Dear Impostor (57 page)

          “That goes in the drawing room, the large room
on the next level.”

          The men withdrew, and it was almost a relief
to consider other questions. “What on earth are you doing here? What is all
this?”

          Psyche’s lips twitched, as if she were fighting
a smile. “Uncle Wilfred has released my money, and I have agreed not to
implicate my cousin Percy in any criminal charges. So I decided to begin the
renovations.”

          He blinked. “Psyche, Miss Hill, I cannot allow
you to throw your money away on this wreck of a house.”

          “But I like this house,” she protested. “And I
have found, Gabriel, that I have even more money that I had suspected. So I can
afford to redo this house, our house, just as I like. Oh, and I have invited
Mrs. Parslip to come to us as housekeeper; she insisted on giving two weeks
notice to your father, but she should arrive tomorrow. I hope that is
satisfactory?”

          “Of course,” he agreed, feeling hope rise
inside him with the force of a tropical hurricane. “But–does that mean you
still–” Gabriel covered the last of the distance between then in two long
strides and took her by her shoulders, lifting her to her feet and guiding her
away from the desk. “Psyche, does that mean you will have me, flawed as I am? You
will marry me?”

          She smiled at him at long last, her face soft
and content. “Since all the Polite World thinks we are already engaged, that
would be the most expeditious solution, don’t you think?”

          “The hell with
expeditious
,” he
exploded. “I love you, Psyche! I cannot live without you. I tried, but–”

          She lifted her lips, and he kissed her with a
zeal and a passion that left them both breathless. When finally he raised his
head, he had remembered another problem.

          “Psyche, the Ton thinks that I am the Marquis
of Tarrington. How shall we account for that?”

          She fit in his arms as if she belonged there,
had always belonged there. She touched his cheek with one finger, tracing the
line of his jaw. “Oh, I have already explained to Sally, in the strictest
confidence, that you assumed a fictitious title to escape the ruffians who were
trying to kill you.”

          “Which means?”

          “Which means that by now, all of London will know the story and think it terribly romantic.” Psyche laughed.

          He kissed her again. “I don’t suppose, along
with the lumber and paint and new paper for the walls, that you brought along a
special license?”

          “You are impatient for the wedding?” She
raised her brows, an impish gleam in her eyes.

          “For the wedding night,” he explained, kissing
her temple and then the tip of her ear. Psyche shivered with delight.

          “I’m afraid not. Circe absolutely forbad us to
marry before returning to London; she is determined to be a bridesmaid. She was
conferring with the dressmaker when I left, trying to design a gown that will
give her the appearance of a bosom.”

          It was his turn to laugh. “You are all so
confident. How were you so sure that I would return? Was my lack of resolve so
obvious?”

          Psyche looked thoughtful. “I found a
collection of tracts in my library–on up-to-date methods of agriculture.”

          Gabriel hoped he was not turning red. “Umm, I
just wanted to be a good landlord,” he tried to explain.

          She gazed up at him, her glance full of trust.
“It gave me hope that you wanted to settle down at last and put down roots,
hope that one woman might, indeed, be enough to make you happy.”

          “Oh, my dearest Psyche,” he protested. “Since
the day I first saw you, I have known there was no one else in the world that I
could ever desire.”

          “Even when I’m old and wrinkled?”

          “I shall love–and frequently kiss–every
wrinkle.”

          “When I grow round with child?”

          He stilled for a moment, awed at the thought. “I
shall count myself the most blessed of men. And besides, I shall grow old, too,
you know. An old weathered landowner, worrying about the health of his cows and
whether the fields have had enough rain. Will you fault me for that, my dear
Miss Hill?”

          “Never.” She touched his cheek, knowing his
handsome face would only grow more impressive with the years, but he would not
want to hear that. She put her hand lightly to his lips, and he kissed her
fingers. “I’m afraid we really must marry, Lord Gabriel Sinclair,” she said,
laughter bubbling again. “We have no choice.”

          Suddenly arrested, he paused, a question in
his eyes.

          She was annoyed to find herself blushing. “No,
no, not–I mean, it seems to be the only way I can stop you from calling me, ‘My
dear Miss Hill,’ every other breath. I must change my name. I shall be ‘Lady
Gabriel Sinclair,’ you know, after we are wed.”

          “I am only too pleased to oblige,” he agreed,
although his voice sounded off-key; he felt almost dizzy with pure joy. “I
could always call you my Queen of Hearts after your fateful winning draw.”

          Her eyes suddenly twinkled with mischievous
humor. “Oh, in that case, I would be your Deuce of Clubs.”

          Confusion wrinkled his brow for a moment. Then
understanding spread a grin across his travel-weary but triumphant face. “Do
you mean to confess that my very correct, very decorous Miss Hi—” he stopped at
her warning glance, “that is—future Lady Gabriel Sinclair,
cheated
?”

          “Of course, I did,” she agreed. “The moment
your back was turned.”

          “Most improper,” declared Gabriel in a dire
tone.

          Psyche rose up on her toes and flung her arms
around his strong neck. “Oh, darling, I knew you’d be proud.”

          The kiss he gave her then could never have
been termed “proper.” And that, she decided, was just the way she liked it.

___

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