Dear Impostor (12 page)

          “There he is, gentlemen,” Psyche
waved a slender arm in his direction. “He will need morning attire, riding
attire, something suitable for staying at home, and, Henri,” she called to a
small, wiry man who Gabriel took to be the leader of this group. “Henri, I
think he would look marvelous in a deep claret.”

          Henri, in an eager rush to please
his new benefactress, swung a heavy bolt of velvet her way. With an easy grace
which he had to admire even in his current state, she evaded the bolt before
fingering the material.

          “Oh, yes, Henri. That’s just
lovely.”

           “Oui, mademoiselle. And the
midnight blue for another jacket,” Henri suggested in his thickly-accented
English.

          Psyche looked around for the
midnight blue and found it spread with a pristine white-on-white patterned silk
over the settee. She sighed with pure female appreciation over the rich fabric.
“Oh, definitely, Henri. Simone was right, you have marvelous taste.”

          “Thank you, Mademoiselle Hill. With
his coloring, we will stay with the deep, jewel colors.”

          They turned with narrowed eyes to
scrutinize Gabriel, rather as they would a plump stewing chicken, he thought.        

          “Why, yes, monsieur. He does need
bold colors.”

          “And minimal embellishments. He
does not need the usual masculine trimmings.”

          “Right again, Henri. You have such
an eye.”

          “And no padding around the
shoulders. Monsieur has been blessed with very wide, thick shoulders.”

          Psyche looked away and chewed her
plump lower lip. “Ah, really? I hadn’t noticed.”

          Liar. Gabriel thought, pleased
that she had. With a dreadful fascination, like a mouse hypnotized before a
snake’s approach, he watched Henri preen under Psyche’s approval. One of
Henri’s assistants was busy unrolling the claret and midnight blue fabrics for
cutting, another was setting up the thread and scissors and other tools, and
yet three more were buzzing around Gabriel like annoying pests that Gabriel
longed to swat. He had a measuring tape around his neck, another around his
chest and a third man was measuring his...damn it!...inseam. Gabriel kicked at
the man who had gotten a wee bit too personal.

          Gabriel’s temper steamed.

          Unknowingly, Psyche caused him to
boil over.

          “And Henri, Lord Tarrington will
undoubtedly need some personal items, as well.”

          Impertinent female! She just
barely blushed.

          Henri nodded with understanding. “Oui,
mademoiselle. I have some excellent flannel that I use for just that purpose.”

          Psyche’s brow wrinkled in
disapproval. “Oh, flannel? I much prefer cambric. White, I think.”

          It was Henri’s turn to blush. “Oui,
if the mademoiselle prefers cambric...”

          Psyche gasped with the realization
of what she had just said and what it implied.

          “Oh no, I have no preference. Why,
I don’t care in the least what his . . . what they’re made of,” she babbled
uncertainly, “I wouldn’t even mind if he wore any . . . oh, no. I don’t mean
that, either.”

          Gabriel suddenly felt seventeen
years old again, listening while another woman, another commanding beauty, had
dressed and manipulated him. In a sensual daze, he had allowed it, been
flattered by her attentions. At first. But Gabriel was no longer that boy, and
he had had all he could bear. The sensation of being controlled, decorated like
a Christmas ornament for someone’s amusement, came flooding back, and it
released emotions he’d thought long forgotten. He took a deep breath.

          Psyche was still floundering
desperately to cover her gaffe. “I mean, of course, that I don’t mind what . . .”

          “Miss Hill, I am beginning to
think you have no mind.” Completely ignoring the eager assistants and their
efforts, Gabriel strode over to Psyche and Henri.

          She drew a deep breath. “I should
expect a little gratitude!”

          “It’s gratitude you want? All
right, I’ll give it to you.”

          As he loomed closer, Psyche drew
herself up, her expression guarded.

          “Thank you, Miss Hill,” he
continued, dark brows low over angry eyes. “Thank you so much for inviting
these men to break my solitude, to touch me intimately without my permission, for
deciding what color and fabric my small clothes should be!”

          He whipped his head back to face
Henri. The little man flinched at his angry tone.

          “By the way, I want cambric, black
not white.

          “And I suppose I should thank you
for not choosing pink and unmanning me even more than you have,” he added,
turning back to Psyche.

          Psyche’s brilliant blue eyes
glittered with angry and embarrassed tears. She too looked at the poor tailor.

          “Wool, Henri. Make them out of the
cheapest, roughest wool you can find. And dye them red!”

          “Red! You minx!” Gabriel didn’t
know whether to fall double in laughter or to flatten one of the men who was
still trying to measure his legs. Clenching his fists at his sides, Gabriel
demonstrated what he thought was a Herculean effort to rein in his temper. Again,
he turned to Henri.

          “If you do not call off your lap
dogs, I shall put your pins and needles to very imaginative and uncomfortable
use.”

          The
Frenchman paled. He nodded quickly and whispered, “Oui, Monsieur. At once.”

          In rapid French, Henri spoke to
his assistants. He did not soften Gabriel’s words, and the men leapt back from
Gabriel’s person with almost comic speed. One of the men even flew across the
room to the collection of pins and stood blocking them with his body. They all
glared at Gabriel suspiciously as if expecting the mad man to attack them.

          However, Gabriel moved in the
opposite direction. In a few furious paces, Gabriel flung open the door and
gestured to the men. “Now that your services are no longer needed, you may
leave. Immediately.”

          The men reluctantly gathered up
their tools and fabric. Henri looked at Psyche with doubtful hesitation. “Mademoiselle?”

          Gabriel glared at Psyche as if
daring her to contradict him.

          Damn the man! She was in an
impossible position. Henri thought that Gabriel was her fiancee and that this
was all a gift to him. She could not defy him without flaunting society’s
conventions. And she could hardly force him to accept a gift if he did not want
it. There would be talk, and it would leak into the Ton through someone’s valet
or dresser.

          Forcing a calm she did not feel,
she smiled at Henri. “Lord Tarrington does not wish for your help at this time,
but I am sure that later he . . .

          Gabriel’s deep, infuriating voice
cut her off. “He will find his own tailor when he decides.”

          Psyche smiled through clenched
teeth. “Yes, precisely.”

          Henri’s expression grew dim and
disappointed. Psyche could imagine what this large commission would have meant
to him. She could not bear to let the eager little man walk away feeling so
deflated. The men had gathered all their belongings and were trailing down the
foyer toward the front door. Psyche stopped Henri with a light touch on his
arm.

          “Lord Tarrington may not need your
services, but one of my footmen is in sore need of new livery.”

          Henri’s face brightened.

          It cheered her so that she
continued. “In fact, all my staff could use new livery. Discuss it with Jowers
on your way out. Good day, Henri.”

          Henri was positively beaming as he
bowed his way out the salon and down the hall.

          She stood with her back to Gabriel
and watched the men leave.

          In a moment Gabriel spoke to her,
the fury replaced by puzzlement. “That was kind of you.”

          Slowly, she turned until she was
facing him. He stood there looking so comfortable, so infuriatingly right in
the opulent surroundings that Psyche could hardly believe that he had not been
to the manor-born. But his actions–his actions had been so arrogant, so haughty–

           He was acting more and more like
a real marquis every moment.

          “And exceedingly unkind of you,”
she snapped. “Henri is trying to establish himself as a tailor to
discriminating gentlemen.”

          To her surprise, he did not
sputter or redden or spit out an indignant denial. He simply nodded. “Yes, but
if Henri’s own too-wide lapels and eye-catching waistcoat are any hint of his
taste, I really think I should prefer another tailor. That does not mean that
your good intentions do not deserve mention. I should not have lost my temper.”

          Psyche suddenly felt the way she
had when she was a child and had spun around and around until she was dizzy and
then tried to walk in a straight line.

          “No denials?” she asked
incredulously.

          “No.”

          “No professions of superiority?”

          “When I am just a lowly actor?” he
asked with self-mocking calm.

          “Quite true.” She nodded
seriously.

          He laughed as if he could not help
it and then sobered. “I was unforgivably rude, and I apologize.”

          “You what?” Her voice was shrill. Never
since her father died had Psyche heard a man voluntarily admit wrongdoing. She
had become so accustomed to Percy’s blustering and Uncle Wilfred’s autocratic
ultimatums that she had forgotten that a man might still be found who took a
woman seriously, who listened to her opinions, who–

          “I apologize,” he said easily.

          “You admit you were a beast?”

          “Unequivocally.”

          Psyche sank into a nearby chair
upholstered in sunny yellow. “This is beginning to be fun.”

          “Oh no, my dear Psyche. Don’t get
too comfortable. You have a bit of groveling to do yourself.” To her
discomfiture, he came and rested on one knee in front of her.

          She turned her head to avoid those
knowing blue eyes.

          “Nonsense, I would never need to
do such a ridiculous thing.”

          He smiled wickedly. “I would be
happy to show you the fun we could have on our knees, my love.”

          She should have been scandalized.
She was scandalized, but curious, too. What on earth did he mean? Puzzled, she
turned back until her aloof gaze met the warmth of his dark blue eyes. He read
her perfectly and laughed again. He reached out and took her chin between his
thumb and forefinger. “Apologize, Psyche. I never took you for a coward.”

          “I am no such thing! I would
certainly apologize should I need to.”

          His steady gaze spoke for him.

          “I do not need to apologize. I was
helping you!”

          “I felt,” he said slowly, “like a
poor, weak excuse for a man. Hell, I felt like no man at all. I felt like a
paid doxy being outfitted for the pleasure of her buyer.”

          “But that’s what you are,” she burst
out, unthinking. If she had not been so unnerved by his proximity, she would
have thought before speaking. But it was too late; the words were out.  

          Suddenly, all his open warmth
vanished. Although he did not physically move, she felt the sudden distance
yawn like a chasm between them.  

          And she realized what she had
said.

          “Of course, you are not weak,” she
said lamely wondering how she could repair this. “And you are no . . . doxy.” She
stumbled over the crude word. “But you are an employee, and it is my
responsibility to clothe you during the time you’re here. All my servants
receive uniforms–” Her reasoning sounded weak, even to her own ears.

          Smoothly, he stood and crossed
back to the fireplace. He tossed back the rest of his—by now—cold tea. The
expression on her face told her he wished it were something stronger.

          Shame washed over her. Who was she
to talk of kindness? Had she not just attacked a man where he was far more
vulnerable than his coffers?

          She rose, uncertain if she should
approach him. Oh, if only she had someone to ask about men, how to handle them,
what to do, what she should say. Her elderly maiden aunt was no help, and Circe
was only a child. If only her mother were still alive. . .

          Psyche remembered what her mother
had always said about her father. “My dear, your father has become a great man.
But he could never have done so had I not been beside him. Beside him, Psyche,
not behind him. I was beside him, believing in him.” And after saying this, her
father had always taken her mother’s capable hand and kissed it as if it were
as delicate as the tiny bits of metal and wood they often devised together.