tip, assuring Sophie
later that the master always rewarded good work. Whenever she spoke
of Ramsay, she did so with pride, which Sophie took as a mark in
the man’s favor. If household servants were loyal to the master, it
spoke not only of his generous purse but also to the man’s
character.
Not that Ramsay must prove himself to her. After
all, he was but a wayside inn, a stopping place on her flight from
the law. She had to admit, though, that she could have done far
worse than to land in Ramsay’s household. He was a man of simple
tastes, with a house that was warm and comfortable but in no way
ostentatious. She enjoyed talking to the captain, too, for she had
discovered a certain dry humor in his curt conversation, which
hinted at an equally wry intelligence. She also enjoyed looking at
him. Though some might think him too grim and dark to be handsome,
she found a harsh beauty in his sharp features and stern set of his
jaw. Something about him reminded her of a watch spring a tinker
had shown her once—a plain coil of metal that could power a
timepiece for hundreds of years, if cared for properly, but if set
askew could whip out of its bindings and cut a man’s finger to the
bone.
Sophie guessed Captain Ramsay was much like the
watch spring: steady, powerful, biding his time. But once that dark
power was set off—he would make a deadly enemy.
A thrill passed through her as she thought of
another facet of Ramsay that could possibly be set off—his
simmering, pent up passion. She could read it in his eyes, the way
he would glance at her, his eyes feasting on her, and then would
quickly avert his gaze. The very thought that he found it difficult
to look at her made her heart race, because she knew she possessed
a slight bit of power over the man. She’d never met a man quite
like Captain Ramsay—and wished she had made his acquaintance before
all the trouble had begun.
Now it was too late. It was useless to consider the
possibility of getting to know him more. If he ever found out she
was an imposter, and that she was taking advantage of him, she was
sure those dark eyes of his would turn as black and cold as
obsidian. The thought made her flush with shame. She couldn’t allow
that to happen. She would never let Captain Ramsay know the truth
about her. Yet the more she got to know him, the more she wished
she could confide in him—tell him everything. Confess.
Shortly after the modiste left, Maggie appeared
upstairs to help Sophie dress for afternoon tea at Blethin Hall.
First came a bath, then the preparation of her hair. Since tea was
not a formal evening affair, Maggie swept up Sophie’s chestnut
curls into a simple roll, leaving a few strands to fall upon one
shoulder, which she curled with hot irons. Then came a lace cap,
which she pinned into Sophie’s auburn locks.
Sophie held out her arms and watched in a mirror as
Maggie carefully dressed her in the blue and white striped bodice
and skirt, a very smart gown that fit her tiny waist, which had
been cinched to even smaller dimensions by a tight corset. She
could not believe she was wearing such a gorgeous gown and that
someone else was waiting upon her, seeing to her every need. In
fact, she’d been surprised to be informed that another delivery had
been made that morning, slippers and shoes for her, compliments of
Ian Ramsay. Being cared for like this made her nervous and
accepting such luxuries made her uncomfortable. For a decade she
had done nothing but care for other people, and it was difficult to
switch to the role of mistress.
Sophie reminded herself that she was
a make-do wardrobe for Sophie. She’d found three dresses that were
easily altered to fit, a variety of undergarments, two nightgowns,
a robe, a warm wool cloak, gloves, muff, slippers, lace bonnet, and
a beautiful silk shawl, all of which she delivered promptly at 2
pm.
The modiste had done an excellent job, and Mrs.
Betrus insisted upon giving her a generous tip, assuring Sophie
later that the master always rewarded good work. Whenever she spoke
of Ramsay, she did so with pride, which Sophie took as a mark in
the man’s favor. If household servants were loyal to the master, it
spoke not only of his generous purse but also to the man’s
character.
Not that Ramsay must prove himself to her. After
all, he was but a wayside inn, a stopping place on her flight from
the law. She had to admit, though, that she could have done far
worse than to land in Ramsay’s household. He was a man of simple
tastes, with a house that was warm and comfortable but in no way
ostentatious. She enjoyed talking to the captain, too, for she had
discovered a certain dry humor in his curt conversation, which
hinted at an equally wry intelligence. She also enjoyed looking at
him. Though some might think him too grim and dark to be handsome,
she found a harsh beauty in his sharp features and stern set of his
jaw. Something about him reminded her of a watch spring a tinker
had shown her once—a plain coil of metal that could power a
timepiece for hundreds of years, if cared for properly, but if set
askew could whip out of its bindings and cut a man’s finger to the
bone.
Sophie guessed Captain Ramsay was much like the
watch spring: steady, powerful, biding his time. But once that dark
power was set off—he would make a deadly enemy.
A thrill passed through her as she thought of
another facet of Ramsay that could possibly be set off—his
simmering, pent up passion. She could read it in his eyes, the way
he would glance at her, his eyes feasting on her, and then would
quickly avert his gaze. The very thought that he found it difficult
to look at her made her heart race, because she knew she possessed
a slight bit of power over the man. She’d never met a man quite
like Captain Ramsay—and wished she had made his acquaintance before
all the trouble had begun.
Now it was too late. It was useless to consider the
possibility of getting to know him more. If he ever found out she
was an imposter, and that she was taking advantage of him, she was
sure those dark eyes of his would turn as black and cold as
obsidian. The thought made her flush with shame. She couldn’t allow
that to happen. She would never let Captain Ramsay know the truth
about her. Yet the more she got to know him, the more she wished
she could confide in him—tell him everything. Confess.
Shortly after the modiste left, Maggie appeared
upstairs to help Sophie dress for afternoon tea at Blethin Hall.
First came a bath, then the preparation of her hair. Since tea was
not a formal evening affair, Maggie swept up Sophie’s chestnut
curls into a simple roll, leaving a few strands to fall upon one
shoulder, which she curled with hot irons. Then came a lace cap,
which she pinned into Sophie’s auburn locks.
Sophie held out her arms and watched in a mirror as
Maggie carefully dressed her in the blue and white striped bodice
and skirt, a very smart gown that fit her tiny waist, which had
been cinched to even smaller dimensions by a tight corset. She
could not believe she was wearing such a gorgeous gown and that
someone else was waiting upon her, seeing to her every need. In
fact, she’d been surprised to be informed that another delivery had
been made that morning, slippers and shoes for her, compliments of
Ian Ramsay. Being cared for like this made her nervous and
accepting such luxuries made her uncomfortable. For a decade she
had done nothing but care for other people, and it was difficult to
switch to the role of mistress.
Sophie reminded herself that she was
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