Dear Impostor (16 page)

          Psyche bit her lip. He was making
fun of her. But he was right, of course. Still, one lucky guess did not mean
that he was competent to be left alone in this veritable jungle of social
niceties. She could not relax her guard.

          He bowed to the other ladies. “Later,
I will request the pleasure of your hand, Matilda, in one of the round dances.”

          Blushing with pleasure, Matilda
nodded. Gabriel grasped Psyche’s hand and led her through the crowd to the
portion of the big room where the dancers were taking their places.

          Psyche gave him a quick, anxious
glance.

          “Yes, I do know how to dance,” he
told her gravely before she could express this newest worry, and Psyche relaxed
for an instant until another thought struck her.

          “You will have to do it now, you
know,” she whispered as they took their places in the form.

          “Do what?” He made his bow to her
and moved out into the first set of steps.

          “Dance with Matilda!” she
whispered again.

          “Of course. Did you think I would
say such a thing and then deliberately break my word?” His glance at her was
quizzical and slightly wounded.

          She almost blushed, feeling guilty
and not sure why. She was only trying to help him, as much as herself. She had
no way of knowing if he understood the code of conduct practiced by Polite
Society, or at least well enough to maintain his pose. His manners had seemed
smooth enough at the family dinner the night before, but he could hardly
realize all the subtleties involved in his assumed identity. An actor he might
be, but how could he, after all, have had the chance to study the upper classes
that closely?

          They circled another couple, and
when Psyche could safely speak again, she muttered, “I didn’t mean–that is–I
don’t–”

          But the dance separated them
again, and he looked at her with a smooth smile that made her moment of anxiety
seem foolish. He did not care what she thought of him; why should he? This
whole thing was merely another acting job, extended only from his greed, his
desire for a heavier purse. That hurt she thought she had glimpsed in the
depths of his deep blue eyes–she was being too fanciful, Psyche told herself.

          She stopped trying to talk and
concentrated on the dance. The man was graceful–he had the controlled grace of
a swordsman. No doubt he had studied fencing in order to act Shakespearean
tragedies; she thought of Macbeth or Hamlet. The thought led to another, of
what Gabriel, with his perfect face, would look like dressed in old-fashioned
garments, Elizabethan tights that clung to his muscular thighs . . . and then
she blushed at the direction of her own thoughts.

          Good heavens, what had come over
her? No wonder sensible women lost every vestige of their wits when Gabriel
smiled at them. She was no longer angry at Sally. No man had the right to so
handsome a face, to such masculine beauty. And to have broad shoulders and
well-sculpted arms and legs, to have that irrepressible wit dancing in the deep
blue depths of his eyes, to be intelligent and articulate and . . . and yet to
be a total fraud. It was too bad.

          Musing sadly on the inequities of
the universe, Psyche finished the dance in silence. When the music ended, she
made her bow to her partner, and he held her hand a moment too long before
releasing it.

          “Did I displease you, my sweet
Psyche?” he murmured. “You are very quiet, of a sudden.”

          She sighed. “Of course not. I’m
just a bit on edge. Let us find a couple of chairs so that I can instruct you
upon–”

          But they were interrupted once
more. Sally was walking toward them. Psyche bit back her words and stood very
straight. This business of living a lie was downright exhausting; one had to be
ceaselessly vigilant.

          “Sophie is asking for you,
Psyche,” Sally said brightly. “And I have several people who are anxious to met
your fiancé.”

          All female, no doubt, Psyche
wanted to say, but she controlled herself with an effort. She wanted to grab
him by the superfine of his coat and keep him beside her. Instead, she had to
settle for giving Gabriel a warning look, then she headed toward the side of
the room.

          She found Aunt Sophie sitting
comfortably in a wing chair, chatting with several other older ladies. “There
you are, child,” her aunt said. “I wanted you to greet some old friends of
mine.”

          Psyche schooled her expression to
one of polite interest; she could not forget her own manners because of her
concern over the actor and how long he could maintain this pretense.

          “And besides,” her irascible
relative added, “Doesn’t do to hang on that young man of yours like a lovesick
mooncalf, no matter how fair his face or pleasing his form.”

          Meeting the old woman’s sharp-eyed
gaze, Psyche stiffened. No indeed, she could not make a spectacle of herself,
nor stir up just the suspicion she was trying to avoid. So with this not so
subtle encouragement, she turned her attention away from the party to chat with
her aunt’s friends.

          It was a quarter of an hour before
it seemed natural to excuse herself and return to the mass of guests. Where was
Gabriel? She located him in the midst of a bevy of young ladies, all flushed
and laughing, smiling and fluttering their lashes at her supposed fiancé.

          Had they no sense at all, Psyche
thought, irritated despite herself. Could she interrupt them, or would it seem
too pointed? As she hesitated, she found herself next to one of the young
thing’s mother. “I’m amazed that you did it at last, Psyche,” Mrs. Monnat said
as she sipped a glass of wine.

          “What?” Psyche frowned. “Did you
think me so over the hill that I had no hopes of finding a husband?”

          “Not at all, child,” the matron
said, laughing a little. “With your fortune, you could always find a match. But
I thought you would never shake off that odious cousin of yours long enough to
make a connection with another eligible gentleman.”

          “Oh.” Psyche relaxed. “It wasn’t
easy.”

          “And to find such a charming
fellow, with such a way about him–you will be the envy of all the other single
ladies. He is so much more engaging that your poor cousin–”

          ”Your Lucille seems to think so,”
Psyche said wryly,

          Lucille’s mama smiled, and her
tone was matter of fact. “She has enough sense not to fall for a betrothed
gentleman, and he is such an accomplished flirt, the practice will do her good.
She is still a bit shy, not much at ease in society, and she has nothing like
your dowry to tempt the more practical of men. Not that we aspire for a
Marquis, of course, but I should like to see her happily settled.”

          Psyche felt a little shamed of
herself. “Lucille is a delightful girl, and I’m sure she will find someone who
deserves her.”

          “Thank you, my dear, I hope so,”
Mrs. Monnat agreed, fanning herself.

          They watched the group together. As
the musicians began another tune, Psyche saw that Gabriel was excusing himself
to the ladies clustered around him. As she watched, he walked to the side of
the room, rescued Matilda from a group of older ladies and led her to the dance
floor. Matilda looked flushed with happiness, and Psyche felt a surge of
unexpected pride. He had not forgotten; she was both relieved that he was–so
far–conducting himself properly and also pleased for her plump, sweet-natured
cousin’s sake.

          Sally joined them in a swirl of
silken skirts. She said, her tone half-serious, “Gracious, Psyche, he is scrumptious!
I am so envious of you I could spit!”

          Psyche smiled again, but this time
she felt her lips stretched a little too wide as the tension returned. If they
only knew the truth, she thought, suppressing a quiver of anxiety, no one would
be envious; instead, she would be the laughing stock of the Ton. And Percy
would have her firmly in his power. Oh, please, she thought, glancing again at
Gabriel and the grace with which he moved through the dance, please don’t
betray us!

          “I thought this was only going to
be a small party,” she said to their hostess, her tone almost accusing.

          “Oh, it began that way, but you
know how it is,” Sally answered. “You invite Cousin Georgia, and then you have
to invite her odious son, and then the son’s promised wife, and then her
parents, and . . .”

          Psyche listened to Sally chatter
on until the dance ended, then she saw Gabriel bow to Matilda, escort her off
the floor into a group of young people, and in a minute or two leave her with a
callow youth whose neckcloth almost obscured his chin. How Gabriel had managed
to get the shy Matilda in conversation with a gentleman her own age, instead of
stuck in the corner with the matrons as usual, Psyche had no idea, but she
admired him for it.

          He was approaching their little
group. At last, she could take him aside and give him more lessons in
deportment. Gabriel bowed to her and the other women. “If you would permit me,
ladies,” he said. “My finance has promised this dance to me.”

          She had done no such thing. “No,
no,” she said. “Let us find a quiet spot, I have so much to say, and–”

          ”The chat can wait,” he said,
smiling at the others, but his tone was unexpectedly firm.. “This time, you
shall listen to me, dear Psyche.”

          And somehow Psyche found herself
being led to the dance floor once more, and this time, Gabriel was putting his
hand on her waist and pulling her so close, so close–

          Psyche found it hard to catch her
breath. “I don’t–I mean, I’m not–”

          ”You are allowed to waltz; I asked
Aunt Sophie earlier,” Gabriel cut off her first flustered attempt at an excuse.
“You are not a blushing novitiate in her first season, but a sophisticated lady
who is quite at home on the dance floor. And I have had quite enough
instruction for this evening, if you please.”

          “I was only trying to assist you,”
Psyche said, then wished she could take back the words. She had been thinking
mainly of herself, admit it. But surely he did not want to fail.

          But at the moment, social niceties
seemed to be the last thing on Gabriel’s mind. His grip was so firm, his arm so
strong, there was nothing for her to do but be swept along as they circled the
dance floor.

          It was a strange feeling. Of
course she had waltzed many times, with many partners, including the stumbling
Percy, who always clutched her too tightly and tended to step on her feet. But
no one else had given her this feeling of no longer being in control, of being
guided smoothly and with consideration, but of being most definitely directed. The
independent and strong-willed Miss Hill should have been bothered by the new
sensation. She was, she was, Psyche assured herself; she was most bothered
indeed.

          Except it was such an unexpected
change of mood that it felt almost a relief, to relax for just one moment, to
let someone else be in control for just a little while. . .

          No, what on earth could she be
thinking? It was the affect this too-smooth actor had on all the women who came
too close to him, and she refused to be another. She must be firm.

          Except it was hard to be firm when
he spun her about with such practiced ease, when he stood so near. Never had
she felt this way about any other dance partner, but Gabriel leaned so close, with
his immodest good looks, his clear-eyed gaze, the dark blue eyes which always
seemed to hold a fire in their lapis depths that suggested so much smoldering
passion . . .

          She shook herself mentally; this
was not the way a proper young lady should think. She refused to fall under his
spell. The man was not just an actor, he must be a magician as well. With great
effort, she pulled her gaze away from his face and instead looked down at his
well-tied neckcloth.

          “I call it the Sinclair,” he told
her, his tone teasing. “I invented it when I was up at Oxford and had
aspirations to be the next dandy, cock of the walk, and all that.”

          “What?” She was startled enough to
once more meet his eyes. That was a tactical mistake; this time, those clear
blue orbs seemed to have captured her within their lucid depths, and she could
not look away. Her throat felt dry. “What are you talking about?”

          “The arrangement of my neckcloth,
of course. I thought you were once more interested in male fashion?” His tone
was gently teasing, but she blushed in earnest at the reminder of their earlier
dispute.

          “I was only trying to help,” she
said, her tone dignified. “Just as with my–my advice in social matters–”

          “I know that, and I should not
have lost my temper,” he agreed.

          “Is that why you asked me to
waltz,” she demanded, feeling suddenly irritable herself. “So that you could
torment me with such reminders?”