Dear Impostor (52 page)

          It made the knowledge that he had to leave her
that much harder to bear.

           Later, when they lay in quiet repletion,
limbs entangled and her hair cloaking his chest, she said, “You are not still
desiring your father’s approval?”

          “No,” he said too quickly, then sighed. “I
suppose I would like his respect.”

          “But failing that, can you not respect
yourself?” she suggested.

          “For what?” he asked, his tone troubled. “For
running away from the scandal I had caused?”

          “You were a boy,” she reminded him. Somewhere,
a cricket rasped its nighttime song.

          “But I am a man now. What have I done to be
proud of?”

          “You have returned, older and wiser,” she shot
back. “You have saved me from my greedy uncle and annoying cousin; you have
stood up to your enemies, you have faced your old fears. You have faced your
father.”

          “When I left, I said I would come back and
force him to his knees,” he said, very low.

          “That was a boy’s threat,” she told him.

          “So you do not think less of me, that today I
allowed him to walk away?”

          She leaned up to kiss the tip of his chin. “No,
my dear, I do not.”

          He was silent for a moment, then he moved
restlessly beneath her.

“Older, yes, but wiser? Because
I know how to win a game of whist, how to dance and shoot and handle a sword? Because
I know how to charm a woman? Or at least, most women. You were not amused by my
banter when we first met, as I recall.’ He kissed the top of her head.

          She smiled into the dark; the candle had
guttered out some time ago. “Even charm is a gift that can be used well or
ill.”

          “You think I have used it well?” There was a
glimmer of hope in his voice; funny how she could hear even more layers of
meaning in his words when she could not see his face.

          “Yes, I do. I have seen you make a plain woman
feel beautiful.”

          “You think that is worth commending?” He moved
his arm slightly so that he could stroke her cheek; his touch was soft and
sure.

          “I think it very commendable,” she agreed. “And
not a gift to be lightly dismissed.”

          He made a sound that was almost a sigh. “It
seems little enough to me.”

          “But not to the woman whose day you have
brightened,” she countered. “You must let go of the memories, Gabriel, and also
of your anger. You have a good heart, it must not be tainted by bitterness. You
have courage and loyalty. These are valuable attributes.”

          “Funny,” he whispered into her hair. “All
those pleasing tributes I would have used to describe you.”

          She smiled, though he could not see. “Really?”

          “Of course. And perhaps you, too, need to let
go of your anger, the anger you feel for your parents.” He said it very softly,
and for a moment, she was not sure that she heard him correctly.

          “I–angry? I most certainly am not angry!” She
was about to argue further, when the truth of his words hit home. “Oh,” she
whispered, pulling the covers tight around her neck. “Oh, yes, why did I never
see it? I fear you are right. I was so angry because they left me, because they
died. Yet how can I blame them for that?”

          His only answer was to stroke the soft curve
of her back. And she knew that only she could decipher that puzzle. For a long
time they lay, two halves of one whole, their bodies curved together, and
eventually, she slept.

          In the morning, Psyche woke in the other guest
chamber to find the other side of the bed empty. She raised her head in alarm,
then lay it back on the pillow as memory returned. He had carried her, half
asleep and protesting, back to her own bed in the early hours of the morning. He
would not embarrass her before his father’s staff, she thought, smiling. Would
they ever have the chance to lie late in bed, with no fear of awkward
explanations? She would enjoy teaching him to lie abed until dawn was past,
holding her close as they nestled into smooth linen sheets. Then she remembered
that she might not have that chance, that despite everything, he might not
stay, and a wave of grief threatened to overwhelm her. With an effort, she
pushed it back. He would come to see clearly, she reassured herself. But she
was wide awake now, and she sat up, stretching, and pushed the bedcovers away.

          Dressing quickly in the same navy gown, she
pulled her hair into a smooth knot and then made her way downstairs. She found
Gabriel in the dining room, and to her relief, no one else except a
nervous-looking footman who served her.

          Psyche took her seat and sipped her tea..

          “Good morning, Miss Hill; did you sleep well?”
Gabriel asked, his usual mischief lighting his eyes.

          Since he knew very well what had troubled her
sleep, she frowned at him for an instant, before remembered pleasure softened
her expression. “Tolerably well,” she murmured, aware of the servant still
hovering near the sideboard.

          “Mrs. P. makes a nice sleeping draught; you
should try it,” Gabriel suggested, his blue eyes still laughing.

          “Thank you, I will keep that in mind the next
time I have a disordered night,” she answered gravely; she saw him grin.

          The footman offered her platters filled with
sausage and kidneys and ham, eggs and porridge and toasted bread. Psyche filled
her plate and ate slowly. She was, in fact, quite hungry. She looked across the
table at Gabriel, whose gaze had shifted; his expression hard to read.

          “What are you thinking?” She asked at last.

          “How my mother used to sit in that chair,” he
told her. “She would have liked you–she would have loved you, I am sure of it.”

          “I am sorry I did not have the privilege of
meeting her,” Psyche said, reaching across to touch his hand.

          Gabriel nodded, but he did not answer. In a
moment, he said, “I have told the servants to summon your carriage.”

          “Are we going back to London?”

          He nodded. “The day is clear; we should be in
the city by afternoon; I cannot think that Barrett’s gang can keep up an ambush
for this long. There should be enough traffic to spoil their plans and keep us
reasonably safe.”

          Psyche could not honestly say she was sorry to
leave this sad, empty house. When she had finished her meal, she pushed back
her plate, and the footman jumped to pull her chair out and allow her to rise.

          She nodded her thanks. “Should we–um–say our
thank yous to our host?”

          “Our reluctant host?” Gabriel amended, his
tone dry. “I suppose so.”

          With her hand tucked into Gabriel’s arm,
Psyche walked by his side down the hall and to the study door, where Gabriel
knocked.

          He waited for a moment, then opened the door. “We
are leaving, Father.”

          Silence, then a noise that might have been a
grunt. The wing chair was pulled up to the fire again, and the air in the room
was too warm. Psyche thought how much this bitter old man was missing, through
his inability to love or accept his sons.

          “Thank you for your hospitality,” Gabriel
continued, his tone polite.

          Still no answer; a coal popped in the fire,
then Gabriel shut the door. Psyche was left with the image of the motionless
man staring into the fire, a perennial scowl on his face, his form lost in the
shadows. She had a moment of instinctive insight: somewhere deep within his
heart of hearts, the Marquis must believe himself completely unlovable, totally
without worth, to be so unable to accept any affection, any friendship even,
from those who by nature’s law ought to be closest to him.

          She looked up at Gabriel and for an instant
caught an expression of grief on his face, then he recovered his usual air of
poised urbanity and lifted his brows as he saw her gazing at him.

          “I’m sure you are ready to leave this house,”
he said, his tone dry.

          She nodded, but she pressed his arm as they
walked to the outer door. Their chaise was waiting. Mrs. Parslip was there to
curtsy and make her farewells. Regardless of the staring footman, Gabriel
reached to hug the little housekeeper again.

          “It was good to see you, Mrs. P,” he told her.
“You made me feel like a boy again.”

          The woman smiled. “I shall hope to see you
again.” She took something from the folds of her apron and put a small object
into his hands.

          Psyche couldn’t help but look–it was a
miniature of the type that fashionable ladies often had painted of themselves. She
saw a lovely, sweet-faced lady with soft brown hair who bore an obvious
resemblance to the man beside her–Gabriel’s mother.

          Gabriel had to clear his throat. “Thank you,
Mrs. P.” He was quite sure the housekeeper did not have his father’s permission
for this gift, but it meant the world to Gabriel. The small portrait would mark
the beginning of his newly-revised memories, the easing of old pain.

          Mrs. Parslip beamed and curtsied one more time
as Gabriel handed Psyche up. He took his seat beside her. The driver lifted the
reins and the carriage rolled smoothly forward.

          They sat in silence as the vehicle moved down
the long drive, then Psyche turned to gaze in inquiry at her companion. “Was it
helpful, this visit?” she asked quietly.

          Touching the miniature, he did not pretend to
misunderstand her. Indeed, some of the old bitterness, the long-standing anger,
had ebbed. After they had made love, he had slept easily, and the dreams had
not returned. He seemed to have turned a corner. He knew now that his mother
had loved him. And to see his father as an adult was to see that he was not the
all-powerful, all-knowing figure who had ruled Gabriel’s childhood with an iron
hand. And if his father was fallible, after all, then his assessment of Gabriel
might be similarly flawed.

          It was only because of Psyche that he had had
the chance to understand these revelations, as startling as bolts from the
heavens. Only because of Psyche had he returned to this house of painful
memories, and because of Psyche, he now understood that he could be the man he
chose to be, not the failure that his father had judged him, not a replica of
his tyrant of a sire.

          “I think you have released me from a
decades-old curse,” he told her.

          She looked startled, then her eyes cleared as
understanding dawned. “I am glad, “ she said. “We must all come to terms with
our parents, I suppose.”

          It was his turn to be surprised. “What, my
jackass of a father has taught you something, too?”

          “Oh, yes,” she said, thinking of the long
silent dinner they had endured, the glares they had received from the Marquis
when he deigned to look Gabriel’s way at all. “You were right in what you said
last night. I have been angry at my parents for a long time, for risking
themselves in such a foolhardy experiment, for dying, for leaving me to raise
Circe by myself. But staying in that house reminded me of the years of love and
laughter and good times I shared with them, and how fortunate I was to have
parents who valued me, who encouraged me, who accepted me for everything that I
was.”

          Her voice quivered, and she had to swallow
hard. Gabriel saw that her eyes gleamed with tears, and she blinked them back. “I
still miss them; I always will. But I will also remember to be thankful for
every day we had together.”

          He took her hands and held them close within
his own; he wanted desperately to lighten the sadness that shadowed her face
and to protect her from any further grief. It pained him more than he could say
to think that he might cause her unhappiness if he left. But he also knew that
he could do her more harm by staying.

          Soon enough, he would be gone, back to foreign
lands and high-stakes card games which might someday allow him new entry into
the kind of life that Psyche deserved. He thought he had found his chance, with
Barrett’s property, but he had been misled. Gabriel knew that he must leave–he
would never cheat Psyche of what she so rightfully deserved. Nor could he
expect a woman like Psyche to wait for the years it might take him to retrieve
his fortune. But what they had had was so precious, their stolen lovemaking so
intense, so overpowering, that he would cherish it all his life.

          No, despite the beginnings of new
understanding, he could offer her too little. And face the truth–even if he had
money, had property, he was still not the man for Psyche, not the kind of
sterling upright gentleman with an unblemished past whom Psyche deserved. For
Psyche, the best would hardly be good enough, and he fell far short of that
exemplary level.