Dear Impostor Read online

  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.

  When the first tune ended, there was a polite scattering of applause. Gabriel clapped, too, for Matilda's courage, if nothing else. "Very nice, dear," one of the women said.

  Then Mavis commanded, "Now the new ballad, my dear."

  "Oh, Mother, I don't wish to sing," Matilda protested.

  "Nonsense, you have a lovely voice," her doting and unperceptive mother said.

  Matilda placed new sheet music upon the stand, and her fingers moved slowly over the keys. When the notes rose, and she added her voice to the melody, Gabriel winced despite himself. Matilda's singing was even less inspired than her playing; she had a thin voice likely made more shrill by fear of her mother's disapproval.

  He saw Matilda glance beseechingly up at Psyche, who had been standing beside the instrument turning the pages of the music. At once, Psyche added her voice to the song, keeping her own singing low, not attempting to drown out her cousin. But her pleasing alto added depth to the sound and gave her cousin's thin voice a much needed embellishment. This time, when the music died, the applause, which Gabriel joined heartily, was louder.

  Matilda flushed with pleasure. As the two singers began another tune, Gabriel's thoughts wandered. She had heart, this ice maiden, despite her outer coolness. He was sure Psyche had other passion as well, hidden deep within.

  But as alluring as she was, that was not why he had played for time, deciding to draw out this dangerous role as long as he could. He glanced outside into the dark garden, where shadows cloaked the shrubbery. He could find no better hiding place than this, no more secure sanctuary from which to assert his claim and acquire his newly-won estate. This was better than cheap rooms or equally shoddy inns for escaping the renewed detection of the band of ruffians hired to kill him. He had no false hope that they will give up; every time he set foot on the street, he would be a marked man.

  And the strange thing was, he suddenly realized that he had enjoyed the evening. The warmth of the family gathered here, the welcome he had been granted, it was the kind of homecoming he would never receive from his own kin. And despite the fact that the shower of invitations and cordial greetings had been given to the wrong man, to a fantasy fiancé invented for one sole purpose, despite it all, it had fed some empty spot in his heart. He allowed himself to remember the lonely boy who had ridden away from his father's house, with no one of his own blood ready to take his part. The pain was still there, though he had pushed it deep and had never allowed himself the luxury of self-pity. The Sinclairs had rejected Gabriel, and he had repaid the favor.

  But to stand in a room where, eccentric or not, sharp-tongued or not, most of the people assembled showed real affection for each other, warmed some of the coldness inside him. He glanced at Mavis, whose peevish expression had relaxed into a smile that reflected obvious pride and fondness for her plump daughter. No, he had lived with the old emptiness for so long that by now he was barely aware it existed–until he stepped inside a warm, candle-lit room where women's voices rose in sweet melody.

  Damn, he must have had too much wine! This was not the thoughts of Gabriel Sinclair, rogue and card sharp. Even that slight excuse seemed unlikely, however, as cheap and badly-chosen as Uncle Wilfred's port had been. Gabriel winced at the after-taste that still lingered on his palate. If nothing else, he must repay Psyche for her accidental help by rescuing her from the threatened marriage with her cousin, who showed every sign of being as stingy and stodgy as his father. Whatever her faults, Psyche deserved better than the blustering, simpering Percy, of that Gabriel was sure.

  As for the quirk of providence that had caused their paths to intersect–he had seen too many strange things in his travels to wonder much. Perhaps the universe owed him this, after cursing him with the incredible stroke of ill fortune which had caused him to be exiled to start with. Still, he could be thankful for Psyche's aid, and he would somehow manage to repay her.

  When this tune ended, the two ladies left the instrument and gave way to another cousin, who played a piece with dogged correctness and little imagination. Psyche's attention was still claimed by her aunts, who chattered away, patting her hand and pinching her cheek as they talked. She glanced toward him occasionally, her brow knit slightly in concern.

  Gabriel was content to stand on the sidelines and ease her anxiety. He waved aside an invitation to sit down to a hand of whist–these elderly uncles and aunts would be easy victims to his experienced knowledge of cards, but relieving them all of their pocket change would not endear him to his new "family."

  He did exchange a few well-chosen stories with Mervyn, when the bashful young man found courage to join him and discuss his own travels in the West Indies. And when the guests began to depart, he joined his betrothed to say good-night to all his new acquaintances.

  Psyche said her goodbyes, rigid with tension. Even though the accursed actor had toned down his behavior in the last part of the evening, she would still be glad to see the last of him. He could not mean his threat about remaining in her life, she told herself, her heart beating faster at such an alarming thought.

  She wanted only to see the last of him, and if her fraudulent fiancé demanded more money–well, it would depend on the success of her stratagem; right now, she had only her small allowance–nothing like enough to satisfy a real villain. Perhaps she had miscalculated badly, putting herself into this handsome rascal's power.

  Percy and his father were the last to take their farewells. "I have not given my consent to this marriage," Uncle Wilfred reminded them both, his tone savage. "I would not plan the honeymoon just yet."

  "And you haven't seen the last of me," Percy grumbled as he bent awkwardly over Psyche's hand, clutching it too tightly. "I know you will regret this impulsive commitment, Cousin, and I will be nearby, willing to forgive you, despite the scandal that a broken engagement will necessarily bring."

  "Your magnanimity does you justice," she answered gravely, trying to pay attention. She was too aware of Gabriel's presence so close to her to concentrate on Percy.

  The actor raised one dark brow. "I hardly think that will be necessary," he said, his tone smooth. "I'm sure you will grow to love me as one of the family, Cousin."

  Percy glowered, and Uncle Wilfred snorted.

  "Oh, get on with you, Percy," Aunt Sophie said. "My feet are aching. You may complain another day."

  The two men left with no more farewells, and Psyche breathed a sigh of relief when she heard them clomp down the stairs.

  Aunt Sophie glanced at the two of them. "You may say good night, Psyche," she said, "but five minutes only, and do not shock the servants."

  She slowly climbed the staircase to her own suite of rooms, and Psyche took a deep breath. Two footmen waited at the end of the hall, but no one was within earshot.

  "Thank God that's over," Psyche said, keeping her voice low. "I will get you the purse of money that my maid promised you."

  Gabriel smiled, but his eyes held a dangerous glint. "Oh no, my dear. Did you forget what I said? I am your fiancee, and I'm not leaving. I will be your guest, of course, since the Marquis resides on the Continent. And you would not send your beloved to the cold, unaired sheets of a hotel, I'm sure."

  "You can't!" Psyche gazed at him in horror. "It wouldn't be proper."

  "You have a duenna," he pointed out smoothly. "It will be most proper. No one could dare consider being indecorous with Aunt Sophie in the house."
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  Of course she had a chaperon–an unmarried female would not live alone–and between her aunt and a houseful of servants, she should not be in any actual physical peril from this stranger. But to have him underfoot, meeting her family every day, with every new encounter a chance for exposure–Psyche felt herself go rigid with alarm.

  Before she could think of an argument, she heard a slight sound overhead and turned to see her sister leaning over the rail of the next landing.

  "Is this the actor?" Circe called, blunt as usual. "He's very nice to look at."

  "Circe!" Psyche despaired of ever teaching her little sister to guard her tongue. "Be silent!"

  "Why? And why is he not leaving?"

  "I am staying to perfect my role, of course," Gabriel told her, eyeing the child with interest. She was as unlike her beautiful big sister as anyone of such close blood could be; Circe was thin and undeveloped still, with straight brown hair escaping from its braid at the back of her head, and strange green eyes that regarded the impostor with straightforward curiosity.

  "Of course," the child agreed, to his surprise. "Any artist would wish to perfect his creation."

  "Circe, go to bed! I shall talk to you in the morning." Psyche sounded past all patience.

  "Good night, my love." Gabriel reached for his spurious fiancee's hand, but she snatched it back. He bowed to her, instead, then motioned to the footman hovering by the door. "You may show me to the best guest chamber."

  Obediently, the servant led him away. Gabriel left Psyche standing beside the staircase, her face burning with anger. He knew the bent of her thoughts, her outrage and frustration, but it could not be helped. Outside lay danger and an assassin's knife. Inside–perhaps danger waited inside, as well. Gabriel remembered the smooth curve of Psyche's neck, where it led into the tempting dips and hollows of her shoulder. But the temptation must be resisted. He had a life to reclaim, and by God, he meant to do it.

  Shaking with fury, Psyche watched the actor climb the steps. He was taking shameless advantage of her situation. Yet, she needed him–he was now the man her whole family believed to be her fiancé– and she could not expose him herself, nor throw him out, at least not just yet. A few days, that was all, and she would find a way to rid herself of this insolent intruder.