Dear Impostor Page 10

No, he thought in disgust. They had destroyed each other.

  Of course, enduring a scandal and then exile, running for his life, surviving by his wits, had taught him that life held much more important decisions to be made than the color of his waistcoat or the arrangement of his cravat. But, Gabriel thought as he gazed at the results of his efforts in the looking glass and gave an approving nod, he still liked to be pleasingly attired. When he finished, Brickson dusted the shoulders of his black coat with a soft brush and stood back, the valet’s expression admiring.

  Gabriel hid his smile at the man’s pride and nodded his thanks. “No need to wait up for me,” he told the man. “After the party, I may escort the ladies home and then go out again for . . . um . . . other entertainment.”

  The man nodded, his expression revealing no surprise. “Good luck, milord, with the dice or the cards or any other game of chance you might engage in.”

  Gabriel grinned. “No ladies of the evening, Brickson, if that’s what you’re thinking. A man engaged to Miss Hill would be mad to pursue dross when he has a vision of pure gold before his eyes.”

  Brickson blinked, and Gabriel saw the slight lift of his lips before the servant regained a suitable expression of impassivity.

  Leaving the man to chuckle in private, Gabriel descended the steps. He found Psyche and her sister in the drawing room–Circe was allowed to eat dinner downstairs with the family when they had no company, he had discovered–as well as Aunt Sophie, who was sipping a glass of deep-colored wine. No uninspired sherry for Aunt Sophie, Gabriel thought, suppressing his own grin.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said, making his bow to Aunt Sophie, as befitted her senior status, then to Psyche and Circe in turn. Gabriel had already turned with the intention to pour himself a scotch when Psyche’s appearance registered on his suddenly befuddled brain.

  Gabriel jerked back to face her, not even caring that he stared. He also chose to ignore Sophie’s snort of laughter and Circe’s wide-eyed look of surprise. He ignored all except the vision of angelic loveliness that stood before him. In a gown of silvery blue, Psyche glowed.

  No, he thought, searching for the right word in his mind. She shimmered.

  Her golden hair was twisted atop her head into a mass of silky curls. The silky fabric of her gown fitted tightly to ripe breasts and slim arms before skimming rounded hips and long, long legs. Diamonds glittered at her ears, neck and hair. White gloves encased her arms to above the elbows with yet more diamonds encircling her delicate wrist. He had never seen such lush beauty in such an angelic guise.

  No, angel wasn’t the right term for his Psyche. An angel wouldn’t respond to such obvious admiration with cool, cautious eyes, or prim, rigid posture. His Psyche was too proud, yet too full of passionate promise beneath her conventional veneer, to be anyone’s angel.

  And when the hell had he started thinking of this willful chit as his?

  He strode to where she stood waiting, took her gloved hand in his own and—just to wipe the carefully distant look from her face—he pressed his lips against the inside of her wrist. He watched smugly as her lips parted on her indrawn breath.

  At this moment, he could have cheerfully scrapped his new estate or even his famous luck to take this gorgeous creature back upstairs to his room and strip her of her gown, her diamonds and her precious manners. Want was a grinding ache in his gut as he stared into her eyes. No angel could glare at him with such demanding authority–no angel, but– Normally, Gabriel would have laughed at such fanciful thoughts. But he had an alarming suspicion the joke was on him.

  “You are aptly named, dear Miss Hill.” He kept his voice low and intimate and did not step away from her, remaining close enough to see her pulse flutter nervously in the hollow of her pale throat. “You are a goddess, to be sure.”

  Long golden lashes dipped to hide her reaction to his words. Psyche did not answer. He suspected she was not so much flustered as wondering gravely what his new game was. He grinned. He couldn’t help it. He was starting to understand her and, strangely enough, it delighted him.

  Her curtsy was slight, and her expression cool. “I hope you had better luck with the tailor of your choice, milord.”

  “Indeed I did,” he told her. “You were most kind to try to help me, but some things a man really must do for himself.”

  “Such as acquiring his own title?” Psyche had recovered her usual chilly poise. She murmured low enough to escape the attention of the others.

  “Actors are accustomed to trying on new names as easily as new suits,” he returned, keeping his voice low, too. “It’s a skill that I am perfectly comfortable with.”

  “I dare say!” Her eyes flashed dangerously, and he thought he might have baited her sufficiently. No need to elicit, over such a trifle, the passion that he knew bubbled beneath her icy demeanor. There would be more appropriate times to evoke a spark from Psyche—and more appropriate places, he thought, glancing at the fascinated Sophie and Circe.

  Sophie downed the rest of her drink in a healthy swallow and set the crystal goblet down on the little pie-crust table at her side. “Psyche,” she said, coming to her niece’s rescue, “go see about dinner. An old woman could wither away waiting for her supper in this household.”

  Gabriel saw the relief in Psyche’s eyes as she turned from him to obey her aunt’s orders. But to Gabriel’s pleasure, Jowers’ arrival prevented her from going far.

  “Dinner is served,” the butler said from the doorway.

  Gabriel offered his arm, and after a slight hesitation, Psyche tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. It was only a polite gesture, the sort offered to the merest acquaintance, but with Psyche, it was so much more. He was acutely aware of her, standing so close, the slightest scent of rose oil that drifted from her skin, the faint rustle of silk from her gown. All inflamed his senses and made him wish fervently for a brief time alone with her.

  “I hope Cook has made that caramel pudding again,” Circe said, innocent of the currents that swirled beneath the surface. The child waited politely for Aunt Sophie to pick up her walking stick.

  Reminded of his duties, Gabriel offered his other arm to the older woman, who waved him away.

  “Do better at my own pace,” she said. “Come along, Circe.”

  “And keep your appetite for the food, sir,” Psyche muttered to him as they led the way into the dining room.

  “Of course, what would make you suspect otherwise?” Gabriel had mastered his moment of longing, and his tone was innocent, but she continued to watch him suspiciously as she took her seat at the table.

  With servants in the room, dinner conversation was confined to superficial topics. Psyche chatted about people he might meet at the party.

  “And you’ll likely also meet Thomas Atkins, the second earl of Whitkin’s son, His wife has dark hair and–”

  ”Good heavens, child.” Aunt Sophie shook her head as she motioned to the footman for another helping of sauce. “Do you intend to list every member of the Ton currently in London? You’ll put us all to sleep before we e’er reach the party.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Psyche muttered. “I just–just wanted to give Lord Tarrington some idea of what to expect.”

  The fact was, her stomach was in knots the closer they came to his public debut in front of England’s elite. It was all very well, as she had told herself earlier, to remember the excellent acting job he had done in front of her relatives. After all, her maid had coached the man for several hours, given him extensive information on who was who and who liked what and which topics to avoid. Now he would be on his own; she’d had no time to prepare him properly, and she’d always heard that an actor was nothing without his lines. What if Gabriel froze totally and said something so gauche that he put not just himself but Psyche and her whole family to shame?

  She’d just hoped to give him some pointers. The man himself had a rather sardonic gleam in his deep blue eyes, so she wasn’t sure if he appreciated her good intentions or no
t–if he brought up that wretched business with the would-be tailor once more she would scream, good manners or not!–but if even Aunt Sophie was noticing, she’d better be still.

  Yet when Psyche reached for her glass of wine, she saw that her hand shook; she took a deep breath. They would get through this, they would, she would be there, she would guide him, they would not be exposed, humiliated. . .

  Gabriel watched the signs of his employer’s agitation and hid a smile. Worried about his first public appearance, was she? He had his own reason for anxiety, but he kept it under control. He’d listened with careful attention to her catalogue of expected guests. A few of the names were familiar, but as he had spent little time in London before his exile, he did not feel in any imminent danger of his unmasking. There might be other school mates among the Ton, but not all, surely, would have as keen an eye and a memory as Freddy.

  Afterwards, Circe said goodnight to her sister and stopped to regard Gabriel seriously. “Have fun at the party,” she told him. “But be on your guard.”

  “Why on earth would he need to do that?” Aunt Sophie demanded, her eyes narrowing.

  Circe blushed; she had obviously not meant her aunt to overhear. “Only that Psyche says there are gossips who will fall on any suspicious–I mean–will make the worst of any unusual remark.”

  “I’m sure Tarrington has braved more dangerous gales than a bunch of windy old hens with too much time on their hands.” Their aunt sniffed. “Off to bed with you, child.”

  Circe nodded and slipped out of the room, but Gabriel felt Psyche’s anxious gaze on him. Gabriel felt only a mild sense of anticipation; but then, he always enjoyed a challenge. “Shall we go, my dear?”

  The footman had brought Psyche her cloak; she arranged it around her shoulders and pulled on the gloves she had removed to dine. Gabriel had as yet no cloak–that was on order, too–but the evening was mild, and he had procured hat and gloves during the afternoon. He helped Aunt Sophie into the carriage, then turned to take the hand of the younger woman.

  Psyche hesitated a moment before extending her hand. Even through the thin gloves he could feel the warmth of her fingers, the spark that seemed to flash between them when they stood so close–suddenly he was eager to reach the party; even a small affair was likely to have dancing, and he hungered to hold Psyche in his arms, to pull her even closer and–

  “Milord?” Psyche said, her cheeks looking suspiciously warm.

  “Yes.” Giving himself a mental shake, he pulled himself together and assisted her into the carriage, climbing in to sit on the other side. It was not as satisfactory as sitting beside her, but at least he could gaze at her countenance, shadowy in the dim street lights and the glow from the carriage lamps outside. The light played across the planes of her face, her sculpted cheekbones and firm, stubborn jaw. As if aware of his stare, she looked pointedly out the small pane into the street outside, astir with evening traffic.

  “Hope Sally has better fare at this party,” Aunt Sophie was grumbling. “Her pastries are a disgrace; she should fire her chef.” In a rare show of affection, she patted Psyche tenderly on her arm. “Not every household had such a fine manager as you, my dear. Sally would do well to listen to you more often.”

  Gabriel watched as Psyche’s expression softened with surprise and then pleasure. She took her aunt’s hand in her own and pressed it gently. “Thank you, Aunt Sophie.”

  The old woman squeezed back before loosening her hold and clearing her throat. Her voice was extra gruff as if to make up for her momentary lapse into sentimentality. “Pish posh. It’ll be a good thing when you are married at last, Psyche, then I can sit at home in front of my own fire instead of gadding about like some social moth.”

  Psyche’s lips spread into a fond smile. She knew her aunt too well to be offended. “But you like Sally and her husband, Aunt.”

  “I like them better when the weather is dry, and my bones cease aching,” Aunt Sophie retorted.

  When they reached the street where their hostess lived, a jostle of carriages and chaises suggested that the party was not so very small. After a short wait, their carriage was able to approach the entrance, and Gabriel got out to hand the ladies down. This time his touch on Psyche’s hand was brief, and she avoided meeting his gaze. But perhaps she was only watching her step; the street was muddy and littered.

  Inside, a line of party-goers waited to climb the staircase and enter the drawing room. Gabriel could hear the chatter of the guests already assembled, and someone tuning a violin. After the ladies removed their outer garments and Gabriel surrendered his hat, they too mounted the stairs, slowly because of Aunt Sophie, who was puffing by the time she reached the top. Psyche managed to whisper in his ear, “You must remember to greet our hostess first, thank her for allowing you to come without a proper invitation, and–” She bit off the rest when Sophie glanced at them with suspicion.

  Did she think he was a total simpleton?

  The footman, with only a glance, announced their names to the room, and there was a stir of heads turning. Their hostess hurried forward to curtsy to Aunt Sophie.

  “Damned crush,” the old lady said. “Find me a comfortable chair, Sally. I’m not as young as I was, you know.”

  “Of course, dear Sophie,” Sally Forsyth said, smiling. “Here, my man will lead you to a comfortable seat and fetch you a glass of wine.”

  When the older lady had been tended to, Sally reached to take Psyche’s hand. “Psyche, my dear, at last we get to met the mystery man! I’m all agog.”

  Psyche managed an appropriate smile, but it was hardly necessary. Sally had already turned to regard the man beside her with frank appraisal. “My dear Lord Tarrington, welcome.”

  Gabriel bowed over her hand. “It was very kind of you to allow me to come without a proper invitation,” he said on cue. But Psyche had not instructed him to smile just so, his blue eyes glinting with that slight hint of mischief–as if he and Sally engaged in some delightful scheme together–that was so irresistible.

  “I am only too happy to meet you,” Sally told him, her face aglow under the impact of his easy charm and handsome face. “This is not a grand affair at all, but indeed, as dear Psyche’s fiancé, I would not wish you to miss this chance to meet some of her other friends.”

  “Nor would I,” the actor agreed readily.

  Psyche gritted her teeth. He was following instructions, she would give him that. And his manner was smooth, but his luck couldn’t last. He had to slip up eventually, reveal his low origins or his bogus background and then, where would she be? Oh, if only he had disappeared after the family dinner, as she had originally planned.

  Yet she was also aware of the glances of the women around them, the hint of envy in their stares, and it wasn’t so bad, she knew in her heart of hearts, to be seen with such a charming, handsome, quick-witted man, after having Percy at her elbow for so long.

  As if her thought had conjured him up, like a bad fairy, she saw her cousin making his purposeful way through the other guests to join them. She stifled a groan. But by the time he approached her, she had her expression under control.

  “Good evening, Percy,” she said, her tone polite. “You remember Lord Tarrington, of course.”

  Gabriel made a polite bow. But his attention was still claimed by their hostess. Sally continued to chat with Gabriel, her expression animated as she neglected the newest arrivals shamefully. She was standing too close to him, too, Psyche noted, almost leaning on his arm. Just because Sally was married to her staid, boring, balding husband, did she think she could forget all propriety? Really, the effect this man had on women was truly scandalous. Psyche should have added a warning to Gabriel about too particular attention. Perhaps she should go over now and–

  But Percy was still talking. “Hard to forget him,” he said, with only the barest nod to her fake fiancé. “When you have broken my heart, disregarded my long-standing passion–”

  Psyche decided to affect a sudden deafne
ss. Aunt Sophie did it all the time and it seemed to sooth the old woman’s nerves amazingly. “Where is Uncle Wilfred? I sent him a letter about the engagement settlement–” she began.

  It worked; Percy was distracted. “Father is at home; his gout is acting up. Anyhow, need to speak to you about that.”

  “My housekeeper has an excellent beef jelly that might be of help, she would be glad to send you the recipe–” Psyche said, her tone innocent.

  ”No, no,” Percy interrupted impatiently. “Not about the gout! I mean the engagement, of course, your engagement. Let us step aside for a moment.”

  “If Uncle has any questions, he should be speaking to my solicitor. Percy, let go of me. I have no desire for any tete a tete–” But to Psyche’s alarm, Percy had a firm grip on her arm and he pulled her toward the corner of the room. Psyche had to fight to keep her expression civil. She needed to stay near Gabriel; what if he made some awful blunder?

  “What is the matter with you?” she demanded. “Let go of me at once, and for that matter, stop being so rude to my future husband.”

  Percy snorted, an inelegant sound that reminded her of a dyspeptic pig. “He is an impostor, Psyche.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she protested, but she felt a quiver run through her. She had to steady her voice with an effort. “You have a bug in your bonnet, Percy, and you must let go of this silly idea. Just because you don’t know of Lord Tarrington’s family–”

  ”But nobody else does, either. “ Percy argued, his face turning redder and his cheeks swelling with emotion until she thought he might burst. “No one I asked has heard of any Tarringtons. And, Psyche–” he paused for dramatic effect, but she refused to play along.

  “I think I need some lemonade, Percy. Would you be a dear–”

  ”I’ve inquired of everyone I know, and nobody, nobody, Psyche, has heard tell of this supposed title!” Percy told her, his eyes wide.

  But Psyche had been prepared for this. ”Oh, tosh, Percy. So his family is not well know. That means nothing at all.”

  Percy’s face turned even redder with frustration. “Yes, well, none the less, Psyche, I beg you to reconsider. The man is only after your money.”