Dear Impostor by Nicole Byrd

and Uncle Wilfred
snorted.
              "Oh, get on with you,
Percy," Aunt Sophie said. "My feet are aching. You may complain
another day."
              The two men left with no more
farewells, and Psyche breathed a sigh of relief when she heard them clomp down
the stairs.
              Aunt Sophie glanced at the two of
them. "You may say good night, Psyche," she said, "but five
minutes only, and do not shock the servants."
              She slowly climbed the staircase
to her own suite of rooms, and Psyche took a deep breath. Two footmen waited at
the end of the hall, but no one was within earshot.
              "Thank God that's over,"
Psyche said, keeping her voice low. "I will get you the purse of money
that my maid promised you."
              Gabriel smiled, but his eyes held
a dangerous glint. "Oh no, my dear. Did you forget what I said? I am your
fiancee, and I'm not leaving. I will be your guest, of course, since the
Marquis resides on the Continent. And you would not send your beloved to the
cold, unaired sheets of a hotel, I'm sure."
              "You can't!" Psyche
gazed at him in horror. "It wouldn't be proper."
              "You have a duenna," he
pointed out smoothly. "It will be most proper. No one could dare consider
being indecorous with Aunt Sophie in the house."
              Of course she had a chaperon–an
unmarried female would not live alone–and between her aunt and a houseful of
servants, she should not be in any actual physical peril from this stranger. But
to have him underfoot, meeting her family every day, with every new encounter a
chance for exposure–Psyche felt herself go rigid with alarm.
              Before she could think of an
argument, she heard a slight sound overhead and turned to see her sister
leaning over the rail of the next landing.
              "Is this the actor?"
Circe called, blunt as usual. "He's very nice to look at."
              "Circe!" Psyche
despaired of ever teaching her little sister to guard her tongue. "Be
silent!"
              "Why? And why is he not
leaving?"
              "I am staying to perfect my
role, of course," Gabriel told her, eyeing the child with interest. She
was as unlike her beautiful big sister as anyone of such close blood could be;
Circe was thin and undeveloped still, with straight brown hair escaping from
its braid at the back of her head, and strange green eyes that regarded the impostor
with straightforward curiosity.
              "Of course," the child
agreed, to his surprise. "Any artist would wish to perfect his
creation."
              "Circe, go to bed! I shall
talk to you in the morning." Psyche sounded past all patience.
              "Good night, my love." Gabriel
reached for his spurious fiancee's hand, but she snatched it back. He bowed to
her, instead, then motioned to the footman hovering by the door. "You may
show me to the best guest chamber."
              Obediently, the servant led him
away. Gabriel left Psyche standing beside the staircase, her face burning with
anger. He knew the bent of her thoughts, her outrage and frustration, but it
could not be helped. Outside lay danger and an assassin's knife. Inside–perhaps
danger waited inside, as well. Gabriel remembered the smooth curve of Psyche's
neck, where it led into the tempting dips and hollows of her shoulder. But the
temptation must be resisted. He had a life to reclaim, and by God, he meant to
do it.
              Shaking with fury, Psyche watched
the actor climb the steps. He was taking shameless advantage of her situation. Yet,
she needed him–he was now the man her whole family believed to be her fiancé–
and she could not expose him herself, nor throw him out, at least not just yet.
A few days, that was all, and she would find a way to rid herself of this
insolent intruder.
              If she felt a flicker of regret at
the