Page 10 of Lord Appleby's Gorgeous Imposter
Because tonight, I am going to the dressing room of that French imposter down there and getting the truth straight from her lovely, lying lips.
Chapter Two
“Mademoiselle de Massé!”
She made haste to her dressing room, a crowd of men on her heels. As she strode, she tore off her gloves and her cape, dropping them in her maid’s outstretched hands.
“Mademoiselle de Massé!”
“My wig,” she said like a curse, and worked the ugly thing off and into Alice’s care. Her own hair fell free, locks of it falling around her shoulders and freeing her of the ruse she had agreed to and hated.
“Mademoiselle!” The chorus of men clamoring at her dressing room door was gratifying but frightening.
She skirted around them. “Let me by. Let me by.”
A few were gentlemen. They stepped aside. But crowds meant chaos. Terror. She’d had enough of that in her life.Enough. Enough!
She stepped into her dressing room, and they followed.
She spun to her maid. “Close the door, Alice. Admit one gentleman at a time.” The woman was tall and sturdy, able to fight off hordes of men.Even those three who attacked us along the road near Rouen were discouraged by her.
And I was useless. Brandishing a pistol that shook in my grip.
She put a hand to her throat. The memory of the robbery outside Rouen made her angry. Her blood ran cold when anyone ran after her or called for her. But these men were praising her.
She swallowed.Do not be a ninny.The play had gone well. The applause was thunderous. The bouquets were so numerous that she could not leave the stage. The manager had to come help her walk away.
Now she had to react. Smile. Greet her public.
Mon Dieu,I hate crowds.
Alice had trouble closing the door. She kept telling those assembled to take their feet from the threshold, but they did not do it. They pushed and insisted. A few shouted.
“Miss! Miss, I cannot—!” Alice appealed to her.
“Mademoiselle!”
She stilled at the sound of one rich male voice.
No, no. I am dreaming.
But he called again—and his was a deep bass unlike any other man’s. Dark as fine Cabernet wine. Hard as iron. Unforgettable.
“Mademoiselle Charmaine de Massé?”
Insistent. A question with a touch of English accent on her family name. It should be pronounced “Massey.”
“Mademoiselle! Vivienne!”
No. Who would call for Viv? Not here. Not tonight.
“Vivienne!”
No, surely…
She craned her neck.
Tate!
