Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  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.

  “I should think it would be nice to be beautiful,” Circe said. Her tone was wistful.

  Psyche looked stricken. “Dearest, you are very lovely.” she told her sister.

  “No, I am not,” Circe argued. “I do not have fair hair, mine is a most indifferent brown and it does not curl, and I do not have nice blue eyes and a straight nose. And I certainly do not have a bosom.”

  “Circe!” Aunt Sophie scolded. “This is not suitable dinner time conversation. Is it necessary to send you back to the schoolroom?”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt,” Circe said. “But it is an accurate portrait.”

  Gabriel tried not to laugh; he did not wish to hurt her feelings. “Circe,” he captured her attention although he kept his voice low. “All colts go through an awkward stage, you know, before they reach their full growth.”

  Aunt Sophie looked ready to issue further reprimands, so he hurried on. “W
hat I mean to say is, you are not yet finished growing. I have no doubt that you will mature into a beautiful young woman. Then all the young men in London will have to guard their hearts.”

  “Do you really think so?” Circe sounded hopeful, and Psyche flashed him a quick look of gratitude.

  “I am sure of it,” Gabriel said.

  “But Psyche will still be more beautiful.” Circe poked a fork at her slice of lamb.

  Gabriel turned his head so that the child could not see the wink he sent Psyche. “Yes, but by then, she will be old,” he said gravely.

  Psyche bit her lip to hold back a smile, and Aunt Sophie tried to turn a snort of laughter into a cough, with only limited success. But Circe brightened. “That is true,” she said, and began to eat her dinner once again.

  After dinner, Psyche went upstairs to dress for the ball. Circe lingered on the staircase. “I wish I could go to the ball; I should like to have a costume,” she said.

  “Your turn will come, I promise you,” Gabriel told her. “Personally, I should be happy to donate one blue satin sash.”

  She looked hopeful, so he added quickly, “But I fear Psyche will not allow it.”

  Circe sighed.

  “However, you could design a costume for the time when you are a young lady in your first Season,” Gabriel suggested, trying to cheer her.

  Circe looked interested at once. “That is true. I will get out my colored pencils.”

  Gabriel left her on the first landing and went up to change into his costume. He still thought a simple domino and half mask would have done as well; however, the fuller mask certainly did cover his face almost completely, and the Cavalier-type wide-brimmed hat with the long plume that the dressmaker had included would hide most of his dark hair. He looked at the hat, which Psyche had sent up to his room after its late arrival, with disfavor. He didn’t know which one was most ridiculous, the hat or that stupid silk sash.

  Brickson was there to help him change, looking altogether too cheerful.

  “Masquerades should be banned,” Gabriel observed as he pulled off his neckcloth and slipped out of his evening jacket and white evening shirt.

  “Yes, my lord,” the manservant agreed. He held out the silk shirt, which touched Gabriel’s bare skin like a caress. No wonder women liked silk lingerie, Gabriel thought. But he still felt foolish, and he felt even more so by the time he had on the whole outfit. “I look like I should be fighting Roundheads,” he declared. “I can’t see what is faintly Greek about this.”

  He went down to the landing where Circe waited patiently. “I’m going up to the schoolroom soon,” she said, as if expecting a scolding. “But Psyche said I could see the costumes, first.”

  He made a grand bow for her benefit. “My lady.”

  Circe giggled. “You look very fine, and the blue sash is quite nice.”

  He showed her the mask, and Circe raised her brows. “That is most eerie,” she noted. “A blankness where the face should be, and only the eyes glinting through–very alarming.”

  “I hope the ladies will not all faint away,” he said, playing along.

  “If they have even an ounce of observation, they will know you by your fine shoulders,” she pointed out.

  Gabriel shook his head. “I hope they are not all as perceptive as you,” he said ruefully, “or my disguise will all be for naught.”

  At last he heard a soft step on the staircase, and he turned to see. The sight took his breath.

  Psyche paused, her expression perplexed. “Is something wrong? Is it too much?”

  He gazed at her for a long moment. “You look like a goddess, indeed.”

  Psyche shrugged her almost bare shoulders. “I feel very–um–exposed.”

  “You look as if you stepped down off Mount Olympus, “ he said with perfect truth, gazing at the simple white linen costume that showed off the swam-like curve of her neck, her white shoulders, the swelling curves of her bosom, even exposing a shocking glimpse of shapely ankles.

  “You don’t think it too revealing?” she asked, twitching her skirt a bit but only succeeding in revealing more of her well-formed leg.

  Gabriel thought of all the men at the ball tonight, and how eager and lascivious their attention would be. Damn, he’d have to hang on her shoulder for the whole night to keep them away. Somehow, the idea did not displease him.

  “I like it,” Circe said. “And your hair, too.”

  Her hair was pulled into a simple classical twist, with creamy white flowers tucked into the golden tresses. The color of her cheeks was heightened just now as they both stared at her; she was indeed a most stunning vision.

  Gabriel tried to pull himself together. “Why did I not get a Greek costume, too?” he inquired.

  Psyche bit her lip, obviously trying not to laugh. “When I looked into one of Papa’s classical tomes, it appeared that a Greek man’s costume would have left you. . . um. . . exposed, indeed.”

  Gabriel’s own education came back to him; as he recalled, the male Greek warriors often wore practically nothing. “I, uh, can see how that might be impractical,” he agreed.

  “Besides, we wish you to be anonymous,” she said. “I didn’t want to make it too apparent that you were the other half of my myth.”

  The clock chimed from the parlor, and Psyche motioned to the footman for their evening cloaks. “It is time we were off; Circe, to bed with you.”

  The child kissed her sister good-bye and smiled at Gabriel. “When I am a lady, you must save a dance for me.”

  “I would be desolate without your partnership,” Gabriel agreed. They went, not out the front door, but toward the back, having agreed earlier that Gabriel must stay out of sight as much as possible. The showy white cloak that had come with his costume was folded over his arm and he wore his normal black evening cloak as they made their way out the back of the house and across to the stables.

  A cat yowled from the darkness, and Psyche grabbed his arm. “There! Did something move?”

  Gabriel turned and narrowed his eyes; the dancing light of the lantern made it hard to see through the shadows. “It’s nothing,” he said, but they quickened their pace nonetheless.

  In the carriage house, the coachman gazed at them in surprise. “Miss, no one told me you was waiting. I would have brought the carriage around just as always.”

  “We felt like a stroll,” Psyche soothed him. Gabriel helped her into the carriage and then climbed in to sit beside her.

  She was very much aware that Aunt Sophie was not with them, as usual. He seemed to take up so much of the carriage, with his long legs, and his broad shoulders, and the very masculine energy that he exuded. She could smell his clean linen and the faint odor of shaving soap that clung to his tanned cheeks. A shame it was only a short drive to the Forsyth mansion. Or perhaps a good thing, she told herself.

  The carriage pulled out into the street, rocking a little over the uneven paving stones, and she put out one hand to steady herself.

  Gabriel caught her hand and held it within his own. His grip was firm, and his fingers warm as they curled around hers. She felt the tension inside her, and saw that his eyes were dark with something more than his usual lazy charm.

  “I’m all right,” she said, settling into her seat, and tried to withdraw her hand. But Gabriel would not relinquish it. Instead, he used it to draw her closer. She held back for a moment only before giving in and sliding next to him.

  Turning her head, she opened her lips to scold him. But Gabriel knew her too well; his mouth covered hers before she could elicit more than a peep. His clever tongue moved with delicious slowness. It was a long kiss, and sweet. A shaky sigh escaped her when at last he began to nibble his way down her neck and over her exposed shoulder. She would have more gowns made in this fashion, she thought with a silent giggle.

  All laughter fled when she felt the heat of his palm cup the heavy curve of her breast. Her shivers had nothing to do with the cool night outside the carriage and everythin
g to do with the sensations his sure touch elicited. Unsure what to do, she raised tentative hands to his wide shoulders. His warm breath against the curve of her throat made her bold.

  “Oh, my lovely, lovely Miss Hill,” he teased gently. “It’s a very good thing you no longer have to dock my pay for my improper actions. If that were so, I fear that I would be about to lose it all . . .”

  Feeling just a little foolish at his reminder of her attempts at control, she hid her smile in the smooth fabric of his cloak and pushed all but his implied promise out of her mind. She wanted what he offered. All these incredible new feelings—she had never expected such pleasure, certainly not from such a person as this adventurer.

  Giving into her curiosity, she slid her hands down his chest and under his cloak. The slippery silk covered the muscled curves of his chest and the steady thumping of his heart. Ducking her head, she pressed kisses against his tanned neck. Gratified when his heartbeat thundered against her hand, she smiled and leaned her face deeper into his shoulder. Drinking in the tangy, clean scent of him, she didn’t notice when the carriage rocked to a stop.

  David heard the sound of carriage wheels retreating as he hurried up to the Hill’s front door, but he did not heed it. It was only four more blocks to the Forsyth’s palatial townhouse, and already the street was full of carriages and chaises and old fashioned coaches; the ball would be crowded indeed.

  He rapped smartly on the dark wood of the door, and in a moment, a footman pulled it open.

  “I’m here for Tarrington,” David said blithely.

  The footman blinked. “I regret to inform you, my lord, that his lordship is out for the evening.”

  David shrugged and walked into the house; the footman, looking surprised, gave way before him. “I know he’s skulking about, but it’s I, Westbury. Just tell him, will you?”

  “I remember you, my lord,” the footman protested. “But he is really not at home.”

  “I’ll wait right here,” David said. “He might need me, you see. Protection.”

  “I think I shall get the butler,” the footman said. He retreated, looking vexed.

  David stood alone in the front hall, but in a moment, he heard a clear voice say, “He’s really not in, you know. You just missed them.”