Dear Impostor (14 page)

          Gabriel nodded and proceeded up
the staircase. He found the footman/valet Brickson in his new employer’s room,
waiting to assist him in changing his clothes. Gabriel donned his own evening
dress–the harried tailor had had no time to effect more miracles of assembly,
but there was a new evening coat on order, in addition to morning coats, riding
habits, street clothing, shirts, even underwear and nightshirts–as Brickson
stood ready to assist. Then Gabriel took a clean neckcloth from the servant and
arranged it with a careless ease into his own signature style. He had had
aspirations of dandyism as a lad, he remembered, smiling a little now at his
own folly. Perhaps that was one reason he and Freddy had hit it off as small
boys, both with precocious vanity and big aspirations.

          Gabriel could have cringed when he
remembered some of his and Freddy’s “costumes.” They had considered themselves
all the crack in their heavily ruffled shirts, garishly colored waistcoats and
ridiculously high shirt points. What had finally cured him of the high “ears,”
as the shirt points were called, was a very nasty eye infection that poor
Freddy had suffered from a scratch inflicted by one of the starched points. Gabriel
shook his head in bewilderment. How had he ever thought all that fluff was
manly or attractive? Thank God for Sylvie. If she hadn’t taken him in hand and
discreetly guided his taste and taught him a bit of restraint . . .

          His fingers stumbled for a moment
on the folds of his cravat, then regained their normal dexterity. He would not
think of her at all, let alone with gratitude. Sylvie had been a woman of many
talents, he thought cynically. She had skillfully controlled him in a manner
that appalled him to remember. By turns needy and demanding, she had played
with his youthful passion like a puppeteer with an amusing new toy. He had
thought her all that was lovely and womanly and had offered her all his naive
passion. In return, she had destroyed his life.

          No, he thought in disgust. They
had destroyed each other.

          Of course, enduring a scandal and
then exile, running for his life, surviving by his wits, had taught him that
life held much more important decisions to be made than the color of his
waistcoat or the arrangement of his cravat. But, Gabriel thought as he gazed at
the results of his efforts in the looking glass and gave an approving nod, he
still liked to be pleasingly attired. When he finished, Brickson dusted the
shoulders of his black coat with a soft brush and stood back, the valet’s
expression admiring.

          Gabriel hid his smile at the man’s
pride and nodded his thanks. “No need to wait up for me,” he told the man. “After
the party, I may escort the ladies home and then go out again for . . . um . . .
other entertainment.”

          The man nodded, his expression
revealing no surprise. “Good luck, milord, with the dice or the cards or any
other game of chance you might engage in.”

          Gabriel grinned. “No ladies of the
evening, Brickson, if that’s what you’re thinking. A man engaged to Miss Hill
would be mad to pursue dross when he has a vision of pure gold before his
eyes.”

          Brickson blinked, and Gabriel saw
the slight lift of his lips before the servant regained a suitable expression
of impassivity.

          Leaving the man to chuckle in
private, Gabriel descended the steps. He found Psyche and her sister in the
drawing room–Circe was allowed to eat dinner downstairs with the family when
they had no company, he had discovered–as well as Aunt Sophie, who was sipping
a glass of deep-colored wine. No uninspired sherry for Aunt Sophie, Gabriel
thought, suppressing his own grin.

          “Good evening, ladies,” he said,
making his bow to Aunt Sophie, as befitted her senior status, then to Psyche
and Circe in turn. Gabriel had already turned with the intention to pour
himself a scotch when Psyche’s appearance registered on his suddenly befuddled
brain.

          Gabriel jerked back to face her,
not even caring that he stared. He also chose to ignore Sophie’s snort of
laughter and Circe’s wide-eyed look of surprise. He ignored all except the
vision of angelic loveliness that stood before him. In a gown of silvery blue,
Psyche glowed.

          No, he thought, searching for the
right word in his mind. She shimmered.

          Her golden hair was twisted atop
her head into a mass of silky curls. The silky fabric of her gown fitted
tightly to ripe breasts and slim arms before skimming rounded hips and long,
long legs. Diamonds glittered at her ears, neck and hair. White gloves encased
her arms to above the elbows with yet more diamonds encircling her delicate
wrist. He had never seen such lush beauty in such an angelic guise.

           No, angel wasn’t the right term
for his Psyche. An angel wouldn’t respond to such obvious admiration with cool,
cautious eyes, or prim, rigid posture. His Psyche was too proud, yet too full
of passionate promise beneath her conventional veneer, to be anyone’s angel.

          And when the hell had he started
thinking of this willful chit as his?

          He strode to where she stood
waiting, took her gloved hand in his own and—just to wipe the carefully distant
look from her face—he pressed his lips against the inside of her wrist. He
watched smugly as her lips parted on her indrawn breath.

          At this moment, he could have
cheerfully scrapped his new estate or even his famous luck to take this
gorgeous creature back upstairs to his room and strip her of her gown, her
diamonds and her precious manners. Want was a grinding ache in his gut as he
stared into her eyes. No angel could glare at him with such demanding authority–no
angel, but– Normally, Gabriel would have laughed at such fanciful thoughts. But
he had an alarming suspicion the joke was on him.

          “You are aptly named, dear Miss
Hill.” He kept his voice low and intimate and did not step away from her,
remaining close enough to see her pulse flutter nervously in the hollow of her
pale throat. “You are a goddess, to be sure.”

          Long golden lashes dipped to hide
her reaction to his words. Psyche did not answer. He suspected she was not so
much flustered as wondering gravely what his new game was. He grinned. He
couldn’t help it. He was starting to understand her and, strangely enough, it
delighted him.

          Her curtsy was slight, and her
expression cool. “I hope you had better luck with the tailor of your choice,
milord.”

          “Indeed I did,” he told her. “You
were most kind to try to help me, but some things a man really must do for
himself.”        

          “Such as acquiring his own title?”
Psyche had recovered her usual chilly poise. She murmured low enough to escape
the attention of the others.

          “Actors are accustomed to trying
on new names as easily as new suits,” he returned, keeping his voice low, too. “It’s
a skill that I am perfectly comfortable with.”

          “I dare say!” Her eyes flashed
dangerously, and he thought he might have baited her sufficiently. No need to
elicit, over such a trifle, the passion that he knew bubbled beneath her icy
demeanor. There would be more appropriate times to evoke a spark from
Psyche—and more appropriate places, he thought, glancing at the fascinated
Sophie and Circe.

          Sophie downed the rest of her
drink in a healthy swallow and set the crystal goblet down on the little
pie-crust table at her side. “Psyche,” she said, coming to her niece’s rescue,
“go see about dinner. An old woman could wither away waiting for her supper in
this household.”

          Gabriel saw the relief in Psyche’s
eyes as she turned from him to obey her aunt’s orders. But to Gabriel’s pleasure,
Jowers’ arrival prevented her from going far.

          “Dinner is served,” the butler
said from the doorway.

          Gabriel offered his arm, and after
a slight hesitation, Psyche tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. It was
only a polite gesture, the sort offered to the merest acquaintance, but with
Psyche, it was so much more. He was acutely aware of her, standing so close,
the slightest scent of rose oil that drifted from her skin, the faint rustle of
silk from her gown. All inflamed his senses and made him wish fervently for a
brief time alone with her.

          “I hope Cook has made that caramel
pudding again,” Circe said, innocent of the currents that swirled beneath the
surface. The child waited politely for Aunt Sophie to pick up her walking
stick.

          Reminded of his duties, Gabriel
offered his other arm to the older woman, who waved him away.

          “Do better at my own pace,” she
said. “Come along, Circe.”

          “And keep your appetite for the
food, sir,” Psyche muttered to him as they led the way into the dining room.

          “Of course, what would make you
suspect otherwise?” Gabriel had mastered his moment of longing, and his tone
was innocent, but she continued to watch him suspiciously as she took her seat
at the table.

          With servants in the room, dinner
conversation was confined to superficial topics. Psyche chatted about people he
might meet at the party.

          “And you’ll likely also meet
Thomas Atkins, the second earl of Whitkin’s son, His wife has dark hair and–”

          ”Good heavens, child.” Aunt Sophie
shook her head as she motioned to the footman for another helping of sauce. “Do
you intend to list every member of the Ton currently in London? You’ll put us
all to sleep before we e’er reach the party.”

          “Oh, sorry,” Psyche muttered. “I
just–just wanted to give Lord Tarrington some idea of what to expect.”

          The fact was, her stomach was in
knots the closer they came to his public debut in front of England’s elite. It was all very well, as she had told herself earlier, to remember the excellent
acting job he had done in front of her relatives. After all, her maid had
coached the man for several hours, given him extensive information on who was
who and who liked what and which topics to avoid. Now he would be on his own;
she’d had no time to prepare him properly, and she’d always heard that an actor
was nothing without his lines. What if Gabriel froze totally and said something
so gauche that he put not just himself but Psyche and her whole family to
shame?

          She’d just hoped to give him some
pointers. The man himself had a rather sardonic gleam in his deep blue eyes, so
she wasn’t sure if he appreciated her good intentions or not–if he brought up
that wretched business with the would-be tailor once more she would scream,
good manners or not!–but if even Aunt Sophie was noticing, she’d better be
still.

          Yet when Psyche reached for her
glass of wine, she saw that her hand shook; she took a deep breath. They would
get through this, they would, she would be there, she would guide him, they
would not be exposed, humiliated. . .

          Gabriel watched the signs of his
employer’s agitation and hid a smile. Worried about his first public
appearance, was she? He had his own reason for anxiety, but he kept it under
control. He’d listened with careful attention to her catalogue of expected
guests. A few of the names were familiar, but as he had spent little time in London before his exile, he did not feel in any imminent danger of his unmasking. There
might be other school mates among the Ton, but not all, surely, would have as
keen an eye and a memory as Freddy.

           Afterwards, Circe said goodnight
to her sister and stopped to regard Gabriel seriously. “Have fun at the party,”
she told him. “But be on your guard.”

          “Why on earth would he need to do
that?” Aunt Sophie demanded, her eyes narrowing.

          Circe blushed; she had obviously
not meant her aunt to overhear. “Only that Psyche says there are gossips who
will fall on any suspicious–I mean–will make the worst of any unusual remark.”

          “I’m sure Tarrington has braved
more dangerous gales than a bunch of windy old hens with too much time on their
hands.” Their aunt sniffed. “Off to bed with you, child.”

          Circe nodded and slipped out of
the room, but Gabriel felt Psyche’s anxious gaze on him. Gabriel felt only a
mild sense of anticipation; but then, he always enjoyed a challenge. “Shall we
go, my dear?”

          The footman had brought Psyche her
cloak; she arranged it around her shoulders and pulled on the gloves she had
removed to dine. Gabriel had as yet no cloak–that was on order, too–but the
evening was mild, and he had procured hat and gloves during the afternoon. He
helped Aunt Sophie into the carriage, then turned to take the hand of the
younger woman.

          Psyche hesitated a moment before
extending her hand. Even through the thin gloves he could feel the warmth of
her fingers, the spark that seemed to flash between them when they stood so
close–suddenly he was eager to reach the party; even a small affair was likely
to have dancing, and he hungered to hold Psyche in his arms, to pull her even
closer and–

          “Milord?” Psyche said, her cheeks
looking suspiciously warm.