Dear Impostor (3 page)

          He glowered at other potential
suitors and often grabbed her arm, despite her not so subtle attempts to shake
him off, when any other eligible bachelor seemed too keen in appreciation of
her beauty or too persistent in attendance. And his constant presence was
taking its toll. The circle of admirers around her was thinning, and she knew
that with every year, it would shrink even more.

          It was not hard for Percy to make
himself her shadow, despite all her attempts to discourage him. Of course he
would receive invitations to the same social events–her father's family were of
impeccable lineage, though mostly endowed with modest wealth. Only her
scholarly father, with his penchant for strange experiments and new inventions,
had managed to build up a large fortune, safely invested since the accident in government
funds. It was a fortune that Uncle Wilfred had coveted even before the death of
his brother, and now Wilfred and his insufferable twit of a son thought the
answer to their greed lay easily within their grasp. All that was necessary was
for Psyche to agree to marry her first cousin.

          And that, despite an increasing
desire for financial independence, she could not bring herself to do. When
Percy took her hand, when she felt the limp, damp clasp of his fingers around
her own, Psyche wanted only to push him away. She had never kissed him, but one
glance at Percy's moist pink lips made her stomach turn at the very thought.

          Even the emancipation marriage
would bring from her father's too-strict will, which had firmly wrapped up her
inheritance in trust till she was safely affianced, could not alter her
distaste for her cousin.

          And when, a fortnight ago, he had
backed her into a prickly holly bush in the Countess of Shrewsbury's garden,
while music and the glow of many candles had flowed out from the ballroom
windows just behind them, she had been driven to desperate measures.

          "Please, Cousin," Percy
had begged, trying to take her hand. "You know how I feel–"

          "And you know how I feel,
Percy, we've been through this a hundred times. I cannot marry you. I have no
affection for you, not in that way," she'd answered him firmly, pulling
her hand away.

          But with a fortune the size of
Psyche's only a marriage vow from his grasp, Percy could be incredibly
persistent. "Oh, come now, Cousin, I know your maidenly hesitation is only
proper, but it's time for you to listen to my avowal of affection. You're
becoming an acknowledged spinster. You're five and twenty; this is–what?–your
seventh season. Better to accept my suit, or–fortune or not–you'll soon be at
your last prayer."

          "Percy, I am not at death's
door just yet. And I am not being proper!"

          "Of course you are," he
argued. "You're always proper, unlike your mother, who–"

          He must have seen the anger flare
in her eyes, because Percival hastily altered the words he'd been about to say.
"That is, I have every respect for your mother, but to go gadding about
the countryside in that way, urging such shocking opinions upon decent women–"

          "Percy, you were speaking
about me," Psyche had been forced to remind him, only to regret her words
even as he reached once more for her hand. She tried to move aside, edging away
from the sharp-edged leaves which pulled at the fine silk of her gown, only–her
attention on her cousin–to hit the edge of a stone bench. The pain of the impact
caused her knees to buckle, and she sat abruptly. Percy seized his chance.

          "That's right, about us. Dear,
dear Psyche, you must allow me to profess my undying love." To her horror,
he knelt upon the damp grass, still holding tightly to her hand.

          "Get up, Percy, at once! You'll
make us the talk of the ton," she'd answered sharply. "Anyhow, you're
going to ruin your best pantaloons."

          He winced at the thought of the
damage he was doing to his formal costume, but refused to rise. "I don't
care if people talk," he told her, his tone smug. "I want everyone to
know how I feel about you."

          Just as they already gossiped that
her stingy uncle would never agree to any other suitor, Psyche thought with
renewed frustration. What could she do to gain some measure of independence and
yet not be tied for life to this milksop of a man? There seemed to be no other
choice. What other admirer would approach her when Percy kept guard like a
jealous dog over a bone. And yet–

          Marriage with Percy would free her
of the confines of the Trust, she told herself, trying to find the willpower to
agree. She doubted his lust would last long past the marriage bed, if her own
lack of response had anything to do with it. And then she could take proper
care of Circe. Except–

          After marriage, her husband would
control her income; women had no legal rights, of course. And Percy was just as
tight-fisted as his father. No, marriage with her cousin wouldn't work, she
told herself in some relief, because her skin crawled at the thought of Percy
pressing his body against hers. Even the grip of his hand made her uneasy. She
tried again to pull away.

          "Percy, I cannot marry
you!"

          "Why not?" He leaned
closer, his lips pursed. Heavens, he was going to kiss her!

          "Because I am already
engaged!" she snapped, then stopped, almost as aghast as her cousin, whose
eyes bugged out for a moment like a startled toad's. He released his grip on
her hand and struggled to his feet.

          "What do you mean, engaged? To
whom? I don't believe it!"

          "To the Marquis of Cara–of Tara–of Tarrington," Psyche announced in desperation. "I met him on the Continent
last summer when I went to France with Aunt Sophie and my sister."

          "You said you went to take
Circe to see the great museums," Percy argued, his tone indignant, his expression
of betrayal almost comical.

          "So we did," she
answered. "He's a great art lover, the Marquis."

          "French? You're going to
marry a damned Frenchman?" Her cousin couldn't seem to grasp the news. "It's
impossible; my father will never allow it."

          "He's English, of course, he
only resides on the Continent," Psyche responded, trying to think fast
enough to make her spur-of-the-moment story credible. "And when Uncle
Wilfred meets the Marquis, I'm sure he will think him a suitable candidate for
my hand."

          "Never! I will speak to my
father," Percy said in an ominous tone. "He will forbid it!"

          But Percy had stalked away,
leaving Psyche sighing with relief–as well as a glimmer of an idea. The next
morning she had sent a hasty note to Mr. Watkins, their family solicitor. He
had received her in his dark-paneled office when she arrived, pouring tea into
fragile china cups and announcing, "You know I cannot break the trust, my
dear Psyche, as much as you wish it. Your father only meant to protect you–"

          "Protect me? Whatever he
wished, he has delivered me directly into Percy's damp hands," Psyche
retorted. They had had this conversation a dozen times, had combed through the
thick pages of convoluted language which made up the trust just as many. "No,
I think I have found a loophole!"

          He handed her the cup, then
offered a small plate with thin slices of lemon. "What do you mean?" His
tone was cautious, but lawyers were certainly familiar with loopholes.

          "Go to page six," she
directed, sipping the hot tea, then returning the cup to its saucer and picking
up her own much-thumbed copy of the Trust. "Where it says that I will
receive half of my inheritance when I become betrothed."

          "Ah, yes." The lawyer
flipped to the page she'd mentioned. "Your father wished to be sure you
had ample means to buy your bride clothes and prepare for the nuptials to
follow, being familiar with his brother's parsimonious–that is–his brother
Wilfred's penchant for economy, and–"

          "Yes, but now, go to page
eight. My uncle has the right to prevent an unsuitable marriage, but it doesn't
say he has the right to forbid an engagement!" Psyche took a deep breath. It
had occurred to her last night–a plan brilliant in its simplicity–as she'd
tossed and turned, disturbed by Percy's increasing audacity.

          The solicitor adjusted his glasses
and reread the ponderous phrases of the document. "Perhaps you could
interpret it like that, but–"

          "I don't have to interpret
it; that's what it says!" Psyche argued, pressing her hands together in
nervous appeal.

          "Even so, what good would it
do to be engaged, dear child, if you could never marry?"

          "I would have control of half
of my funds!" she exclaimed, impatient with his slowness. "That's
much, much more than Uncle Wilfred allows me now. I could hire proper art
instructors for Circe; we could travel. I could do all the things that my uncle
will not allow me money for!"

          Freedom, she'd thought, closing
her eyes for a moment as the solicitor pondered. It meant freedom from her
cousin's close pursuit, freedom from her uncle's dictates.

          "But it's pointless. No
suitor would agree to such an arrangement, Psyche," the lawyer had pointed
out, "an engagement without a marriage to follow."

          "Oh, I think I know one who
would," Psyche argued, knowing that her blue eyes were alight with
mischief.

          Mr. Watkins stared at her, his own
eyes narrowing behind the spectacles. But after a short silence, he said only,
"Take care, my dear girl."

          Psyche had ridden home light with
happiness. At last, she had found a way out of her legal cage. Her impromptu
declaration to Percy would set her free. She would be engaged forever to this
mysterious marquis who had sprang out of her imagination, and no one would be
able to tell her, or Circe, what to do.

          It was brilliant . . .

          Except that when Percy had shared
her news, her uncle demanded to meet the man who had inspired this sudden,
secret engagement. And that had seemed to doom her plan until she thought of
hiring someone to play the part. All she needed was a fiancé of respectable
appearance for one evening, then the mysterious marquis could disappear across
the Channel again, and she would have access to her own money, for good and
pressing reasons . . .

          It would all be worth the
sleepless nights she had spent as she contemplated the details of her scheme. She'd
sent her maid to the theater to find a suitable candidate to act the part,
promising him the best part of her quarterly allowance. And Simpson had
reported success.

          True, Psyche had never expected
her unseen employee to look nor act quite like this tall, well-formed man with
a face of such startling good looks. And if he acted this well, she could not
imagine why he was not more successful–why, tonight she would have been willing
to swear that he was a gentleman, indeed. But little matter, it had worked, her
design had worked!

          As Psyche applauded herself on the
unlikely success of the most mad-capped plot that she had ever envisioned, it
occurred to her that this was more unconventional than anything her parents had
done. The thought did not please her; she was in all things unlike her
eccentric parents, she told herself quickly. Then her private musings, smug
with self-congratulation, came to a sudden halt.

          One of her mother's brothers was
inviting her hired finance to a party in two weeks. And had there been other
invitations? Heavens, she must pay attention.

          "No, no, he will be away
again by then, will you not, my lord?" she interrupted hastily.

          "What, leaving your
wife-to-be already? We must properly welcome the new husband of our dear little
Psyche. Eh, my lord, surely you don't wish to run back to the Continent in such
haste."

          "Not at all," the actor
answered, smiling down at Psyche with a wolfish grin, his white teeth glinting
as his lips pulled back just a fraction too wide, his eyes mocking. "I
have no desire to crush my betrothed's sensibilities by leaving so soon." He
leaned closer to the men as though confiding a secret. "She can't bear to
be apart from me too long, y'know. Cries till her eyes are red and puffy, ghastly,
really." He grimaced as if at the thought of Psyche with swollen features.

          To her disgust, her male relatives
nodded and looked in condescending pity at Psyche as if she might burst into
lovelorn weeping at any moment.

          Unbelievable! These men had known
her all her life and had never seen her have hysterics. Yet they took the word
of this insulting, arrogant–actor–as gospel truth.

          Her mother had been right all
along. Men did stick together with the mentality of a pack of mongrels.

          "Why, I never in my life–"
Psyche tried to put in, aware that indignant heat had flooded her face. She
felt a light squeeze on her elbow, but it was a disturbing new thought that
silenced her. Would this ruffian dare to blackmail her for more money–was that
what this was about?