Dear Impostor (44 page)

          Silence, then he cleared his throat. His voice
was husky. “Psyche . . . goddess, you do not know what you are saying.”

          “Oh, I think I do,” she said, her smile
serene. “I think I know quite well.”

          In this nightmare of a house, still reeling
from the shock of its ruin, Gabriel found it hard to think. He could not
believe her; she was a gently reared young woman of good family. True, her
parents had been eccentric, but even they would not have allowed her so much
liberty that she really understood–his gaze dropped to the smooth curve of her
neck, the white hollow at the base of her throat that he ached to kiss–he
couldn’t think logically. But one fact stood out, even in his state of
bemusement.

          “Psyche,” he said softly, as if to a child. “I
am a gamester; I play cards to survive. You think that you can best me?” 

          “I can try,” she said, still strangely
certain.

          Perhaps it would be easier to humor her. He
would beat her at a hand of cards, and send her on her way, with less cajoling
and argument. However–

          “We have no cards,” he pointed out. “Therefore–”

          ”I saw some in the library,” she told him.

          He shrugged; it was folly to honor any chamber
in this house with such a designation, but he didn’t waste his breath pointing
this out. “Very well, let us see.”

          They walked together through the dusty hall
and into the large room lined with book shelves and wood panels and wide
moldings that were likely handsome, if one could see beneath the veneer of
dust. Sure enough, scattered in the corner of the room where perhaps a card
table had once stood, playing cards littered the hardwood floor.

          Gabriel shook his head, then bent to collect
the cards. The stiff cardboard pieces were thick with damp and slightly warped,
and most of all–

          “We cannot play a game without a full deck,”
he explained patiently. “I see only about two thirds of the deck here.” Shreds
of the rest no doubt cushioned some rodent’s den behind the wood panels of the
room. “It is impossible.”

          “Then we shall draw from what is there,”
Psyche said. “A simple game, which will offset your greater experience, at least.
Pure luck, no more.”

          Once, he would have laughed and told her that
Lady Luck was his constant companion. Now, he knew how bitter such a statement
would sound, and how false. Gabriel nodded, resigned. It was true that such an
uncomplicated match would deny him the chance to outplay her; but nonetheless,
he could not conceive of losing. Cards were the only thing in his life which seldom
failed him.

          He awkwardly shuffled the handful of warped
cards, then placed the stack atop a dusty three-legged table, the only piece of
furnishing left in the room. “Very well, draw.”

          For the first time, Psyche looked tense. She
reached for the top card and smiled as she turned it over to show the faded
colors of a jack of diamonds. “A fair draw.”

          “We shall do two out of three, of course,”
Gabriel told her.

          She frowned, but when he drew a trey of
spades, relaxed. “I win,” she pointed out.

          “Only the first round.” He nodded, and she
drew another card; the table set on uneven legs and it rocked slightly at her
touch. This time, she turned over a six of hearts, and Psyche’s brows knit with
concentration.

          He drew the ten of diamonds. “My win,” he
noted.

          Psyche bit her lip, then jumped at the rustle
of small feet nearby. “Gabriel!” She looked at him in mute supplication.

          Nodding, he walked across to one of the room’s
dim corners; beneath a yellowed sheet of ancient newsprint and a few stray
curls of dust, the rodent who had alarmed his companion darted away once more. Gabriel
stamped his foot, and the mouse disappeared into a hole in the baseboard. The
room was silent again, and he returned to the table.

          “I have sent away our uninvited guest,” he
told her, his tone wry. “Draw, Psyche. The morning is advancing, and you need
to be on your way.”

          “I have not lost yet.” As if to prove her
point, Psyche reached for the deck and turned over the queen of hearts.

          Gabriel frowned. “Impressive,” he admitted. Slowly
he reached for the cards and drew a jack of spades.

          “I win!” Psyche exclaimed. “I am staying,
Gabriel.”

          Gabriel sighed. He had hoped to avoid a
confrontation, but the cards had failed him, too. On such a day, how had he
expected anything more?

          “It was a child’s game,” he told her, his
voice patient. “But this decision is not for play, it is most serious. You must
risk neither your good name nor your person, Psyche. You have to return.”

          She shook her head. “Do you not honor your
bets, my lord?”

          “Don’t call me that!” Gabriel said sharply. “There
is no one here to impress, save the rats. It is too late for masquerades, now
that we have seen the reality.” He nodded toward the devastation of the house.

          But Psyche looked only at him. She took one
step closer, and above the sour smell of damp and mildew, he detected the light
fragrance of her perfume. A smidgen of dust darkened one cheek, but beneath it,
her fair skin was unblemished, glowing with the inner luminescence of an
heirloom pearl. He wanted her so badly that his belly ached. And–damn these
stupid silk breeches–if she looked down, innocent or not, she would realize the
intensity of his need.

          The futility of the situation, of his dream,
seeped into him like the mildew which coated the walls. He had been so damn
close to having all that he had wanted. He had been so close to having Psyche
and being worthy of her.

          And Fate had trumped him in the final trick.

          “It is done, Psyche,” he spoke the words with
quiet finality.

          “You can’t mean it.” Psyche stepped toward
him, but stopped when he retreated.

          “But I do. This game is over and every gambler
knows when to cut his losses and leave the table.”

          Gabriel turned and walked toward the library
door. The once proud line of his shoulders slumped, looking defeated and tired.
She could not bear it. Only a little while ago he had been so hopeful, so
jubilant.

          “But I won,” she insisted softly.

          He halted in the doorway but did not turn to
face her. “I said I will not hold you to such a ridiculous wager. You could not
know what you are asking.”

           There was little else he could have said to
make her angrier. Slightly aghast at herself even while she did it, Psyche
picked up the warped deck and heaved it at him.

          It felt fabulous.

          Cards scattered everywhere, only a few
actually hitting him on the back and neck. He turned and gaped at her before
closing his mouth into a thin line.

          “Listen to me and listen well, Gabriel. You
are not going to tell me what I know and what I need and what I must do. I have
done nothing else for years except abide by Society’s rules, Decorum’s
dictates, and I am sick unto death of it.” Her voice rose until it was a fair
shriek.

          He said nothing.

          Psyche let her words sink in for a moment, and
then raised her chin high. “You may be giving up, but I am not. I will get my
inheritance, I will not marry Percy, and I will have you!”

          He quirked a brow. “You think so?”

          She nodded decisively. “Yes, I won you
fairly.”

          He seemed to think that over for a moment
before shaking his head. “Would that I could.”

          Infuriated with his arrogance, she pounded her
hand on the rickety table, sending up puffs of dust. “You can!”

          “Damn it, Psyche. I cannot!” He ate up the
space between them with long-legged strides. He grabbed her upper arms in his
hands and pulled her close. “What sort of man would I be if I were to make love
to you, share your body and take your innocence, all the while knowing I would
have to leave you?”

          Psyche watched him, loving him even now when
he was so angry. Want and need had stripped him of all his usual masks; his
lapis eyes were naked of his customary insouciant charm and full of stark
emotion.

          “Sweet heaven, I want to love you so badly,
what I would not give to taste and touch . . .” He was so close. Each warm
breath on her lips, each brush of his chest against hers made her need swell
inside her to unbearable proportion.

          Just when she thought he meant to clasp her to
him and press his lips against hers, he thrust her away. Her hip bumped
painfully against the table, but she stood firm.

          “Why can’t you simply freeze me out as you
would Percy?” His voice sounded strained and tight.

          She laughed weakly. “Because I don’t love him
as I love you.”

          Her declaration nearly sent him to his knees. It
staggered him. This pure, incredible creature loved him. And that’s when he
knew he’d have to hurt her.

          He made his smirk cruel. “My dear, you’ll have
to trust my vast experience when I tell you that what you are demanding has
nothing to do with love and everything to do with lust.”

          But inside he was saying something quite
different.
Come on, darling.
Slay me with a look, or cut me to
ribbons, but leave so that I can not ruin your life, too
. He would not see
her suffer disgrace because of him.

          But improbably, the corners of her delectable
mouth lifted. Her smile was slow and sure as she walked close to him. Laying
her hands on his tense shoulders, she leaned in until her lips were a breath
away from his.

          “I love you,” she whispered.

          His smirk disappeared, and he closed his eyes
tightly in an attempt to shut her out.

          “I love you.” Her voice grew steadier.

          “Stop it,” he ordered. Every line in his body went
rigid as he strove to reject what she offered, what he so desperately wanted.

          “I love you,” she said firmly.

          He opened his eyes. She saw the battle that
was raging inside him revealed in their dark depths. “You mustn’t,” he pleaded,
his voice achingly tender.

           Tears welled in her eyes because she knew
then that he loved her, too. She raised smudged hands and cupped his
lightly-stubbled cheeks. Turning, he pressed a fervent kiss into her palm.

           She tasted her own tears as she laughed
weakly. “I think it’s about time I do what’s right instead of what’s correct,
my love.” Tracing the scar near his hard mouth, she adored him with her eyes. “You
taught me that, you know.” Leaning her forehead against his, she whispered her
demand. “Now, teach me everything else.”

          Even knowing he wouldn’t deny her any longer,
she was unprepared for his arms clasping her so tightly, lifting her high
against him. Their lips and tongues met in sweet battle, their breaths growing
heated and short.

          “As you wish, goddess,” he said when at last
he pulled away. “But no more instruction; for once, we must do this my way.”

          Her stomach tight in anticipation, she brushed
her cheek against his with her nod. “I can do that,” she said, her voice eager.
She felt as well as heard his deep chuckle. She pulled back to scold him, but
his sudden change of expression stopped her.

          “I know I do not deserve you,” he said
solemnly.

          Psyche opened her mouth to protest, but he
held up a palm to silence her.

           “But for a few hours, I want to pretend that
this is our home, that it is worthy of you, that
I
am worthy.” He closed
his eyes and swallowed the lump that had lodged in his throat. “For just a
little while, let me be the man you deserve.” He lifted his lids, blinking
hard, and saw his own tears reflected on her cheeks. “This brief time together
will have to last me a lifetime.”

          Unable to answer, she gave him a watery smile.

          “Psyche, my dearest.” His voice trembled. He
felt hesitant, unsure of himself, a boy again new to love-making, uncertain as
to how to please. He lifted a trembling hand to her cheek but pulled it back
before he could feel her warmth. Once he felt her he did not trust he’d have
the fortitude to stop. “I–I don’t want to hurt you in any way. And if I stayed,
I would. I always end up hurting those whom I love . . .”

          But Psyche would not allow him any distance. Capturing
his hand, she raised it again to her cheek, brushing his fingertips across her
smooth skin and down to the fullness of her lips. Raising on her toes, she kissed
him, and the softness of her lips amazed him yet again. His mind might be
bemused, his poise stripped away by the new emotions that had sprang up within
him, but his body remembered. With a helpless moan, he kissed her surely,
firmly, his arms pulling her even closer, and she relaxed into his embrace.