Dear Impostor (2 page)

          Psyche Persephone Hill was not
amused. The last half hour of her life had been insufferable. Her cousin Percy
had been leaning over her shoulder trying to sneak none-too-subtle glances down
her bodice, her slippers pinched, and her fiancé was late to his own betrothal
party.

          Smothering her irritation, she
stepped forward now, gladly escaping Percy's goggle-eyed perusal, and
approached the man who was going to change her life forever.

          All he had to do was obey her
orders.

          Why, she could taste freedom
already.

          Her maid, who had negotiated the
terms with this second-rate, unknown actor, had said he was tall, dark-haired,
and well enough to look at. Psyche had never doubted her devoted maidservant's
eyesight before, but if this was what Simpson called 'well enough to look at. .
.'

          Smoothing her tense face into a
smile, she stretched out her kid-gloved hands to the tall stranger in apparent
affection. With each step she took, her skin tightened as if she were moving
closer to a source of incredible energy–unknown energy wrapped in the benign
familiarity of black and white evening dress. Looking up into the dark eyes
beholding her with wary amusement, she felt a sudden unease. She had an insane
urge to snatch her hands back before he could touch her. Suppressing the
senseless feeling, she moved steadily toward him.

          He loomed even taller as she
approached him. Rich black hair, dark eyes–a very deep blue, perhaps, not brown
as she'd first thought–and unfashionably tanned features. Firm lips parted in
an admiring smile revealed even, white teeth; a small scar marred the strong
lines of his chin. Resolutely, she took the last step toward her future.

          "You are late," she
said, her jaw stiff with anger she could not afford to show.

          One dark slash of an eyebrow rose.
"My dear, I had no idea my services were needed."

          Reaching out, he took one of her
gloved hands, turned it palm up, and brought it to his lips. Caught off guard
at the unexpected intimacy, she gasped when, through the thin leather, the heat
of his kiss seemed to sear her palm. She snatched her hand back.

          Were all actors this forward? No
doubt he was accustomed to loose women, not to a well bred maiden who had
particular reason to maintain her decorum. Psyche took a deep breath and tried
to steady herself.

          Lowering her lashes coquettishly
as her family would expect in response to her affianced husband's lovemaking,
she spoke in low, hurried tones that did not match her compliant smile. "You
know your services are needed, otherwise you would not be here. Now, behave
yourself and you'll get what you want."

          Looking up at her through thick,
dark lashes, he grinned. "God, I love an eager woman."           Praying
that no one else had heard the outrageous comment, she put her hand on his arm,
her fingers pinching hard through the expensive superfine of his evening coat. Were
actors always this well dressed, she wondered in some corner of her mind. They
must earn more on the stage than she had imagined. She hoped he was not more
successful than her maid had said, or else one of her relatives might recognize
him, and that would mean the end of her brilliant, supremely risky plan.

          His only response to her pinch was
a tensing of his biceps–were all actors this well-formed?–and a slight
narrowing of those incredibly beautiful eyes. Standing this close to him,
Psyche was aware of a masculine smell of soap and fine scent and just the hint
of street odors, as if he had been lounging too long in a back alley. That did
seem more like some little-known treader of the boards. She told herself to
relax; her assembled family were watching them both with intent, curious eyes.

          She heard someone clear his
throat. Psyche turned, the Marquis following her example, and they faced two
men who glowered at them with almost identical expressions.

          "This is my uncle Wilfred, my
lord," she said quickly. "My kind guardian, who has looked out so
zealously for my interests since the death of my parents." If the irony in
her tone was apparent, no one seemed to take notice. "And this, of course,
is his son and my cousin, Percy."

          Neither man extended his hand, so
her fake fiancé bowed slightly.

           Both of the men who faced them
were shorter than the actor on her arm, both barely tall enough to meet Psyche
herself at eye level. Uncle Wilfred was gray around the temples, and his
balding pate was already reflected in the pattern of his son's thinning hair. Both
men, despite their well-cut jackets, revealed paunches that spoke of hearty
appetites and sedentary living. And both round faces wore expressions of strong
dislike. "Never heard of this Tarrington title," her uncle said
rudely. "Seems a curious thing, eh?"

          "Indeed, our family is old,
but sadly undistinguished," the actor agreed.

          Psyche heard a titter of laughter
from behind her, quickly suppressed.

          Her guardian was just beginning. "And
why should this family find you suitable for our beloved niece?" Uncle
Wilfred demanded, his tone as rigid as the set of his shoulders.

          "Because I will cherish her,
make her madly happy, and sire many beautiful children," the Marquis
suggested merrily, as if answering a riddle.

          A wave of scarlet mottled Percy's
plump cheeks, and his father frowned. "Don't be impertinent! We have long
had other plans for our dear Psyche. In fact, Percy here–"

          "Who has always been as dear
as a brother to me," Psyche injected smoothly, knowing what was coming,
"and has, I'm sure, only good wishes for my happiness."

          "W-well, yes," Percy
sputtered. "But, dash it, you know that I–that I–I'm not your bloody
brother, Psyche."

          "Please conduct yourself like
a gentleman, Percy," a gray-haired lady standing nearby snapped, staring
hard at the offender. "We have no need for such language when ladies are
present."

          "No, Aunt Mavis." Percy
pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his perspiring brow. "Of course not,
beg your pardon, of course, of course. But Psyche and I–we were always–Psyche,
you know–dash it–"

          She knew, all too well, and she
didn't wish to hear his oft-rehearsed professions of love. She turned the man
on her arm firmly toward the rest of the waiting family.

          "This is my cousin
Matilda," she told him, "and my aunt Mavis."

          The actor bowed to both ladies–heavens,
but he was graceful. She wondered how he would dance, how it would be to waltz
within his arms, and then pulled her thoughts sharply back. If all went well,
she would never see him again after this night. He was here for a purpose, a
singular purpose, and it had nothing to do with dancing.

          He was saying something polite to
her relatives; Psyche tried to pay attention.

          "No wonder that Psyche is so
well-endowed with elegance and beauty," the man said. "I can see that
her whole family is similarly pleasing."

          Psyche stared at him, and cousin
Matilda looked uncertain, as if not certain if he were making covert fun. Matilda
was plump and round as a fatted partridge, her cheeks too ruddy for
conventional beauty, and her neck too short. And Mavis, staring at him in
suspicion, was as thin and gaunt as an old turkey which had long outlived its
appointment with the chopping block.

          "You have lovely eyes, Cousin
Matilda," the man continued, "as smooth and deep as a mountain
lake."

          Goodness, so she did; why had
Psyche never noticed before? Matilda's eyes were the shimmering green-brown
color of–of still, deep water, just as the actor had said. Psyche watched as
Matilda flushed even redder with pleasure, and Mavis nodded in stiff approval.

          "Thank you," Matilda
muttered. "You're too kind." Matilda's mother, Mavis, allowed a rare
smile to lift her lips and lighten her usual dour expression.

          "Only observant," the
man said, his smile relaxed.

          If she didn't hurry him on,
Matilda would be ready to marry him herself, Psyche thought wryly. Nonetheless,
she glanced at the actor with more respect as she guided him toward the next
group of relatives.

          "That was generous of
you," she said beneath her breath. "Matilda is not accustomed to
compliments, but she's a very sweet soul."

          "Every woman is
beautiful," the man on her arm murmured back. "If one only knows
where to look."

          Was he gazing again at the curves
beneath her gown? For some reason, his glances did not hold the same leering
lust as Percy's covert appraisals always did, and she did not feel the same
disgust. From this man, a woman sensed only genuine appreciation, and–

          Psyche tried to pull her thoughts
together. And that was the most dangerous flattery of all, she told herself.

          The fraudulent Marquis shared
polite greetings with the other family members assembled for this betrothal
party, and Psyche could sense a gradual change in the atmosphere as the women
responded to his charm, and the men found their stares firmly met.

          At the end of the room, one
white-haired woman sat stiffly in a large chair which almost gave the illusion
of a throne–and knowing Great-Aunt Sophie, her placement was quite deliberate.

          "Whatever you do, don't
disagree with her!" Psyche whispered beneath her breath as she steered him
toward the final and, aside from Uncle Wilfred, perhaps most formidable member
of the family. "Be respectful. Say as little as you can, just as I wrote
you."

          "This is my great-aunt
Sophie, whom I've told you so much about," she said, raising her voice
again to a conversational level.

          "So you're the man who has
swept my prim niece off her feet." The older woman peered at him through
her lorgnette. "Never thought it would happen. You've got a pretty face,
but then, how much is that worth in the long run? Must be more to you than
that."

          "Of course," he
answered, taking the hand she offered, bringing it to his lips as he bowed over
her hand with the ease and grace of long practice. "Why else would my
dearest Psyche agree to my proposal?"

          "You're not after her
fortune, then?" Aunt Sophie snapped, retrieving her hand from his grip.

          "A sensible man is never averse
to a fortune," he said, smiling.

          This time Psyche bit her lip and
waited for her aunt to respond with indignation and outrage. Instead, the older
woman gave a snort of laughter.

          "At least you don't make any
pretense of it," she said. "I thought you might spout some romantic
nonsense about her sky-blue eyes and her rose-petal lips, or some other such
bilge."

          "Oh, I see more to her than
her eyes and lips," Psyche's hired fiancé assured them both, his gaze
deliberately dropping to her high neckline and the well-covered curves of her
breasts beneath the pale blue silk of her gown.

          Psyche blushed and tried to pinch
his arm again, but his biceps were too firm; she knew he felt little pain,
already prepared for her assault. Whoever this actor was, he learned quickly.

          Aunt Sophie snorted again.
"You might just do," she said, her tone surprisingly mild. "You
might just do, Lord Tarrington."

          Psyche, still seething with anger
over this man's outrageous conduct, stared at her aunt in surprise.

          It was going to work, against all
the odds! She sighed in relief, remembering the desperate moment when she had
come up with this far-fetched scheme.

          It was because Cousin Percival had
been even more clinging these past weeks since the season had begun, dogging
her every move. If she attended a party or a ball, he was there at her elbow. If
she rode into the countryside for an al fresco outing, he was there, puffing
along on a staid nag and urging the plodder unmercifully as he tried to stay
the same course as his more adventurous cousin.