Dear Impostor Read Online Free PDF Page A

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?
              "And what's your given name,
boy, if one may ask?" the older man continued.
              The actor smiled again. "Of
course, Uncle Octavius. We're all family here. My name is Gabriel Sinclair,
Marquis–" he glanced down at Psyche, now stiff with alarm–"Marquis of
Tarrington."
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 3
     
              For Psyche, the evening, which had
for a brief spell been sweet with the taste of victory, now took on the aspect
of nightmare. Numb with shock, she listened to the spurious marquis cheerfully
accepting invitations of all kinds from her hither-to hostile relations. Had
they all fallen beneath his spell? What kind of monster was this man, this
unknown actor whose powers she had so woefully underestimated?
              When the butler announced dinner,
Great-aunt Sophie went in with Uncle Wilfred, followed by a stately process of
elderly, higher-ranked ladies and their partners, and then the Marquis escorted
Psyche into the dining room. Here, despite the Marquis' false rank, they were
mercifully separated–had Percy bribed the butler?–but although she now had time
to try to collect her scattered wits as she pushed at the food on her plate,
Psyche found her ears straining to hear the cause of the merry laughter from
farther down the table.
              What was he telling them–what
fanciful tales of travel and adventure? She could catch only snatches of the
conversation that seemed to be the liveliest and merriest of all those around
the whole long table. Did thespians travel this much? No, his anecdotes must
surely be merest fantasy. And what happened when he was exposed–as every witty
story made more possible? Psyche, who had never had a nervous fit in her life,
wondered if she might break all precedence.
              Her appetite was totally gone,
despite the tempting portions that now covered her plate. Psyche pushed aside a
forkful of sautéed mushrooms and found her stomach clenched into painful knots.
Was this her punishment for departing from the safe and circumspect behavior to
which she had always been so careful to adhere? She now deeply regretted her scheme;
how had she thought she could pull this off?
              As soon as the actor, who must be
drunk on the wine the footman