by Nicole Byrd
“But Percy, I thought you believed me to be beautiful?” Psyche gazed at him, her eyes wide.
He was immediately flustered. “Of course I do, no doubt, no doubt, but–”
”And sweet and womanly and properly chaste, did you not tell me that so many times?”
“Course I did, but–”
”So how can you doubt that Lord Tarrington would love me for myself, Percy? After all, you were not motivated solely by my fortune when you pursued me, were you?” she asked, her voice utterly guileless.
“Umm, no, no,” Percy said. His expression was perplexed. He had been outmaneuvered and he didn’t seem to see how it had happened.
“Then if you could love me for myself alone, I’m sure another man could. I know you will be prepared to wish us happy, as will my uncle, eventually,” Psyche said cooly.
“No, no, Psyche, you misunderstand me.”
Percy waved his hands in the air. She took advantage of his moment of agitation to slip under his arm and hurry back toward the heart of the party.
“Psyche, wait!”
Ignoring her cousin’s plea, Psyche looked about. There was Sally; she had finally released her friend’s bogus lord and stood talking to two elderly women. Where was her fiancé now? Psyche needed to be close by, to offer him guidance if he faltered. She would find him chatting with another pretty stranger, no doubt, Psyche thought crossly. Really, the man had no shame.
However, when she located Gabriel, she saw that he was standing by a side table, holding a glass of wine and conversing amiably with Aunt Mavis and Cousin Matilda.
Cousin Matilda looked flushed with delight, and even Mavis had unbent under Gabriel’s masculine allure; her usual scowl was replaced by a slightly bemused expression, as if she wanted to smile but was afraid of looking foolish.
“Ah, there you are, my dear. I was just telling Cousin Matilda and Aunt Mavis how you had so unkindly deserted me,” Gabriel said as Psyche approached them.
“I deserted you? You were practically attached at the hip to our hostess,” Psyche snapped. “I was in the kitchen fetching a cleaver to separate the two of you.”
Matilda looked alarmed, and Mavis gave a twisted smile. “Fighting already, are you?” her aunt demanded. “Should think the two of you were already married.”
Psyche blushed. The last thing she meant to do was to sound jealous. “Of course not,” she said. “I didn’t wish Gabriel to be monopolized, that is all. Sally is a sweet thing, but a bit of a fibbergidget.”
“No, she has not your keen wit, my dearest,” Gabriel agreed “But of course I did not wish to be backward in expressing my appreciation to our hostess.” As she had instructed, the wicked glint in his eyes reminded her.
“Yes, but you also don’t want to keep her from her other guests,” Psyche said, her tone still tart.
“Certainly not,” he agreed, his expression unrepentant. “And there are so many agreeable ladies and gentlemen here that I need to meet, and all, apparently, friends of my darling Psyche.”
He was obviously baiting her again. The thought of him talking to everyone at the party sent a spasm of alarm through her that Psyche could barely hide.
She almost said a word, learned at the age of thirteen when she lingered in the stable eavesdropping on the hostlers, that would have made her aunt swoon. With difficulty, Psyche smoothed her expression and held her tongue. Drat the man for always managing to upset her so easily, she who prided herself on her decorum and her unceasing sense of propriety.
She tried to control her irritation. She must draw him aside and speak to him about how to mingle with the other guests, especially how not to chat too long to any one woman. Psyche had no need for a mini-scandal, nor did she wish her ‘fiancé’ to appear to be a unprincipled rake. That would only add fuel to Uncle Wilfred’s anger. But she needed to get him alone; even her cousin and aunt might wonder if she told a grown man how to behave in public.
The musicians were tuning their instruments; the dancing would soon begin. She looked up to see Gabriel watching her, as if he understood perfectly the turmoil of mixed emotions that ran through her mind. She pressed her lips together. He would not provoke her, she would not allow it. Someone had to keep a clear head tonight!
“We must have the first dance, my dear–”
But she had so much to instruct him. ”Ah, no, why don’t we sit at the side and talk for a moment–”
”I thought the first dance would be expected of us,” he said. “Newly affianced love birds, you know.”
Psyche bit her lip. He was making fun of her. But he was right, of course. Still, one lucky guess did not mean that he was competent to be left alone in this veritable jungle of social niceties. She could not relax her guard.
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He bowed to the other ladies. “Later, I will request the pleasure of your hand, Matilda, in one of the round dances.”
Blushing with pleasure, Matilda nodded. Gabriel grasped Psyche’s hand and led her through the crowd to the portion of the big room where the dancers were taking their places.
Psyche gave him a quick, anxious glance.
“Yes, I do know how to dance,” he told her gravely before she could express this newest worry, and Psyche relaxed for an instant until another thought struck her.
“You will have to do it now, you know,” she whispered as they took their places in the form.
“Do what?” He made his bow to her and moved out into the first set of steps.
“Dance with Matilda!” she whispered again.
“Of course. Did you think I would say such a thing and then deliberately break my word?” His glance at her was quizzical and slightly wounded.
She almost blushed, feeling guilty and not sure why. She was only trying to help him, as much as herself. She had no way of knowing if he understood the code of conduct practiced by Polite Society, or at least well enough to maintain his pose. His manners had seemed smooth enough at the family dinner the night before, but he could hardly realize all the subtleties involved in his assumed identity. An actor he might be, but how could he, after all, have had the chance to study the upper classes that closely?
They circled another couple, and when Psyche could safely speak again, she muttered, “I didn’t mean–that is–I don’t–”
But the dance separated them again, and he looked at her with a smooth smile that made her moment of anxiety seem foolish. He did not care what she thought of him; why should he? This whole thing was merely another acting job, extended only from his greed, his desire for a heavier purse. That hurt she thought she had glimpsed in the depths of his deep blue eyes–she was being too fanciful, Psyche told herself.
She stopped trying to talk and concentrated on the dance. The man was graceful–he had the controlled grace of a swordsman. No doubt he had studied fencing in order to act Shakespearean tragedies; she thought of Macbeth or Hamlet. The thought led to another, of what Gabriel, with his perfect face, would look like dressed in old-fashioned garments, Elizabethan tights that clung to his muscular thighs . . . and then she blushed at the direction of her own thoughts.
Good heavens, what had come over her? No wonder sensible women lost every vestige of their wits when Gabriel smiled at them. She was no longer angry at Sally. No man had the right to so handsome a face, to such masculine beauty. And to have broad shoulders and well-sculpted arms and legs, to have that irrepressible wit dancing in the deep blue depths of his eyes, to be intelligent and articulate and . . . and yet to be a total fraud. It was too bad.
Musing sadly on the inequities of the universe, Psyche finished the dance in silence. When the music ended, she made her bow to her partner, and he held her hand a moment too long before releasing it.
“Did I displease you, my sweet Psyche?” he murmured. “You are very quiet, of a sudden.”
She sighed. “Of course not. I’m just a bit on edge. Let us find a couple of chairs so that I can instruct you upon–”
But they we
re interrupted once more. Sally was walking toward them. Psyche bit back her words and stood very straight. This business of living a lie was downright exhausting; one had to be ceaselessly vigilant.
“Sophie is asking for you, Psyche,” Sally said brightly. “And I have several people who are anxious to met your fiancé.”
All female, no doubt, Psyche wanted to say, but she controlled herself with an effort. She wanted to grab him by the superfine of his coat and keep him beside her. Instead, she had to settle for giving Gabriel a warning look, then she headed toward the side of the room.
She found Aunt Sophie sitting comfortably in a wing chair, chatting with several other older ladies. “There you are, child,” her aunt said. “I wanted you to greet some old friends of mine.”
Psyche schooled her expression to one of polite interest; she could not forget her own manners because of her concern over the actor and how long he could maintain this pretense.
“And besides,” her irascible relative added, “Doesn’t do to hang on that young man of yours like a lovesick mooncalf, no matter how fair his face or pleasing his form.”
Meeting the old woman’s sharp-eyed gaze, Psyche stiffened. No indeed, she could not make a spectacle of herself, nor stir up just the suspicion she was trying to avoid. So with this not so subtle encouragement, she turned her attention away from the party to chat with her aunt’s friends.
It was a quarter of an hour before it seemed natural to excuse herself and return to the mass of guests. Where was Gabriel? She located him in the midst of a bevy of young ladies, all flushed and laughing, smiling and fluttering their lashes at her supposed fiancé.
Had they no sense at all, Psyche thought, irritated despite herself. Could she interrupt them, or would it seem too pointed? As she hesitated, she found herself next to one of the young thing’s mother. “I’m amazed that you did it at last, Psyche,” Mrs. Monnat said as she sipped a glass of wine.
“What?” Psyche frowned. “Did you think me so over the hill that I had no hopes of finding a husband?”
“Not at all, child,” the matron said, laughing a little. “With your fortune, you could always find a match. But I thought you would never shake off that odious cousin of yours long enough to make a connection with another eligible gentleman.”
“Oh.” Psyche relaxed. “It wasn’t easy.”
“And to find such a charming fellow, with such a way about him–you will be the envy of all the other single ladies. He is so much more engaging that your poor cousin–”
”Your Lucille seems to think so,” Psyche said wryly,
Lucille’s mama smiled, and her tone was matter of fact. “She has enough sense not to fall for a betrothed gentleman, and he is such an accomplished flirt, the practice will do her good. She is still a bit shy, not much at ease in society, and she has nothing like your dowry to tempt the more practical of men. Not that we aspire for a Marquis, of course, but I should like to see her happily settled.”
Psyche felt a little shamed of herself. “Lucille is a delightful girl, and I’m sure she will find someone who deserves her.”
“Thank you, my dear, I hope so,” Mrs. Monnat agreed, fanning herself.
They watched the group together. As the musicians began another tune, Psyche saw that Gabriel was excusing himself to the ladies clustered around him. As she watched, he walked to the side of the room, rescued Matilda from a group of older ladies and led her to the dance floor. Matilda looked flushed with happiness, and Psyche felt a surge of unexpected pride. He had not forgotten; she was both relieved that he was–so far–conducting himself properly and also pleased for her plump, sweet-natured cousin’s sake.
Sally joined them in a swirl of silken skirts. She said, her tone half-serious, “Gracious, Psyche, he is scrumptious! I am so envious of you I could spit!”
Psyche smiled again, but this time she felt her lips stretched a little too wide as the tension returned. If they only knew the truth, she thought, suppressing a quiver of anxiety, no one would be envious; instead, she would be the laughing stock of the Ton. And Percy would have her firmly in his power. Oh, please, she thought, glancing again at Gabriel and the grace with which he moved through the dance, please don’t betray us!
“I thought this was only going to be a small party,” she said to their hostess, her tone almost accusing.
“Oh, it began that way, but you know how it is,” Sally answered. “You invite Cousin Georgia, and then you have to invite her odious son, and then the son’s promised wife, and then her parents, and . . .”
Psyche listened to Sally chatter on until the dance ended, then she saw Gabriel bow to Matilda, escort her off the floor into a group of young people, and in a minute or two leave her with a callow youth whose neckcloth almost obscured his chin. How Gabriel had managed to get the shy Matilda in conversation with a gentleman her own age, instead of stuck in the corner with the matrons as usual, Psyche had no idea, but she admired him for it.
He was approaching their little group. At last, she could take him aside and give him more lessons in deportment. Gabriel bowed to her and the other women. “If you would permit me, ladies,” he said. “My finance has promised this dance to me.”
She had done no such thing. “No, no,” she said. “Let us find a quiet spot, I have so much to say, and–”
”The chat can wait,” he said, smiling at the others, but his tone was unexpectedly firm.. “This time, you shall listen to me, dear Psyche.”
And somehow Psyche found herself being led to the dance floor once more, and this time, Gabriel was putting his hand on her waist and pulling her so close, so close–
Psyche found it hard to catch her breath. “I don’t–I mean, I’m not–”
”You are allowed to waltz; I asked Aunt Sophie earlier,” Gabriel cut off her first flustered attempt at an excuse. “You are not a blushing novitiate in her first season, but a sophisticated lady who is quite at home on the dance floor. And I have had quite enough instruction for this evening, if you please.”
“I was only trying to assist you,” Psyche said, then wished she could take back the words. She had been thinking mainly of herself, admit it. But surely he did not want to fail.
But at the moment, social niceties seemed to be the last thing on Gabriel’s mind. His grip was so firm, his arm so strong, there was nothing for her to do but be swept along as they circled the dance floor.
It was a strange feeling. Of course she had waltzed many times, with many partners, including the stumbling Percy, who always clutched her too tightly and tended to step on her feet. But no one else had given her this feeling of no longer being in control, of being guided smoothly and with consideration, but of being most definitely directed. The independent and strong-willed Miss Hill should have been bothered by the new sensation. She was, she was, Psyche assured herself; she was most bothered indeed.
Except it was such an unexpected change of mood that it felt almost a relief, to relax for just one moment, to let someone else be in control for just a little while. . .
No, what on earth could she be thinking? It was the affect this too-smooth actor had on all the women who came too close to him, and she refused to be another. She must be firm.
Except it was hard to be firm when he spun her about with such practiced ease, when he stood so near. Never had she felt this way about any other dance partner, but Gabriel leaned so close, with his immodest good looks, his clear-eyed gaze, the dark blue eyes which always seemed to hold a fire in their lapis depths that suggested so much smoldering passion . . .
She shook herself mentally; this was not the way a proper young lady should think. She refused to fall under his spell. The man was not just an actor, he must be a magician as well. With great effort, she pulled her gaze away from his face and instead looked down at his well-tied neckcloth.
“I call it the Sinclair,” he told her, his tone teasing. “I invented it when I was up at Oxford and had aspirations to be the next dandy, cock of the walk, and
all that.”
“What?” She was startled enough to once more meet his eyes. That was a tactical mistake; this time, those clear blue orbs seemed to have captured her within their lucid depths, and she could not look away. Her throat felt dry. “What are you talking about?”
“The arrangement of my neckcloth, of course. I thought you were once more interested in male fashion?” His tone was gently teasing, but she blushed in earnest at the reminder of their earlier dispute.
“I was only trying to help,” she said, her tone dignified. “Just as with my–my advice in social matters–”
“I know that, and I should not have lost my temper,” he agreed.
“Is that why you asked me to waltz,” she demanded, feeling suddenly irritable herself. “So that you could torment me with such reminders?”
“No, my dear.” He turned her, pulling her a little closer. “I asked you to dance because I have been praying for a waltz since before we set out for the party.”
“Really,” Psyche demurred, “you’re too–”
”Because I have ached to hold you in my arms,” Gabriel finished, his tone caressing, “and if I must play the part of your lover, you must allow me the indulgence of a little loverly solicitude.”
She could not speak. He was teasing her again, of course, but still, his eyes were so warm, his expression so intense, and the music swirled around them like soft waves in a southern sea, carrying them away from the crowded room, away from the hum of conversation that competed with the tune’s thin strains. Perhaps some far part of her mind tried to warn her: the man is an actor; you cannot believe a word he says.
But for this one moment, this lyrical moment as they swayed together, so close that she could catch the smell of clean linen, blended with a masculine hint of musk and warm skin, Psyche’s usual self control deserted her. Even more strangely, she did not attempt to regain her customary armor. She gave herself up to the sure guidance of his hand on her waist, felt the pressure of his grip on her other hand, and she allowed herself to forget everything except this momentary enchantment. Yes, he must be a magician after all.
