Dear Impostor Read Online Free

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