Dear Impostor (36 page)

          “Good gracious, who are you going as?” Psyche
demanded. “The Queen of Sheba?”

          “No, silly, Cinderella, after she has married
Prince Charming,” Sally explained. “I had to have a dress fit for a fairy tale
princess, however. Is it not amazing?”

          “I think I am likely to be blinded,” Psyche
murmured, as the assistants applauded, and the seamstress herself beamed. As
well she might; Psyche gazed at the resplendent ball gown which might well have
paid the dressmaker’s rent for a full year. Its huge golden skirts held two
rows of scallops, all trimmed with gold embroidery, and the deeply cut bodice
was trimmed with a row of Flemish lace which glittered with gold thread and
sparkling gems.

          “Surely those are not real diamonds?” Psyche
murmured.

          “Alas, no.” Sally sighed. “Even my sweet
Andrew might have drawn the line at that. But they are the very best paste, and
I will have real diamonds in my hair and around my throat and in my ears and–”

          ”In other words, you will glitter from head to
toe,” Psyche noted. “You should be a marvelous sight.”

          “Oh, I do hope so,” Sally admitted. “Andrew
will be my prince, and dear little Mr. Denver is wearing mouse ears.”

          “Mouse ears?”

          “You remember, the mice who turned into white
horses to pull Cinderella’s coach. And perhaps one or two more young men, too.”

          “Poor Denver.” Psyche raised her brows,
remembering the young man’s rather narrow chin He would look like a rat, she
thought.

          “I have planned this forever. But let us not
forget–” Sally turned back to Psyche and looked her up and down. “What about
your costume? Who shall you be, Psyche? Madam Pompadour? Cleopatra?”

          “No indeed,” Psyche said, beginning to get
into the spirit of the game. “I shall go as Psyche.”

          “Dearest, no, you must have a costume!” Sally
protested as she adjusted her long train and gazed into the looking glass
again. “I insist.”

          “I shall, I shall.” Psyche smiled. “The
original Psyche.” Her father’s penchant for Greek legends might come in useful,
at last.

          “Oh, of course,” Sally’s brow cleared. “You
shall have to tell me the story again; I forget how it goes.”

          “Psyche married a mysterious young man of
amazing beauty–”

          “You’ve got that part right,” Sally said. “Tarrington
is a cream puff, dearest.”

          One of the assistants giggled, then covered
her mouth quickly when Madam Sophie glared.

          Psyche pretended not to hear. “But she was not
allowed to see his face or know his name.”

          “Well, that was hardly fair. I would have
peeked.”

          “She did, but then he was forced to leave,”
Psyche explained.

          “Umm,” Sally’s attention was wandering. “What
a shame. Anyhow, what about the dress? You will need–”

          ”Something Greek, which should be simple for
Madam’s seamstresses to whip up on short notice,” Psyche pointed out. “A simple
tunic, they were called a
chiton
, as I remember from Papa’s lessons.”

          “You are much too practical,” Sally
complained.

          But Madam Sophie nodded. “
Mais ou
i
,
we can do it. And with Miss Hill’s exquisite figure–”

          Sally looked a bit less enthused. The
dressmaker called to her assistants, who hurried up. They held a low-voiced
consultation, while Psyche told her friend. “It will not be nearly as grand as
your costume, of course. The Greek wore a simple sort of dress.”

          Sally was mollified. Presently, when Madam
Sophie pinned several lengths of white linen into a rough approximation of the
finished costume, with a thin gold-colored belt around her waist, Psyche found
that the Greek garb might not be elaborate but it was certainly revealing. She
was momentarily askance at how much of her bosom the simple drape of the white
dress exposed, and as for the glimpse of bare ankles below the linen . . .

          Sally frowned for a moment, then laughed. “It
will be worth it to see Percy’s face,” she pointed out. “You will need some
gold-colored sandals, Psyche. I have a pair you can borrow that might be just
the thing.”

          Psyche took a deep breath. She did look rather
well in the simple gown. She gazed at her reflection. And she would be wearing
a mask, of course, so not everyone would even know who she was. It was a
liberating idea.

          “And,” she said aloud. “I believe I should do
something about a costume for Lord Tarrington.”

          “Of course,” Sally agreed.

          Psyche only hoped it would be more successful
than her last effort at dressing Gabriel!

          The dressmaker delivered the costumes on
Saturday after lunch, and Psyche wondered how to break the news to Gabriel. First
she had to locate him; he was not in the library, nor the bookroom, nor–when
she sent a footman to check–was he in his bedroom. He never sat in the parlor,
where Aunt Sophie’s friends were wont to be found sharing hot tea and lukewarm
gossip. At last she found him in the back garden, tossing acorns into a hat. The
two stablelads who had been urging him on disappeared quickly when they saw
their mistress approaching.

          Psyche raised her brows. Gabriel looked as
striking as ever, though he had removed his tightly fitted jacket to better his
aim.

          “Are you winning?”

          “I always win,” he told her, grinning. “Though
I fear you have frightened away my competitors.”

          “I hope you have not won all their wages?” she
asked, her voice cool.

          His smile faded. “Miss Hill, I do not take
money from children. We competed only to demonstrate our skill.”

          She waved at the cap full of acorns. “A
notable accomplishment,” she agreed, but this time her tone was easy. “Actually,
I have a prize for you. I have found a way to release you from your isolation,
at least for one night. Perhaps it will be more congenial than tossing nuts.”

          She detected a gleam of interest in his blue
eyes. “How?”

          “You will have a disguise–”

          His well-shaped brows lifted. “My dear Miss
Hill, I am living my life in disguise. Have you devised a new title for me to
assume?”

          She blushed. “No, that is, Sally–Mrs. Forsyth–is
giving a costume ball. It is to be a grand affair, and there will be a sad
crush of people, everyone in costume. It’s the perfect chance for you to have
the chance to leave the house and enjoy an evening out.”

          “And what am I to wear? Did you procure a mask
and domino for me?” he asked.

          “I–I have had a costume made up for you.” To
her chagrin, she could not keep from coloring again; her cheeks felt hot.

          He gazed at her steadily, but to her relief,
did not comment on the last episode of tailoring she had tried to orchestrate. “And
may I see this–uh–no doubt ingenious costume you have contrived?”

          She bit her lip. “It’s really quite clever. I’m
going as Psyche, you see.”

          He was quicker than Sally. “The Greek goddess
of great beauty? That is apt.”

          Good gracious, why could she not keep her
composure? She felt her cheeks grow even warmer. “She began as a princess, I
believe, and only became a goddess later.”

          “I stand corrected. And I shall be?”

          This time, Psyche turned away and picked up a
stray acorn so that he would not see her confusion. “You are going as Eros.”

          “Cupid?” She could not see his expression, but
his voice sounded strangled. “You expect me to be Cupid? Psyche, if you have
decked me out in hearts and gilt arrows, I swear–”

          ”No, no, it is quite unexceptional,” she told
him. “You will not be displeased, I promise. Well, it does have a quiver, but
you don’t need to carry the arrows or bow if you dislike the idea.”

          “No hearts? No pink velvet?” His tone was
still suspicious. “No clouds of gauze to cover my–um–manliness?”

          Her traitorous mind immediately conjured up
the feel of his body hard against hers. Heat flushed through her as she
remembered just what his tongue and lips had felt like as they had explored her
own. Drawing a deep breath to clear her head, Psyche dared to lift her head and
peek at his face. “Of course not. I would not expose you to ridicule. Although,
I have no doubt there will be every sort of costume there–”

          ”No hearts,” he asserted firmly. “No pink
velvet. No gauze.”

          “But it’s a very
manly
gauze,” she
teased, laughing at his expression of horror. “If you’d like to come inside, I
will show you what we have done. My dressmaker had very little time to put it
together, so I kept it quite simple.”  

          “Thank heaven for that,” he murmured.

          She pretended not to hear, and remembering
another bit of her mother’s excellent advice, kept the rest of her laughter
well hidden. He walked side by side with her, and when they had returned to the
library, where she had left the costume, he lifted the cotton cloth that had
protected it from dust, and surveyed it silently.

          Psyche held her breath.

          “I suppose it will do,” he agreed slowly. It
was only a white shirt and loose-cut Russian-style trousers, with a blue satin
sash, a quiver with fake arrows, and a long cape of white satin to wear over it
all. “But about this sash–”

          ”You have to have a little color, or people
will mistake you for an angel,” she told him.

          “That, I doubt,” Gabriel said dryly.

           “And I said no to wings, though Madame Sophie
said she could make up a quite nice pair with ostrich plumes and peacock
feathers . . .”

          Gabriel seemed to shudder. “Very well, I will
take the sash since you have spared me the wings. What about a mask?”

          That she was most proud of. Psyche took it out
of its wrapping and held it out for him to see.

          “Ah,” he said slowly. “I remember now. In the
story, Psyche was not allowed to see her lover’s face.”

          “It was her husband,” Psyche corrected, biting
her lip so that she would
not
turn red all over again; fair skin was
sometimes a trial. “But yes, she was not allowed to see his features.”

          Gabriel held up the silk mask; it covered most
of his face, with holes cut for the eyes, and only a glimpse of his lips
allowed to show; otherwise it was curiously blank–rather frightening,
actually–Psyche thought, though she had not expected it to be fearsome when she
had explained the idea to the dressmaker.

          “And your costume?” Gabriel looked over his
shoulder at her.

          “You will see it tonight,” she said gravely.

          Gabriel nodded. “I cannot wait.”

          “I must go and dress for dinner; we will
change into our costumes just after, and then leave for the ball,” she
instructed him.

          Gabriel listened with amusement. He was
becoming almost fond of her peremptory edicts. Good God. What was wrong with
him?

          She excused herself, and Gabriel watched her
walk into the hall and gracefully climb the staircase. Perhaps it was because
it was difficult to be annoyed with someone so kind. Not only had she been
considerate enough to provide a means for a brief reprieve, she had taken his
tastes into consideration when choosing his costume. So he had to wear a silk
sash–well, it was only a small price to pay for getting out of the house for
one evening. And in the crush of people at Sally’s ball, it should be easy
enough to stay anonymous.

          Humming, he picked up his coat and went
upstairs to change.

          Dinner was a quiet affair; Aunt Sophie had
come down with a cough and had decided to beg off from the ball.

          “Not that you will need me,” she observed
tartly. “And I doubt Sally will even notice my absence, the silly twit.”

          “Sally likes you!” Psyche protested. “And
she’s not really silly; at least half of her twittering is assumed.”

          “Humph.” The older woman coughed, then
recovered and took another sip of her soup. “Sally is well enough, and I will
grant you she does have a sweet nature under her posturing, though she will never
be as handsome as you.”

          “Why, thank you, Aunt,” Psyche said, looking
surprised at this unaccustomed praise.

          “I would second that,” Gabriel said, slicing
his roast lamb.

          Psyche looked down at her plate, but he saw
that she smiled. He continued to gaze at Psyche across the white clothed table,
crowded with its silver trays and crystal glasses filled with red wine, its
china dishes brimming with a bounteous feast, even though it was only the
family at dinner tonight. Family. He shook his head at the thought; already, he
had become too accustomed to the role of Psyche’s husband-to-be. He thought how
much he would miss this easy harmony, this ease of friendship and laughter and
good will when he would–very soon–have to leave this house, leave all these people
behind. The thought was more painful than he would ever have expected, just a
few days ago.