Dear Impostor Read Online Free Page A

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."