Dear Impostor

by Nicole Byrd

  “And you?” she asked, her voice whisper soft.

  He didn’t answer, not sure how he would go on. How many times could a man pick himself up, regain some semblance of self-respect, and try again? Worse, now that he had seen Psyche, loved Psyche, he would never be content to wander as a gamester with no reputation and no place in the world, with nothing to offer but his skill with cards, his perhaps pleasing face and his easy charm. Worthless, all of it.

  Her eyes narrowed, and he heard her draw a sharp breath, as if she read something of the depths of his despair.

  “No,” she said. “I will not leave you.”

  ”You must,” he told her, his tone flat and cold. “There is no need for you to be ruined, too. Go back home, protect your safety and your reputation. I will find Barrett and we will settle this fight, once and for all. I know now that I owe him even more enmity than I had thought.”

  The thought of Gabriel putting himself in such direct danger made Psyche sick with fear.

  “No,” she said. “I am staying.”

  “I will not allow it.”

  “You cannot stop me,” she told him calmly. “That is–”

  He waited, too weary to be eloquent, to explain to her properly what folly all this was. But in his wildest dreams, Gabriel could not have predicted her next words.

  “I shall play you for the choice,” she said in a rush.

  This time, despite his bemusement, his brows rose. “What?”

  “You mean to go back to being a gamester, yes? Then you might as well start now. We shall play to see who prevails. If you win, I shall go quietly back to London. If I win, I stay, and . . . and you will be my prize.”

  Silence, then he cleared his throat. His voice was husky. “Psyche . . . goddess, you do not know what you are saying.”

  “Oh, I think I do,” she said, her smile serene. “I think I know quite well.”

  In this nightmare of a house, still reeling from the shock of its ruin, Gabriel found it hard to think. He could not believe her; she was a gently reared young woman of good family. True, her parents had been eccentric, but even they would not have allowed her so much liberty that she really understood–his gaze dropped to the smooth curve of her neck, the white hollow at the base of her throat that he ached to kiss–he couldn’t think logically. But one fact stood out, even in his state of bemusement.

  “Psyche,” he said softly, as if to a child. “I am a gamester; I play cards to survive. You think that you can best me?”

  “I can try,” she said, still strangely certain.

  Perhaps it would be easier to humor her. He would beat her at a hand of cards, and send her on her way, with less cajoling and argument. However–

  “We have no cards,” he pointed out. “Therefore–”

  ”I saw some in the library,” she told him.

  He shrugged; it was folly to honor any chamber in this house with such a designation, but he didn’t waste his breath pointing this out. “Very well, let us see.”

  They walked together through the dusty hall and into the large room lined with book shelves and wood panels and wide moldings that were likely handsome, if one could see beneath the veneer of dust. Sure enough, scattered in the corner of the room where perhaps a card table had once stood, playing cards littered the hardwood floor.

  Gabriel shook his head, then bent to collect the cards. The stiff cardboard pieces were thick with damp and slightly warped, and most of all–

  “We cannot play a game without a full deck,” he explained patiently. “I see only about two thirds of the deck here.” Shreds of the rest no doubt cushioned some rodent’s den behind the wood panels of the room. “It is impossible.”

  “Then we shall draw from what is there,” Psyche said. “A simple game, which will offset your greater experience, at least. Pure luck, no more.”

  Once, he would have laughed and told her that Lady Luck was his constant companion. Now, he knew how bitter such a statement would sound, and how false. Gabriel nodded, resigned. It was true that such an uncomplicated match would deny him the chance to outplay her; but nonetheless, he could not conceive of losing. Cards were the only thing in his life which seldom failed him.

  He awkwardly shuffled the handful of warped cards, then placed the stack atop a dusty three-legged table, the only piece of furnishing left in the room. “Very well, draw.”

  For the first time, Psyche looked tense. She reached for the top card and smiled as she turned it over to show the faded colors of a jack of diamonds. “A fair draw.”

  “We shall do two out of three, of course,” Gabriel told her.

  She frowned, but when he drew a trey of spades, relaxed. “I win,” she pointed out.

  “Only the first round.” He nodded, and she drew another card; the table set on uneven legs and it rocked slightly at her touch. This time, she turned over a six of hearts, and Psyche’s brows knit with concentration.

  He drew the ten of diamonds. “My win,” he noted.

  Psyche bit her lip, then jumped at the rustle of small feet nearby. “Gabriel!” She looked at him in mute supplication.

  Nodding, he walked across to one of the room’s dim corners; beneath a yellowed sheet of ancient newsprint and a few stray curls of dust, the rodent who had alarmed his companion darted away once more. Gabriel stamped his foot, and the mouse disappeared into a hole in the baseboard. The room was silent again, and he returned to the table.

  “I have sent away our uninvited guest,” he told her, his tone wry. “Draw, Psyche. The morning is advancing, and you need to be on your way.”

  “I have not lost yet.” As if to prove her point, Psyche reached for the deck and turned over the queen of hearts.

  Gabriel frowned. “Impressive,” he admitted. Slowly he reached for the cards and drew a jack of spades.

  “I win!” Psyche exclaimed. “I am staying, Gabriel.”

  Gabriel sighed. He had hoped to avoid a confrontation, but the cards had failed him, too. On such a day, how had he expected anything more?

  “It was a child’s game,” he told her, his voice patient. “But this decision is not for play, it is most serious. You must risk neither your good name nor your person, Psyche. You have to return.”

  She shook her head. “Do you not honor your bets, my lord?”

  “Don’t call me that!” Gabriel said sharply. “There is no one here to impress, save the rats. It is too late for masquerades, now that we have seen the reality.” He nodded toward the devastation of the house.

  But Psyche looked only at him. She took one step closer, and above the sour smell of damp and mildew, he detected the light fragrance of her perfume. A smidgen of dust darkened one cheek, but beneath it, her fair skin was unblemished, glowing with the inner luminescence of an heirloom pearl. He wanted her so badly that his belly ached. And–damn these stupid silk breeches–if she looked down, innocent or not, she would realize the intensity of his need.

  The futility of the situation, of his dream, seeped into him like the mildew which coated the walls. He had been so damn close to having all that he had wanted. He had been so close to having Psyche and being worthy of her.

  And Fate had trumped him in the final trick.

  “It is done, Psyche,” he spoke the words with quiet finality.

  “You can’t mean it.” Psyche stepped toward him, but stopped when he retreated.

  “But I do. This game is over and every gambler knows when to cut his losses and leave the table.”

  Gabriel turned and walked toward the library door. The once proud line of his shoulders slumped, looking defeated and tired. She could not bear it. Only a little while ago he had been so hopeful, so jubilant.

  “But I won,” she insisted softly.

  He halted in the doorway but did not turn to face her. “I said I will not hold you to such a ridiculous wager. You could not know what you are asking.”

  There was little else he could have said to make her angrier. Slightly aghast at herself even while
she did it, Psyche picked up the warped deck and heaved it at him.

  It felt fabulous.

  Cards scattered everywhere, only a few actually hitting him on the back and neck. He turned and gaped at her before closing his mouth into a thin line.

  “Listen to me and listen well, Gabriel. You are not going to tell me what I know and what I need and what I must do. I have done nothing else for years except abide by Society’s rules, Decorum’s dictates, and I am sick unto death of it.” Her voice rose until it was a fair shriek.

  He said nothing.

  Psyche let her words sink in for a moment, and then raised her chin high. “You may be giving up, but I am not. I will get my inheritance, I will not marry Percy, and I will have you!”

  He quirked a brow. “You think so?”

  She nodded decisively. “Yes, I won you fairly.”

  He seemed to think that over for a moment before shaking his head. “Would that I could.”

  Infuriated with his arrogance, she pounded her hand on the rickety table, sending up puffs of dust. “You can!”

  “Damn it, Psyche. I cannot!” He ate up the space between them with long-legged strides. He grabbed her upper arms in his hands and pulled her close. “What sort of man would I be if I were to make love to you, share your body and take your innocence, all the while knowing I would have to leave you?”

  Psyche watched him, loving him even now when he was so angry. Want and need had stripped him of all his usual masks; his lapis eyes were naked of his customary insouciant charm and full of stark emotion.

  “Sweet heaven, I want to love you so badly, what I would not give to taste and touch . . .” He was so close. Each warm breath on her lips, each brush of his chest against hers made her need swell inside her to unbearable proportion.

  Just when she thought he meant to clasp her to him and press his lips against hers, he thrust her away. Her hip bumped painfully against the table, but she stood firm.

  “Why can’t you simply freeze me out as you would Percy?” His voice sounded strained and tight.

  She laughed weakly. “Because I don’t love him as I love you.”

  Her declaration nearly sent him to his knees. It staggered him. This pure, incredible creature loved him. And that’s when he knew he’d have to hurt her.

  He made his smirk cruel. “My dear, you’ll have to trust my vast experience when I tell you that what you are demanding has nothing to do with love and everything to do with lust.”

  But inside he was saying something quite different. Come on, darling. Slay me with a look, or cut me to ribbons, but leave so that I can not ruin your life, too. He would not see her suffer disgrace because of him.

  But improbably, the corners of her delectable mouth lifted. Her smile was slow and sure as she walked close to him. Laying her hands on his tense shoulders, she leaned in until her lips were a breath away from his.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  His smirk disappeared, and he closed his eyes tightly in an attempt to shut her out.

  “I love you.” Her voice grew steadier.

  “Stop it,” he ordered. Every line in his body went rigid as he strove to reject what she offered, what he so desperately wanted.

  “I love you,” she said firmly.

  He opened his eyes. She saw the battle that was raging inside him revealed in their dark depths. “You mustn’t,” he pleaded, his voice achingly tender.

  Tears welled in her eyes because she knew then that he loved her, too. She raised smudged hands and cupped his lightly-stubbled cheeks. Turning, he pressed a fervent kiss into her palm.

  She tasted her own tears as she laughed weakly. “I think it’s about time I do what’s right instead of what’s correct, my love.” Tracing the scar near his hard mouth, she adored him with her eyes. “You taught me that, you know.” Leaning her forehead against his, she whispered her demand. “Now, teach me everything else.”

  Even knowing he wouldn’t deny her any longer, she was unprepared for his arms clasping her so tightly, lifting her high against him. Their lips and tongues met in sweet battle, their breaths growing heated and short.

  “As you wish, goddess,” he said when at last he pulled away. “But no more instruction; for once, we must do this my way.”

  Her stomach tight in anticipation, she brushed her cheek against his with her nod. “I can do that,” she said, her voice eager. She felt as well as heard his deep chuckle. She pulled back to scold him, but his sudden change of expression stopped her.

  “I know I do not deserve you,” he said solemnly.

  Psyche opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a palm to silence her.

  “But for a few hours, I want to pretend that this is our home, that it is worthy of you, that I am worthy.” He closed his eyes and swallowed the lump that had lodged in his throat. “For just a little while, let me be the man you deserve.” He lifted his lids, blinking hard, and saw his own tears reflected on her cheeks. “This brief time together will have to last me a lifetime.”

  Unable to answer, she gave him a watery smile.

  “Psyche, my dearest.” His voice trembled. He felt hesitant, unsure of himself, a boy again new to love-making, uncertain as to how to please. He lifted a trembling hand to her cheek but pulled it back before he could feel her warmth. Once he felt her he did not trust he’d have the fortitude to stop. “I–I don’t want to hurt you in any way. And if I stayed, I would. I always end up hurting those whom I love . . .”

  But Psyche would not allow him any distance. Capturing his hand, she raised it again to her cheek, brushing his fingertips across her smooth skin and down to the fullness of her lips. Raising on her toes, she kissed him, and the softness of her lips amazed him yet again. His mind might be bemused, his poise stripped away by the new emotions that had sprang up within him, but his body remembered. With a helpless moan, he kissed her surely, firmly, his arms pulling her even closer, and she relaxed into his embrace.

  The kiss lengthened, and her lips parted, till he could taste the sweetness of her mouth and tantalize the softness he found there. He thought of other soft places waiting for his invasion, and his groin ached till he feared he would disgrace himself like a green boy, indeed. He pulled a little away.

  She opened her eyes, her expression perplexed.

  “When I love you, I want it to be as if we have forever,” he explained, trailing his hand down the soft curve of her throat. Her pulse jumped, like a small bird fluttering beneath his hand. “It would take forever for me to have my fill of you.”

  She relaxed. For an instant, however, he had seen a trace of nervousness beneath her calm.

  “We can have forever, my love,” she whispered.

  But instead of reassurances, Gabriel leaned forward with careful slowness and kissed her again.

  His lips were firm and sure. Psyche thought she might float away, such was the aching sweetness of his touch. Then the kiss became deeper and more demanding, his tongue probing, and Psyche pressed herself against him, ready to meet his passion with the rising heat within her own breast.

  Her eyes shut, Psyche became aware of the touch of his hand on her face, the slow soft movements of his fingers as he stroked her cheek. The light touch sent tingles of feeling through her, and when he dropped his hand to her neck, caressing the curve of her throat, then the hollow at the base of her neck, she felt prickles of sensation that made her feel as if her skin were on fire.

  She waited, eager for his hands to move on, but Gabriel took his time, fingertips gliding over her throat and shoulders and neck again and again until she trembled with eagerness, feeling as if she were an instrument on which he played a harmonious melody.

  Psyche could not speak; she was beyond words. Where this stream of sensual joy would take her, she could not rationally predict, but thoughts were gone, only feelings existed. She felt as if she were falling into a morass of sensation–then she found that she was falling, or at least, Gabriel was carefully placing her back against
the floor. He had untied her dark cloak and laid it against the dusty boards.

  “I want to believe that this is our bed, and I am laying you down on scented sheets and down-filled pillows,” he whispered huskily in her ear. She smiled at the image and raised her arms to him as he lay beside her.

  “And this is not a dirty costume but a gown you have specially chosen to wear for your lover.” With a sure motion of his hand, he slipped her tunic to her waist and pushed it further down past her thighs.

  She made a soft sound of protest at the loss of his touch, but he moved his right hand up and caressed each one of her breasts in turn until the ripples of feeling again threatened to overwhelm her. With practiced fingers, he traced the curve of her breast. No man had ever touched her there–Percy’s awkward fumblings during the times she had slapped her cousin’s hand away could not be compared to this. But thinking about her cousin or any other man now was sacrilege.

  Psyche arched her back, pressing her breast deeper into his palm. She had no desire to push Gabriel away. Her nipples strained, erect and tender, as if instinctively aware of the pleasures they were owed. Gabriel did not deny her; he cupped one breast in his hand, stroking it softly, teasing the nipple with a skillful touch. And while she breathed long sighs of pleasure, he leaned forward and she found to her surprise that he had pressed his lips to her breast.

  What was–then she gasped, as his mouth found her nipple, kissed it, surrounded it, gently manipulated the tender flesh until waves of pleasure ran over her like a warm tide from a tropical sea.

  Was it possible to die of pure joy? She could not imagine how much more pleasure love-making could offer, if this brief interlude left her so charged with sensation—and then she found that she was woefully, joyfully wrong.

  Gabriel lowered his head and kissed the soft skin of her belly, till she shuddered from the impact of his warm lips, and his hand cupped the sweet curve of her, touched the silky golden hair.

  She stiffened, alarmed for an instant; yet the feelings in her belly were so intense that she could not push him away. She instinctively wanted whatever it was that Gabriel was offering, but she had no idea what it was.