Fallen Angel (6 page)

So harsh was his voice, he expected her to lapse into silence, but instead she explained, “If I cease to love them simply because they are imperfect or because they do not love me back, then I do not hurt them, but only myself.”

Unable to follow her convoluted and obviously faulty line of reasoning, he found himself asking, “How so?”

“Do you not see? It is really quite simple. If I stop loving them, then I become diminished as a person.”

The time had obviously come again for him to open her eyes to reality. “If you think you will change them by your example, you delude yourself totally, Miss Jolliffe. No matter how many times you meekly turn the other cheek, all you will ever get for your efforts is more bruises.”

At his words, her eyes did open—but only in astonishment. “You misunderstand completely. I have no expectation or indeed any intention of changing them. It is not true love when one seeks to change another person.”

With that Gabriel found himself in complete agreement. Where he differed from Miss Jolliffe was in believing that there was no such thing as true love in the world. Love, in his experience, was invariably selfish and demanding.

But he did believe in luck, both good and bad. And he had to acknowledge that it was possible that he could have, through sheer good fortune, met the one female who would enable him to cut his cousin out of the line of succession.

Looking at her with renewed interest, Gabriel began to evaluate her potential as a possible wife.

Beginning with her physical appearance, there was no denying that she was quite plain, with mousy brown hair, nondescript eyes, and no figure to speak of. Not at all the attributes one looked for in a mistress, but greatly to be desired in a wife. After all, he felt no inclination to follow in his father’s footsteps and end up with a son whose paternity was in doubt. Since Miss Jolliffe was not likely to inflame any man’s passion, that was a definite point in her favor.

On the other hand, although she possessed no particular
beauty of face or form, she was not at all an antidote. Moreover, she was neatly dressed and from what he had seen, fastidious about her person, so he should have no trouble consummating the marriage. Another point in her favor.

Although of gentle birth, which was a definite requirement for any wife of his, she was not so highly connected that she would fail to be appreciative of the great honor he would be bestowing upon her by making her the Countess of Sherington.

In addition, if one excepted her peculiar ideas about love, her understanding was above average for a female. Gabriel had, over the years, noticed that intelligent men who married beautiful ninnies frequently sired offspring who were notable lackwits, and he had no intention of falling into that trap.

Since a man must unfortunately expect to spend some time in his wife’s company on occasion, it was likewise in Miss Jolliffe’s favor that she did not drive him to distraction by chattering. Yet when called upon to do so, she was able to converse easily on a variety of topics. Moreover, if she had any of the normal, thoroughly aggravating,
feminine
wiles, she had yet to display them.

Another woman with so many desirable attributes would be difficult, yet probably not impossible to find. But where could he find another female who would not try her best to change him, and who would not demand that he love her in return?

If he married Miss Jolliffe, he could continue the life he was accustomed to leading without having her fall into a jealous tantrum because he spent more time at his clubs or with his mistress than with her. And if he decided to leave her at Sherington Close and set forth on a journey, she would neither complain that he was abandoning her nor berate
him
when he decided to return.

Yes, on this trip north, his luck had definitely been in. With only a slight effort on his part, he could acquire a proper loving wife, and in due course an heir.

All he had to do was make Miss Jolliffe fall in love with him, which given his way with women, should be the easiest thing in the world to do.

Verity was quite sick with the intensity of her feelings for the moody and irascible gentleman seated beside her in the carriage. She had hardly been able to get him out of her mind since the moment she had first laid eyes on him. He was like a hero in one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels, come to life.

No, that was not correct—he was more like one of the villains. Unfortunately for her peace of mind, she had always found herself more in sympathy with the villains than with the heroes, who in comparison were such a namby-pamby lot.

Although Mr. Sherington was not precisely handsome, he was quite the most compelling, most forceful man she had ever met. She could not envision him bending his will to suit another man ... but on the other hand, she could not picture a woman passing him by without a second glance.

Undoubtedly he had a mistress—perhaps even more than one. What woman could look at him without wanting him? And if he wanted her, what woman could deny him her favors?

Verity had only to look at his hands, presently encased in supple driving gloves, to want to feel them touching her. Just remembering the way the muscles of his arms had rippled inside his perfectly fitting jacket made her want to be clasped in his embrace. Feeling the heat emanating from his body made her want to risk being burned, and the curve of his lips was so enticing, she wondered what his kisses would taste like.

Most dangerous of all, whenever she looked into his eyes, she saw a hunger there that she longed to assuage—a need in him that she felt an answering need to satisfy.

But that was patently ridiculous. She had to be imagining things. Sneaking a peek at him now out of the corner of her eye, she found it difficult to believe that such a man could lack for anything.

Equally impossible was her longing to be with him every waking minute, and yet she could not deny that she did hunger after him.

No matter how improbable—how absurd for a spinster like her, who had resigned herself years ago to being on the shelf—she wanted to be with him at night also. She even—and she felt her face grow warm thinking such improper thoughts—wanted to give herself to him with no reservations, no holding back.

But of course such a man as Mr. Sherington could have no interest in her. If only she were beautiful and alluring and adept at flirting—if only she were a dashing widow with a slightly unsavory reputation, then maybe he would set her up in a little house in Somers Town and give her carte blanche.

She knew all about such things, because like a quiet little mouse, she often sat in the corner of the drawing room doing her needlework, so inconspicuous that sometimes her sister, Petronella, and her sister’s best friend, Harriet Coupland, forgot she was even there. On such occasions, the two older women gossiped about things no unmarried miss should be allowed to hear, even if the young lady in question was not so young anymore.

But none of their gossip had given Verity an inkling of an idea that love could feel this way. Listening to their chatter, Verity had never understood why a young lady of respectable birth would wish to elope with a man whose station in life was not equal to her own, or how a married woman could risk home and family by having an adulterous affair.

But now, knowing she would soon be saying good-bye to Mr. Sherington, perhaps never to see him again, Verity regretted more than ever before in her life that she was a plain spinster of advancing years.

The sensible, responsible part of her mind persisted in pointing out that it was illogical even to dream that Mr. Sherington would ever make her an offer, honorable or dishonorable.

But the wild part of herself, which she had never before suspected she possessed, was ready to sacrifice everything to be in his arms. Despite her upbringing, which had been in all ways respectable, if Mr. Sherington turned to her and offered her carte blanche, she would accept with alacrity, even though she knew full well that taking such a drastic step would mean the total destruction of her life
...
and more than likely the eternal damnation of her immortal soul.

While she was staring at him hungrily, he turned and smiled at her, and she realized it was already too late—she had become unchaste and wanton in her thoughts. Even if he never touched her, she had already lost her soul.

Accustomed as he was to making quick decisions in his commercial dealings, Gabriel saw no reason to procrastinate in this case, which was, when all was said and done, strictly a business venture rather than an affair of the heart.

He therefore began his campaign to win her affection by inquiring solicitously, “Are you warm enough, Miss Jolliffe? Do you perhaps wish to stop at the Crown and Tho
rn
for a bit of refreshment?”

“No, thank you. I do not want to risk missing the stage, for the next southbound one does not come through Belford for another three days.”

So much for planning things thoroughly. Already he was faced with his first obstacle. Naturally enough, he wished to be private with Miss Jolliffe so that he might begin wooing her.

Since they would be together only another hour or two, his opportunity to establish himself firmly in her affection was severely limited, and he could not solve the problem by simply continuing on in a hired post-chaise.

While there was no particular problem with being unchaperoned on a back road in Northumberland, it was quite another matter for Miss Jolliffe to travel the length of the Great North Road in his company. And the closer they got to London, the greater the risk that they would, be seen by someone with a wagging tongue.

He could, of course, hire a maid to lend them a degree of propriety, but it would still look suspicious should anyone chance to recognize him. And despite his own notoriety he did not wish his future wife’s reputation to be tarnished in the slightest degree.

Besides, the maid would be bound to chatter, which he was not prepared to tolerate.

But still, he balked at the idea of putting Miss Jolliffe on the stage while he went by mail coach. She had already proven to be disastrously naive about the world. Left to her own devices, who knew what strange man might accost her, and with what potentially catastrophic results?

Nor would traveling separately do anything to advance his cause, which meant it made far more sense for him to accompany her on the stage.

On the other hand, could he stomach traveling at a snail’s pace in a poorly sprung coach operated by a second-rate stage company? The prospect held no appeal. Therefore the only remaining option was for both of them to travel by mail.

To be sure, Miss Jolliffe’s name was not on the waybill, but in Gabriel’s opinion that was not an insurmountable obstacle. He had never yet encountered an impediment that he could not remove by the lavish application of money, and since he never traveled without sufficient funds, the matter was as good as settled.

Smiling congenially and keeping his voice as pleasant as possible in order to keep his companion from becoming skeptical about his motives, while at the same time wishing he had not been quite so quick to lecture her about the dangers of accepting rides from total strangers, Gabriel informed her of his decision.

“Since you are, in a manner of speaking, presently under my protection, Miss Jolliffe, I fear I cannot in good conscience allow you to travel unescorted back to London. I shall therefore make it my responsibility to secure a place for you on the Mail, and to ensure against idle speculation about our relationship, which might be detrimental to your reputation, I have decided that it would be best to tell people that you are my sister.”

4

Verity could not h
elp but notice the exact instant Mr. Sherington’s smile became spurious and his tone of voice patently false. Over the years her relatives had manipulated her on too many occasions for her suspicions not be instantly aroused.

She sneaked a glance at him now out of the corner of her eye, and there was no way she could pretend that his present behavior did not positively reek of duplicity.

Whereas up to this moment he had displayed a strong tendency to scowl at her for the slightest offense, real or imagined, and had, when he was not ignoring her completely, spoken to her quite frankly and even rudely, now he was obviously doing his best to turn her up sweet.

What was not so obvious was his true purpose. What could this man possibly want from her?

Although she could not begin to fathom his motives—other than to be sure that he was not merely playing the role of knight errant—she had to admit to herself that it did not matter; whatever he was trying to obtain from her she would give him gladly.

“I should not wish to be a bother,” she said, wondering if she were not perhaps letting her imagination run away with her. No doubt he was merely being polite, and would jump at the chance to continue on his way without the encumbrance of a stranger like herself.

“I doubt you will be any trouble,” he said. “On the contrary, I am quite certain having you to talk to will keep the trip from becoming tedious.”

He smiled at her in a most engaging manner, which
only served to increase her suspicions rather than to dispel them.

There was, Verity soon learned, a vast difference between traveling alone on the stage and going by mail, especially when one had a forceful gentleman along to smooth the way. Without so much as raising his voice, Mr. Sherington somehow contrived to have their food brought to them first whenever they stopped at a posting house, and this despite the grumblings and complainings of the other passengers.