Dear Impostor (56 page)

          “I have not the money to restore it, just yet.
I will take possession in a year or two, perhaps. The disrepair will hardly get
much worse in that time.”

          A year or two, perhaps . . . Psyche swallowed
hard against the lump in her throat.
Perhaps.

          Gabriel glanced at her face, then away. He
could not tell her the truth–that if he rode with them all the way back to
London, witnessed Circe’s happy cries that they were all safe, felt the lure of
Psyche’s company once more, the chance to fall into the easy routine of feeling
himself at home, with family, he might not have the strength to leave. And
simply to embrace Psyche again, to kiss her full lips and pull her willing body
close to his–just the thought made his blood stir and the familiar ache
reawaken. No, he had to do it now, while his resolve was fixed. Above all, he
dared not touch her.

          “I had thought that you–that we–” Psyche
paused, as if not sure how to continue. “I can marry where I choose, now–”

          He could not leave her thinking that he did
not care, no more false cruelties; she was too intelligent, anyhow, to believe
them. “I feel only the greatest admiration for you, my dear Miss Hill,” he
said. “The utmost respect, the deepest fondness. But you deserve so much more
than I can give you.”

          His voice faltered, then he summoned all his
resolution and lifted his head to meet her gaze. “You deserve a prince among
men, Psyche, not a make-believe marquis, a fake lord who has no reputation, no
honor left to offer you. You deserve a man with an unsullied past, a noble
character in every sense of the word, a man with a purer love to give you than
I would ever be able to offer. No matter how far I am able to make my way back,
repair my life, some things will not change. I have thrown away my innocence,
lost my good name, and I fear I will never be the man worthy of your love, much
less your hand in marriage.”

          “But you are the one I love,” she whispered,
her eyes glinting with unshed tears.

          Gabriel felt his heart contract within him,
and it was his turn to swallow hard. “I will treasure that thought every day
that I draw breath. But for once in my misbegotten life, I will do the right
thing. I will have the courage to walk away and allow you to have a better
life, a more illustrious future than I could bestow.”

          She stomped her foot in frustration. “You are
being a fool!”

          “It would not be for the first time,” he
agreed wryly. He yearned to lift his hand to her cheek, but he dared not touch
that warm, flawless skin, or all his precious self-control would desert him. He
took a step back.

          “You will be better off without me,” he
repeated.

          She met his gaze with stubborn resolve. “No,”
she said. “I think not. But I will survive alone. I did not know that for a
time after my parents’ sudden death, but I am stronger than I thought.”

          He felt a surge of pride in her. “Of course
you are.”

          “But I will always love you, Gabriel,” she
said softly. “Always. Even as angry with you as I am right now, I will never
deny how I feel.”

          The pain was almost too much to bear. Gabriel
nodded, struck mute by the love shining from her clear blue eyes. She would
forget him eventually, he was sure of it; with her beauty and her spirit and
her courage, the men in London would make sure of that. But he would never
forget this moment, nor the look in her eyes.

          He would hold the memory to him many a lonely
night and solitary day, but he would know that he had done the right thing, for
once in his life, the noble thing. Psyche’s well-being was more important than
his happiness. After so many mistakes, he would find his redemption in
relinquishing the one thing he wanted most in all the world.

          Footsteps in the passage announced David’s
emergence into the sunlight. The younger man stopped, as if aware that he had
walked into a
tete-a-tete
. “Um, I’ll just go round to the stables and
check on the gig,” he said. “Don’t mind me.”

          “No, I was just going,” Gabriel said.

          Psyche reached out one hand, then saw that he
did not trust himself to touch it; she nodded instead. “God keep you safe,” she
said very low.

          Then she kept her expression composed,
although she bit her lip so hard she found later that it had bled, until
Gabriel turned and walked away. And only when he was out of sight did she weep
upon the lapels of David’s blue superfine.

He rode hard through the early
hours of the morning, striding his hired steed and galloping out of the inn
yard before the sun was well up. He rode through the rising mists that obscured
the green fields, through the first bird calls and then the rising cacophony of
trills and warbles and less harmonious caws that greeted the rising sun. But he
heard little, noticed little of the verdant pastures and golden grain around
him, or the farmers in their fields harvesting the first hay, because his
thoughts were centered on one thing only, on one woman only.

          When he was an hour past Tunbridge and knew he
would soon pass the entrance to his own bedraggled estate, Gabriel had a brief
thought of stopping to inspect its condition, but he thrust the notion aside. It
would hardly have changed much in a few weeks. It could wait; he had to get to London, he had to find Psyche . . . even now some callow youth could be bowing over her
hand, eliciting the honor of an early morning ride in the park, lifting her up
to her saddle. No one else should be holding Psyche, no other man’s hands
should encircle that trim waist nor pull her close for an unbidden kiss–the
thought made Gabriel curse a little and urge his tired horse onward.

          But when he reached the drive which led to his
own property, he slowed his mount despite his earlier resolutions. A wagon
filled with lumber was turning up the driveway, his driveway. What would bring
such a cart here? Had the driver mistaken his road? The weary horse beneath him
snuffled into its reins, tossing its head. Gabriel hesitated, then turned his
steed into the drive.

          The lane showed signs of recent traffic, and
the wagon lumbered steadily along. Gabriel tried to hail the driver, but the
man seemed deaf to his call, so he followed, feeling increasingly more puzzled.
In spite of the urgency that made him begrudge any moment wasted, he decided
that he would investigate, very briefly. Had someone else claimed the estate? Was
there some heir to Barrett who was contesting the deed? Had some band of
gypsies made camp on the untenanted land? Someone must send them on their way.

          The wagon rolled up to the front of the house,
and Gabriel pulled up his horse just behind. But although two men came down to
help the driver of the wagon unload heavy bundles of board, Gabriel’s attention
had been drawn to the house itself. He looped the ends of his reins around a marble
statue that had somehow appeared in the newly weeded greenery at the side of
the entrance, and then climbed the steps. The door stood open; someone had
rehung it–or perhaps, replaced it altogether–on shiny new hinges. Inside, he
could hear the sound of hammering.

          What in the name of– Gabriel stepped back to
avoid a workman in a leather apron who hurried out, his arms filled with strips
of wood.

          “Sorry, gov’,” the man muttered, but he seemed
to have no time to chat.

          Gabriel frowned; he had to find someone in
charge of this bedlam and find out just what they thought they were doing. Who
had ordered this–this–he glanced around at the hallway, astonished to see how
much change had been accomplished already. The walls gleamed under new paint
and paper, and decayed parts of the wainscoting had been replaced. The first
room that he glanced into had men working industriously. Sunshine glinted
cheerfully through clean window panes, and the dust had been removed from the
floors; there was no mouse in sight and the only sounds he detected were the
banging of hammers. The house smelt of new paint and beeswax and soap and
linseed oil. He could hardly credit it was the same derelict house that he and
Psyche had walked into only a few weeks before.

          Psyche–he had to get back on the road to London. He had to find her, beg her forgiveness, plead for another chance . . . Gabriel
hastened his steps, determined to have words with someone in charge and then
return to his tired steed.

          He almost walked past the library, as no
sounds of obvious labor emerged from within. But as he strode by, he saw
something from the corner of his eye that made him wheel swiftly to return to
the doorway. Astonished, he paused and stared. It was a vision, conjured up by
his days and nights of dreaming of her, it must be.

          The vision raised her fair head; her eyes
widened slightly, but she made no exclamation of amazement. “Hello, Gabriel,”
Psyche said. She sat in front of a handsome desk; papers littered the polished
top.

          For a long moment, he simply feasted his eyes
on her face. Her fair hair was arranged much more softly than her normal tight
knot. Her becoming soft pink gown was cut low across the bosom—too low, he
decided, frowning briefly. She had never looked more delicately lovely or
feminine. But he knew that ‘delicate’ wasn’t a completely accurate description.
Psyche was strong–strong enough to watch him walk away and allow him time to
get the truth through his own damned thick skull.

          She looked recovered from their ordeal, but
was it a vain hope to detect signs of strain around her blue eyes? She regarded
him thoughtfully, yet she hardly seemed surprised.

         
Dear God, let her have missed me, too. 
Don’t let her have changed her feelings about me.

          He took a step inside, than another. Still,
she did not speak.

          “Can you forgive me?” he asked, his voice
husky.

          She looked down for a moment at the sheets of
paper in front of her and folded her hands gracefully. “The question is, have
you forgiven yourself?”

          Silence. He thought about it before answering.
“I think I have made a start, laid some of the ghosts. And I did not think of
my father at all, this time.”

          He hoped she would inquire just who he did
think of, but instead she asked, “Where did you go?” She still sounded
matter-of-fact, as if they had parted only a few hours before.

          “I made it as far as Spain,” he said, keeping his tone light with great effort.

          “The gaming was not good?”

          “Oh, it was, my pockets are much better lined,
but the cards bored me. And the weather there is bad this time of year.”

          “Too much sunshine?” she suggested, her tone
dry.

          “Too much heat,” he agreed. “And I found I had
lost my taste for paella and sangria, and I could not sleep at all of nights. The
crickets were too loud in the twilight, and the birds too shrill in the dawn. I
had planned to go on to Italy, but I knew I should not like it there, either .
. . Because you would not be there.”

          She gazed at him, her face calm, her beautiful
eyes betraying nothing. He felt the first stirrings of panic; she had never
been so hard for him to read. Gabriel had to clear his throat; he felt as
awkward as a green boy. “All I could think of was you; I saw your face in the
first golden blush of daylight, and I heard your laughter when the church bells
rang. You were always with me, but you were not with me, and I thought the ache
of your loss might drive me mad.”

          “So you came back?”

          Still, she did not smile. Perhaps it was too
late. His heart lurched at the thought.

          He nodded. “I am so sorry, Psyche, my dear
Miss Hill.”

          “For leaving or for returning?” Her tone was
still detached, and she had not moved toward him. He thought he might die of
the longing he felt to hold her in his arms. What if she told him to leave, to
never return?

          “For both, I suppose,” he said, sighing. He
took one more step to close the gap between them, and she watched him, her gaze
solemn. “I tried for once in my life to do the noble thing, and I could not. I
know I am not worthy of you, goddess, there is no way that I can change that
much. But despite that, I cannot forget you; I cannot excise your image from my
heart. And dammit, I don’t want to!”

Gabriel stared directly into her
eyes, offering himself as plainly and humbly as he knew how. “I am the man I
am. I will never be a saint, but I will do my utmost to make you happy. Beyond
that, I don’t know what else to do except tell you that I love you.”

          She pressed her lips together, then they
parted, so smooth, so soft–he yearned to kiss them just once more–no, to kiss
them every day, every hour. She seemed about to speak, but Gabriel heard
another footstep behind him. He looked over his shoulder, and Psyche lifted her
brows as she gazed at the workman.

          “Yes?”

          “Beg pardon, Miss, but w’ere you want this’ere
mantel?” He gestured behind him, and Gabriel saw the handsome carved piece that
two men were laboring to carry.