Dear Impostor (5 page)

          "But–" Psyche had to
swallow her protests. Why was this so complicated? It had seemed like such a
simple plan. "His–his family is all dead, I believe. That is why–this is
why he has gone abroad, to escape the memories."

          "Indeed?" Aunt Sophie
fanned herself and waved away a footman with a tray of raffia. "No, go
away, man, can't abide that stuff. Bring me some proper brandy, and not the
poor stuff Wilfred brought, one of my own bottles."

          When the servant had retreated,
she went on, "He doesn't seem like the kind of man to run away, I would
have said. Though there's something familiar about that name."

          "Really?" Psyche asked,
her voice faint.

          "I can't quite grasp the
memory, but it will come to me. In the meantime, don't risk your whole heart,
my girl. He's a bit too smooth for my taste, marquis or not."

          "It's not a matter of heart–"
Psyche began, then stopped, appalled that she had been about to contradict her
whole concocted tale of love at first sight.

          "No, you just want to escape
Percy, which is easy to understand," Aunt Sophie agreed, her tone
matter-of-fact. "No one could fault you for that, no woman, at least. But
tread carefully, or you might find that your escape is more dangerous than the
fate you wish to flee from."

          Psyche nodded, too dazed by the
old woman's perception to try to argue. And Aunt Sophie would not have
listened, anyhow. Psyche could only pray Uncle Wilfred was not so perceptive.

          She was almost relieved when the
men rejoined them, and she waited impatiently till she had the chance to pull
her supposed fiancé aside for a moment of private conversation.

          "Now–" She guided
Gabriel toward one of the tall, slightly recessed windows on the pretext of
pointing out the shadowy garden outside. "What else do you want?"

           Gabriel's lips curled into a lazy
smile. He looked her up and down, then reached for her hand, which she gave him
reluctantly, glancing past him to the relatives who were bound to be watching
the newly-betrothed couple.

          As he kissed her fingers, Psyche
tried to repress an instinctive quiver. Her heart beating fast, she backed
deeper into the window niche, instinctively seeking to put more space between
them.

          "My dear, this is hardly the
place to tell you. I'm afraid your maidenly blushes–"

          "Oh, don't try to gull
me," she snapped, then to her annoyance, realized that she was indeed
blushing, caught using a cant term of which her aunts would not approve. "You
know what I mean. How much more do you want? How much money? I warn you, my
funds are limited and you're not getting a ha'penny more out of me."

          Gabriel glanced at her proper but
well-cut silk gown, at the pearl ear drops that dangled from her neatly-formed
ears, the single strand of exquisite pearls that circled her white throat. He
did not have to voice his skepticism.

          She bit her lip and looked away. "I
have money, but it's tied up in a ridiculous Trust. Not until I am engaged will
I have access to my own funds; Uncle Wilfred dribbles out my allowance as if I
were still twelve years old. And I need more money!"

          "Indeed." Gabriel
remembered the thin man in the cheap evening dress at the back of the theater,
the man whom he had knocked into a heap just before the carriage had appeared. The
pieces were falling into place.

          In another moment, it was all
blindingly clear. This was not a case of an arranged marriage, nor a suitor
whose embarrassing last-minute flight she was trying to cover up. He had even
wondered if she might be with child. There was not, had never been, any marquis–she
had made the whole thing up!

          Gabriel gazed down at her with
renewed respect. "What an ingenious fraud," he said, his tone
admiring. "How on God's earth did you expect to pull off such a pinchbeck
plot?"

          She stood still, momentarily stunned
into silence. He admired her plan? Admiration was the last thing she deserved
for this outrageous, deceitful, unconventional scheme. What sort of man was he?

          While he was obviously no stranger
to deceit or depravity, if his dinner tales were true, this sort of business
was the antithesis of all that Psyche was and hoped to be. Why, it revealed a
disregard for convention that was exactly like something her parents . . . she
quashed that thought and conjured up a mental image of Circe's earnest face
instead. Her motives were honorable. She was sure the same couldn't be said for
this rogue.

          Gabriel watched her anger build;
indignation had melted her icy composure and sparked new vivacity in her clear
blue eyes. He had to bite back a smile.

          "I intended to do it with the
help of a good actor, of course. Why do you think my maid promised you so much?
And if you think to blackmail me into paying you more, you will be sadly
disappointed. There is no more–that's the point–not unless I can pull off this
deception."

          She poked a finger into the folds
of his cravat. "And if you sway too much from the plan, sir, I shall dock
you accordingly. You shall have less money, not more!"

          "Severe punishment
indeed," he protested, his tone mock serious. "And unwarranted. Why,
I have been the soul of propriety." He captured her ungloved hand with his
own and tangled their fingers together.

          "Propriety!" she
sputtered as she tried to pull her hand free. "Do you call kissing my palm
proper? Do you call winking at me proper?"

          He would not release her hand–the
slim fingers, the sensitive palm which stoked the spark of longing inside him
to a higher flame. He wanted more of her, not less. Instead, he brought it to
his lips and kissed the palm again.

          Psyche felt the quiver that ran
through her whole body; his lips were warm against her skin, his breath a
whisper that echoed deep inside her, stirring strange and unfamiliar feelings. Psyche
took a deep breath, willing herself to remain calm.

          "Sir, remember where you
are!"

          "I am enjoying the company of
my fiancee, with her loving family all about," he retorted, enjoying the
flush that anger brought to her cheeks. "And as for my payment being
docked–I have never charged for a kiss before, though there have been those who
say that I should. Besides, it's not more money I want."

          She blinked at him, once more
biting that luscious smooth lower lip. "Then what?"

          "Why, I merely want to throw
myself into the role. I wish to be your fiancé, my love." He smiled
sweetly as he again touched his lips to her bare hand, relishing the petal-soft
skin of her palm. Was she this soft in other, more intimate places? He would
love to stroke the ripe curve of her breast and show her what true confusion he
could evoke.

          At the moment, she looked
flustered enough.

          Psyche tried hard not to be
distracted by the warmth of his grasp. Pulling her hand away, she stammered. "B-but–"

          "Besides, I would call
kissing my 'fiancee's' hand an affectionate courtesy and nothing more."

          "It was a shocking
display."

          "Shocking?" Laughter
lurked in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. "If a kiss on the hand
shocks you, Psyche, you had better borrow your aunt's vinaigrette."

          "Why?" she asked warily,
eyes narrowing in distrust.

          "Because this could very well
send you into an apoplexy."

          Moving far more quickly than she
would have supposed someone of his infuriating indolence to be capable of, he
wrapped one hand snugly around the back of her neck and pulled her forward. Their
lips and breath mingled for only a moment, but the flood of sensation that his
nearness caused overwhelmed her. It was surely the shock that had her standing
so numbly instead of slapping his face as he deserved. Or maybe she had had too
much wine. Yes, that was surely the reason that she felt so overheated and
dizzy. It certainly wasn't his crisp scent or the warmth of his touch. No other
fumbling suitor's awkward attempts at an embrace had affected Psyche in this
way.

           Yes, it must be the wine, and not
the sure, practiced kiss she had just received.

          Gabriel stared down at Psyche's
dazed expression with stunned consternation of his own. The innocent brushing
of mouths should not have made his heart beat faster than his earlier chase
through the London alleys. But insensibly, it had. He had only meant to steal a
taste of the delectable confection before him. Now he found himself hungry for
the whole feast.

          Perhaps he would enjoy his role
even more than he had first imagined.

          Psyche took a deep breath and put
both hands on his chest, pushing him back. She peeked around the heavy drapery,
glancing toward the rest of their party and was not a little relieved to see
only a couple of the relatives still throwing covert glances their way. Even
Percy was absorbed in pontificating to her uncles.

          "Are you mad?" she
whispered.

          Gabriel shook his head. "I
must be."

          "You are the most shocking of
libertines! You are–you are–" Searching unsuccessfully for a word worthy
of her disgust, Psyche stepped out of the window alcove, hoping her face was
not still flushed.

          Gabriel followed slowly, an
angelic grin on his dark face. She half expected him to hum a tune. It was all
that was lacking from his innocent mien.

          "Your behavior, sir, is . . ."
she tried again.

          "Improper?" he
suggested.

          "Yes!" she grasped the
word eagerly. "Most improper. You are an unprincipled rake, just as Percy
said, and totally lacking in any sense of decorum."

          Gabriel regarded her from beneath
those dark slashes of brow. "Poor innocent Psyche, you really think that
is the worst insult one can bestow."

          "Of course," she said
slowly, the confusion in her voice evident even to her.

          "I hope you may continue to
think so, sweetling." He smiled, a strange mixture of emotions visible
briefly in the depths of his eyes.

          Did he dare to offer her pity? "Save
your breath and your smooth manners for my family, Mr. Sinclair. I have no need
of them."

          She turned in a swirl of silken
skirts to leave him, but paused at a thought. Despite his improper behavior,
she herself could behave correctly.

          "I, at least, will be honest
with you. That kiss just cost you five pounds!"

          He chuckled. "Severe
punishment, indeed, my lady."

          He was mad, he must be. Shaking
her head, she turned to rejoin her family. From across the room, Mavis'
ill-tempered voice rose. "Here, Psyche, show some decorum and rejoin the
party. You promised to turn the pages while Matilda plays her latest
tune."

          Cousin Matilda, whose skill at the
pianoforte was only moderate, flashed a silent plea toward her mother, but Mavis
ignored it. Psyche surrendered to the inevitable. She would be relieved to walk
away from this impostor, she told herself, trying to believe it. "Behave
yourself till we can talk further," she whispered to the infuriating man
standing next to her. "No more tales of exotic islands, please!"

          "Should I talk about Europe, instead, now that peace has reopened it to English travelers?" he murmured
back, a teasing glint in his eyes. "I've had some amusing escapades there,
as well."

          "Dear God, no," she
snapped. "Just stay out of trouble!"

          "Psyche!"

          "Yes, Aunt Mavis, I'm
coming."

          She left him standing beside the
window enclosure. Gabriel watched as she walked across the room–the girl
carried herself like a queen, he thought–and took her place beside Matilda,
giving her plump cousin a reassuring smile.

          "I'm sure the new melody will
be delightful," Psyche said, her tone warm.

          He bit back a grin. She was not
selfish, this ice maiden, though she did have a greed for money. Well, it was
her own money she wished for, and that was better than most women, Gabriel
reflected. Mostly, they wanted whatever their current lover could scrape up;
he'd had his own pockets emptied more than once. This woman, despite her
beauty, despite the passion he suspected lay well hidden beneath the cool
surface charm, would be no different than the rest, and certainly, certainly
she was not wicked enough to deserve a glimpse inside the dark secrets of his
own heart. He tried to hold on to his usual cynicism as his gaze skimmed the
room.

          The rest of the family were
listening, more or less–a woman with bad teeth whose name he'd already
forgotten was still chattering away in the corner–to Matilda who made a brave
effort at the pianoforte. Her mother, who must be tone deaf, nodded in approval;
the rest of the family bore it stoically, as if well accustomed to Matilda's
musical talent, or lack of it.