by Nicole Byrd
Psyche felt a wave of love and protectiveness wash over her as she gazed at her remarkable little sister. She vowed silently, as she had done so many times before, that Circe would not be pushed into a stifling pattern, forced to conform to the role of society maiden interested only in finding a husband. Circe had gifts that must be exercised, be allowed to grow, or something in her spirit would wither and fade, and Circe would bear the loss and the pain forever. And she had already lost enough. . . . no, Psyche would protect her, would find the money they needed–her own money, for heaven’s sake, her parent’s inheritance, meant for just such expenditures at this. Her free-thinking parents would have understood Circe’s special needs; Uncle Wilfred did not.
“You care about your sister very much, do you not?” the actor said quietly.
She shifted her gaze to meet his. “Yes, I do. And I will allow no one to hurt her,” she answered, just as low.
He smiled. “I promise you I would never injure a child.”
But he could, willingly or not, if this imposture were exposed. Psyche’s fears returned with a rush. “I have bad news.”
He raised his brows and waited, his expression composed. She admired his lack of panic, Psyche thought in one corner of her mind.
“I had accepted an invitation to a party tonight, before–before I knew you would be here. I mean, I thought my fiancé –you–would have to return immediately to the Continent,” she tried to explain, aware of the governess sitting a few feet away. “And now if I send regrets, when Percy will have told everyone that you are staying here, it will seem too suspicious.
“At least,” she shook her head, “you do have evening clothes! But something must to be done about the rest of your wardrobe.” She bit her lip. Which tailor could provide proper raiment on short notice?
Simone would know. She would send a note to her modiste immediately. “Nothing too flashy, of course, nor too expensive and then there was the bootmaker and the . . . “
Psyche suddenly became aware of the stares directed at her. Telly’s round face was stunned, Circe’s interested, and Gabriel looked a bit askance.
“Oh dear. Was I speaking aloud?”
Circe nodded gravely. “Yes, Psyche.”
Gabriel shifted uncomfortably on the little chair. “I assume you were talking about me?”
“No, this is for my other naked fiancé.” Psyche rolled her eyes. “Of course I was speaking of you.”
Circe giggled into her tea cup.
Telly gasped, “Miss!”
Psyche frowned. “He has to have clothing, Telly. What’s so improper about that?”
“But you shouldn’t–young ladies don’t discuss male attire, Miss Psyche. You know that.” The older woman sounded distressed, and Psyche relented.
“I’m sorry, Telly.” She turned to the actor to explain, “If I am improper, it’s not because of lack of trying on our dear governess’s part.”
Gabriel smiled. “I don’t find you improper at all, my dear Miss Hill. In fact, I find you quite perfect, just as you are.”
Psyche felt a moment of warmth, then she steeled herself against his charm. The man was an actor, the man was an actor. She would have to embroider the phrase on her handkerchief and keep it within constant view.
It was so easy to relax and enjoy his sweet phrases. She had to remember that he was not sincere, that this was all pretense. She no longer wondered that he was not better known; she was beginning to think he had practiced his lines in ladies’ chambers more often than on the stage. With his incredible good looks, he would have had sufficient chance. . .
But this was accomplishing nothing. Since her parents’ death, Psyche had learned to take action, not just contemplate. She pushed herself back from the table and stood.
The actor stood, too, politely, and she thought she saw a moment of disappointment in his deep blue eyes. No, it was likely another pretense.
“I am going out,” she announced. “I will be back soon. We will leave for the party at eight, after a light dinner; they will have a late supper at the soiree.”
His look was ironic, but she wasn’t sure how much he knew about the social life of the Ton. It was not something an unknown actor would have had the chance to participate in. And with Telly in the room, she couldn’t speak more plainly.
“I will be ready,” he said, casting an ironic glance down at his apparel; since the evening grab was the only outfit he owned not in shreds, he was certainly prepared to go out.
Psyche almost laughed, then bit back her giggle. He might think she was making fun of his predicament, and she wouldn’t hurt anyone’s feelings through ridicule, not even this impertinent thespian. But it really was ridiculous.
“Psyche,” Circe put in. “I could use a new pad of drawing paper, please.”
“Of course,” Psyche nodded. “I shall see you later, dearest.”
The actor bowed, and Psyche inclined her head, then turned and hurried out. Sometimes she could almost regret that their engagement were not real. His attention was so unwavering, his regard so–no, no, she mustn’t even consider such a thing. It was a game; she must remember, only a pose. It would all end soon.
Chapter 6
There was nothing more satisfying than a successful shopping trip, Psyche thought, tugging off her kid gloves as she strode up the steps of the townhouse and through the open door that Jowers held. She had purchased drawing paper and picked up a few new brushes that Circe had ordered. Thinking only of Circe’s delight at the sable brushes, she barely noticed Jowers’ strange expression as her new entourage followed her through the door.
She had also called at the boot maker, glove maker, and, of course, Simone’s establishment. Simone had only been too happy to give Psyche the name of a tailor. Between Aunt Sophie, Circe and the many gowns Psyche needed for the season, Simone made a tidy profit from the females in the Hill family.
While ensconced on a rose-colored silk settee, Psyche had sipped her tea and sighed appreciably over the new French fashions. Now that that scourge Napoleon had at last been vanquished, trade was flourishing and the English could again enjoy their beloved French fabrics and designs. Not that some hadn’t been smuggled in even during the war years, but Psyche’s parents had frowned upon that practice.
Psyche had also slipped on the new gown she was to wear to the Forsyth’s party that evening for a final fitting. It was a dream of a gown; icy blue in some lights, silver in others. The short sleeves were banded with a delicate, filmy lace and still more lace flirted with the low, square-cut neckline. The fitted bodice clung to her figure, then the skirt flowed smoothly over her hips and ended in a train which was a swirl of filmy fabric. Experimentally, Psyche twisted back and forth and watched herself in the looking glass. The fabric glimmered with each movement of her body. If for just a movement she had allowed herself to imagine Gabriel’s powerful arm guiding her through the swing and swirl of a waltz, or imagined the feel of his rough cheek against the smoothness of her own, or his warm breath against her cool lips as he leaned in for another forbidden kiss...well, no one but she would know of her foolishness.
After Simone had checked the fit of the new gown and pronounced it perfect, Psyche had left the shop with Simpson following behind her, carrying the dress. One more stop to gather her last needs and she had returned home in a glow of satisfaction. As she handed her reticule and gloves to a footman, she finally noticed poor Jowers.
She had never seen the poor man so distracted. Of course, as he held the door open for the last of the arrivals, he did have to duck to avoid being hit over the head by a very large bolt of black silk.
“Miss, excuse me. Who are all these men and what am I to do with them?”
“Why, they are here to assist me, Jowers.”
Psyche pressed herself against the drawing room door to avoid another bolt of fabric.
Jowers tried to draw himself up in affront but had to stop to help one of the men lift a clumsy package of trimmings over the thres
hold.
“Miss, I am most sorry if you feel you must go elsewhere for assistance, but I assure you that our household staff is–”
Distressed, Psyche cut him off. “Oh, no, Jowers. Don’t worry yourself. These men are tailors and are here to create a new wardrobe for Lord Tarrington. As you know, his clothing has met with an unfortunate accident.”
“Oh, yes, miss. I see.” An uncertain look crossed Jowers’s wrinkled face. “But, miss, are you certain that Lord Tarrington wishes this kind of assistance? It has been many years since your father has died, but surely things have not changed so much–”
Psyche paid scant attention to his worries as she directed the team of tailors into the foyer. “Jowers, where is Lord Tarrington?”
“He is in the yellow salon, Miss.”
“Perfect!” Psyche turned and waved the men down the hall toward the large room. “This way, gentlemen. Follow me. Your client is right this way.”
“But I really don’t think this is how it is done,” Jowers finished weakly.
With enthusiastic vigor, Psyche threw open the salon doors and found her fiancee studying her mother’s portrait over the fireplace. He was sipping coffee from a pale green and cream Sevres cup, but his arm stopped midway to his mouth at the sight of Psyche and her tailors.
Gabriel stood motionless with his cup poised ready to drink. Psyche paused with her hand on the doorknob, directing what appeared to be a small army into the room–or more accurately–straight at him. The gang of tidily-dressed men rushed to Gabriel’s still figure and swarmed around him. One little monkey of a man actually reached up and nipped the cup out of his hand. Gabriel was so startled by this audacity, he didn’t even pound the man as he normally would, had a stranger been so familiar with his person.
“There he is, gentlemen,” Psyche waved a slender arm in his direction. “He will need morning attire, riding attire, something suitable for staying at home, and, Henri,” she called to a small, wiry man who Gabriel took to be the leader of this group. “Henri, I think he would look marvelous in a deep claret.”
Henri, in an eager rush to please his new benefactress, swung a heavy bolt of velvet her way. With an easy grace which he had to admire even in his current state, she evaded the bolt before fingering the material.
“Oh, yes, Henri. That’s just lovely.”
“Oui, mademoiselle. And the midnight blue for another jacket,” Henri suggested in his thickly-accented English.
Psyche looked around for the midnight blue and found it spread with a pristine white-on-white patterned silk over the settee. She sighed with pure female appreciation over the rich fabric. “Oh, definitely, Henri. Simone was right, you have marvelous taste.”
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Hill. With his coloring, we will stay with the deep, jewel colors.”
They turned with narrowed eyes to scrutinize Gabriel, rather as they would a plump stewing chicken, he thought.
“Why, yes, monsieur. He does need bold colors.”
“And minimal embellishments. He does not need the usual masculine trimmings.”
“Right again, Henri. You have such an eye.”
“And no padding around the shoulders. Monsieur has been blessed with very wide, thick shoulders.”
Psyche looked away and chewed her plump lower lip. “Ah, really? I hadn’t noticed.”
Liar. Gabriel thought, pleased that she had. With a dreadful fascination, like a mouse hypnotized before a snake’s approach, he watched Henri preen under Psyche’s approval. One of Henri’s assistants was busy unrolling the claret and midnight blue fabrics for cutting, another was setting up the thread and scissors and other tools, and yet three more were buzzing around Gabriel like annoying pests that Gabriel longed to swat. He had a measuring tape around his neck, another around his chest and a third man was measuring his...damn it!...inseam. Gabriel kicked at the man who had gotten a wee bit too personal.
Gabriel’s temper steamed.
Unknowingly, Psyche caused him to boil over.
“And Henri, Lord Tarrington will undoubtedly need some personal items, as well.”
Impertinent female! She just barely blushed.
Henri nodded with understanding. “Oui, mademoiselle. I have some excellent flannel that I use for just that purpose.”
Psyche’s brow wrinkled in disapproval. “Oh, flannel? I much prefer cambric. White, I think.”
It was Henri’s turn to blush. “Oui, if the mademoiselle prefers cambric...”
Psyche gasped with the realization of what she had just said and what it implied.
“Oh no, I have no preference. Why, I don’t care in the least what his . . . what they’re made of,” she babbled uncertainly, “I wouldn’t even mind if he wore any . . . oh, no. I don’t mean that, either.”
Gabriel suddenly felt seventeen years old again, listening while another woman, another commanding beauty, had dressed and manipulated him. In a sensual daze, he had allowed it, been flattered by her attentions. At first. But Gabriel was no longer that boy, and he had had all he could bear. The sensation of being controlled, decorated like a Christmas ornament for someone’s amusement, came flooding back, and it released emotions he’d thought long forgotten. He took a deep breath.
Psyche was still floundering desperately to cover her gaffe. “I mean, of course, that I don’t mind what . . .”
“Miss Hill, I am beginning to think you have no mind.” Completely ignoring the eager assistants and their efforts, Gabriel strode over to Psyche and Henri.
She drew a deep breath. “I should expect a little gratitude!”
“It’s gratitude you want? All right, I’ll give it to you.”
As he loomed closer, Psyche drew herself up, her expression guarded.
“Thank you, Miss Hill,” he continued, dark brows low over angry eyes. “Thank you so much for inviting these men to break my solitude, to touch me intimately without my permission, for deciding what color and fabric my small clothes should be!”
He whipped his head back to face Henri. The little man flinched at his angry tone.
“By the way, I want cambric, black not white.
“And I suppose I should thank you for not choosing pink and unmanning me even more than you have,” he added, turning back to Psyche.
Psyche’s brilliant blue eyes glittered with angry and embarrassed tears. She too looked at the poor tailor.
“Wool, Henri. Make them out of the cheapest, roughest wool you can find. And dye them red!”
“Red! You minx!” Gabriel didn’t know whether to fall double in laughter or to flatten one of the men who was still trying to measure his legs. Clenching his fists at his sides, Gabriel demonstrated what he thought was a Herculean effort to rein in his temper. Again, he turned to Henri.
“If you do not call off your lap dogs, I shall put your pins and needles to very imaginative and uncomfortable use.”
The Frenchman paled. He nodded quickly and whispered, “Oui, Monsieur. At once.”
In rapid French, Henri spoke to his assistants. He did not soften Gabriel’s words, and the men leapt back from Gabriel’s person with almost comic speed. One of the men even flew across the room to the collection of pins and stood blocking them with his body. They all glared at Gabriel suspiciously as if expecting the mad man to attack them.
However, Gabriel moved in the opposite direction. In a few furious paces, Gabriel flung open the door and gestured to the men. “Now that your services are no longer needed, you may leave. Immediately.”
The men reluctantly gathered up their tools and fabric. Henri looked at Psyche with doubtful hesitation. “Mademoiselle?”
Gabriel glared at Psyche as if daring her to contradict him.
Damn the man! She was in an impossible position. Henri thought that Gabriel was her fiancee and that this was all a gift to him. She could not defy him without flaunting society’s conventions. And she could hardly force him to accept a gift if he did not want it. There would be talk, and it would leak into th
e Ton through someone’s valet or dresser.
Forcing a calm she did not feel, she smiled at Henri. “Lord Tarrington does not wish for your help at this time, but I am sure that later he . . .
Gabriel’s deep, infuriating voice cut her off. “He will find his own tailor when he decides.”
Psyche smiled through clenched teeth. “Yes, precisely.”
Henri’s expression grew dim and disappointed. Psyche could imagine what this large commission would have meant to him. She could not bear to let the eager little man walk away feeling so deflated. The men had gathered all their belongings and were trailing down the foyer toward the front door. Psyche stopped Henri with a light touch on his arm.
“Lord Tarrington may not need your services, but one of my footmen is in sore need of new livery.”
Henri’s face brightened.
It cheered her so that she continued. “In fact, all my staff could use new livery. Discuss it with Jowers on your way out. Good day, Henri.”
Henri was positively beaming as he bowed his way out the salon and down the hall.
She stood with her back to Gabriel and watched the men leave.
In a moment Gabriel spoke to her, the fury replaced by puzzlement. “That was kind of you.”
Slowly, she turned until she was facing him. He stood there looking so comfortable, so infuriatingly right in the opulent surroundings that Psyche could hardly believe that he had not been to the manor-born. But his actions–his actions had been so arrogant, so haughty–
He was acting more and more like a real marquis every moment.
“And exceedingly unkind of you,” she snapped. “Henri is trying to establish himself as a tailor to discriminating gentlemen.”
To her surprise, he did not sputter or redden or spit out an indignant denial. He simply nodded. “Yes, but if Henri’s own too-wide lapels and eye-catching waistcoat are any hint of his taste, I really think I should prefer another tailor. That does not mean that your good intentions do not deserve mention. I should not have lost my temper.”
