Fallen Angel (7 page)

It was also a novel experience to travel through the night, rather than stopping when the sun set.

“You should try to sleep,” his voice came quietly out of the darkness beside her. “You will be more comfortable if you lean against my shoulder.”

Sleep? She hesitated, unable to believe that she would be able to sleep a wink if she were touching him.

“Come now, sister, do as you are bid,” he said. “We would not wish you to arrive at our mother’s house in an exhausted condition.”

Verity hoped no one else had heard the laughter lurking behind his sober words. Fearing what he might say or do if she did not comply with his wishes, she leaned her head against his shoulder.

Immediately his arm came around her, and she started to jerk away—from surprise only, not because it was unpleasant in the slightest.

“Don’t fidget,” he ordered, “else I shall let you risk being cast to the floor when we hit an especially large bump.”

She did her best to relax, but being held in his arms was even more intensely exciting than she had envisioned, and sleep eluded her while the carriage raced through the night.

Someone was speaking in such a loud voice that Verity was awakened from a pleasant dream about her grandmother, only to discover she was no longer leaning against Mr. Sherington’s shoulder, but was actually sitting directly on his lap.

“I say sister or no sister, it is highly improper conduct,” the voice continued indignantly.

Horrified to find herself behaving in such a wanton manner, Verity wasted no time in resuming her proper place on the seat beside Mr. Sherington, but the woman who had spoken, a parson’s widow on her way back to London after visiting her daughter in Edinburgh, did not make any attempt to conceal her displeasure.

“Scandalous is what I call it. To behave so in public. What is the world coming to?”

Stung by the criticism, even though it was completely justified, Verity turned helplessly to Mr. Sherington, who opened one eye to peer at her. In response to her unspoken plea, he opened both eyes, and scowled at the woman sitting across from Verity.

With a last angry mutter, the woman averted her gaze from the two of them and stared pointedly out the window.

It took much longer for Verity’s heart to subside to a normal rate, and she resolved to stay awake for the rest of the journey.

Unfortunately, her mind kept returning to those few moments when she had been on Mr. Sherington’s lap. What must be his opinion of her now? That she should repay his kindness by
... by ...

Her face grew hot at the thought of what she had done. And even hotter when she realized how much she wanted to climb back onto his lap and wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him full on the mouth.

But then her heart plummeted when she looked out the window and realized it would not be long before they reached London, where Mr. Sherington’s self-appointed responsibility for her safety and well-being would end.

“I cannot believe you were so lost to propriety as to travel the length of England with a total stranger,” Petronella whispered to Verity. Then she smiled at Mr. Sherington, who was sitting across from them.

“He was most helpful,” Verity started to explain.

“You must get rid of him at once, before Ralph comes home,” her sister hissed in her ear. “More tea, Mr.
Sherington,” she said in a louder voice. “At once, do you understand me?” she repeated in a whisper to Verity.

Not at once, Verity decided. No matter how her sister fussed—and she could only be grateful her sister had better manners than the rest of their family and so was able to conceal her displeasure—Verity was determined to postpone saying good-bye to Mr. Sherington for as long as possible.

So she ignored her sister’s repeated admonitions and offered their visitor more tea cakes. From the look in his eye, it was obvious to her that he knew precisely how welcome he was not, but he was even more adept at dissembling than was her sister.

There was a sound of footsteps in the hall, and Petronella rose with alacrity. “That is doubtless my husband,” she explained, then hurried out.

“Somehow I have the impression that your sister does not approve of me,” Mr. Sherington murmured, sending Verity another of his lethal smiles.

“Why do you say that?” Verity asked, smiling back at him as calmly as if her heart were not racing madly in her breast.

“Perhaps it is the daggers she has been shooting at me,” he replied. “Or perhaps it is because the tea she poured for me is stone cold.”

Before Verity could reply, the door was thrust open and Ralph, Lord Wasteney, entered the room, obviously intent upon ejecting the unwelcome visitor in person.

Instead he stopped so quickly that his wife crashed into him, almost knocking him to the floor. Keeping his balance with difficulty, he goggled at Mr. Sherington. There was no other possible way to describe it—his eyes positively bulged out of his head.

Before Verity could recover from her astonishment at such unusual behavior, her brother-in-law hurried across the room and bowed deeply. “Sherington, this is an honor. I had not heard you were back in London. Welcome to my humble abode.” Turning to his wife, he beckoned her forward. “My dear, you should have warned me
Lord
Sherington was coming to visit.”

Petronella recovered nicely and immediately rang for a pot of fresh tea, but Verity sat as if turned to stone. Even she had heard of Gabriel Rainsford, Lord Sherington, the darling of London society ever since his return from abroad at the beginning of the Little Season.

His was one of the oldest and most respected titles in the land, and as if that were not enough, he was as rich as Croesus, or so people said in the most reverent tones.

Ralph had filled many a dinner hour waxing eloquent in praise of his lordship, at the same time bewailing the fact that the nabob held himself aloof, refusing to take his seat in the House of Lords and turning down almost every social invitation extended to
him.

And she had called him
Mr.
Sherington. And had sat on his lap! And had dared to dream about
kissing him.

Feeling totally, abjectly, dismally miserable, Verity looked at him, wishing there were some way she could apologize to him in private, but Lord Sherington did not so much as glance in her direction. How he must despise her!

“We are so grateful you have taken such good care of our little sister,” Petrone
ll
a said in a cloyingly sweet voice. “You must allow us to show our appreciation—to reciprocate in some small measure. London is so sparse of company, perhaps you would be pleased to take pot-luck with us this evening? We will just be dining
en famille,
but you are more than welcome to join us. Shall we say eight?”

“Thank you, I accept your kind hospitality,” Lord Sherington said, rising to his feet. “And now if you will excuse me, I have pressing business matters to attend to.”

With Verity trailing along behind, Lord and Lady Wasteney escorted their guest out. No sooner had the front do
o
r shut behind him, than they began to make their plans.

“Otterwall,” Petronella commanded, “send a footman to fetch Antoinette home. Of all the days for her to decide to spend the night with a friend, I am sure she could not have picked a worse time.”

“And send all the rest of the footmen to find Bevis and Cedric,” Ralph added, rubbing his hands together.

“Whatever are you doing?” Verity asked in dismay. “Surely you do not mean to make such blatant use of a guest in this house after you have offered him your hospitality?”

“You are talking utter rubbish,” her brother-in-law snapped out, eyeing her crossly. “It is clearly my duty to further my nephews’ careers.”

“And I should find myself quite unable to hold up my head in society if I did not make a push to capture Lord Sherington for my daughter. Really, Verity, you are being much too particular. Instead of criticizing your elders, you had best bestir yourself, for we have not a moment to lose. I am counting on you to speak to Cook at once. Plan something especially tasty for his lordship—but no, we must not make it look as if we went to any extra effort. But on the other hand, we would not wish to insult him by offering him mutton. Oh dear, such a dilemma, I vow I do not know how we shall manage in such a short time. But you are a clever puss, and I am sure you will come up with just the thing.”

“Mutton will be fine,” Verity said despondently, even while she allowed her sister to push her in the direction of the back stairs, “since it is highly unlikely that Lord Sherington will ever set foot in this house again.”

“Well, of course he will come back. He accepted, did he not? Did you not hear him say he was most pleased by our kind invitation? Oh, Ralph, do you suppose you can persuade him to take his seat in the House of Lords? What a feather in your cap that would be. Helping your nephews’ careers is all very well and good, but you must not neglect your own.” Taking her husband’s arm, she drew him up the stairs, and Verity could hear them discussing the possible ramifications of this evening’s visit until they were out of earshot.

Left alone, Verity realized it did not matter how many family members her sister collected. As she had tried unsuccessfully to point out to Petronella, Lord Sherington had doubtless accepted the invitation only as a convenient way of removing himself from their company with a minimum of fuss and bother. After all, if he had declined, Petronella and Ralph would doubtless have been most persistent in their attempts to persuade him.

But once having made good his escape from such a household, there was no chance Lord Sherington would voluntarily return. More than likely, he would simply send a polite note around with one of his footmen, saying that something unexpected had come up.

And if any of them tried to make use of the acquaintanceship, as slight as it was, doubtless he would end the matter ruthlessly by giving them the cut direct.

Descending to the kitchens, Verity realized she already missed his lordship so terribly that it seemed almost as if her life, as dismal and boring as it had been in the past, was now well and truly unendurable.

No one she met in the future could possibly begin to compare with Lord Sherington. Her only regret was that she had so very few memories of him, which must of necessity suffice for the rest of her days upon this earth.

One advantage of expecting such exalted company for dinner was that Ralph had ordered the fire built up in the drawing room, and for the first time during any of the Januaries that Verity had lived in her brother-in-law’s house, she was warm enough that her arms were not covered with gooseflesh.

She was not, however, especially comfortable standing there waiting for the others to join her. Since Lord Sherington had not sent a note around canceling the engagement, Verity was one minute trembling with excitement thinking that he might actually appear, and the next minute falling into total despair, convinced that she would never see him again.

When Otterwall announced Lord Sherington, Verity could still not quite believe that her traveling companion had truly returned, not even when he crossed to where she was standing and bowed politely.

“May I say that I am indeed delighted to see that the journey today has not unduly fatigued you,” he said. “I was half expecting to be told that you were lying down in your room, prostrate with exhaustion.”

His words were in all ways correct, but again Verity had the feeling that he had some ulterior motive behind his polished manners. Without stopping to think, she blurted out, “Why have you come here, my lord?” Then realizing how rude she had just been, she hurried to explain, “I mean, I know that my sister invited you to dine with us, but I cannot understand why you accepted.”

“Should I have declined? Is your cook notorious for producing inedible dinners? Does your brother-in-law keep an inferior cellar?” His eyes narrowed. “Or is it perhaps that my reputation has proceeded me, and I am no longer welcome now that you know my full identity?”

Without any roundaboutation, Verity looked him straight in the eye and said, “You told me yourself that if you had relatives like mine, you would avoid them like the plague. Yet now you seem to be going out of your way to surround yourself with them.”

“Surround myself?” he asked. “You exaggerate, Miss Jolliffe. Your sister and brother-in-law are scarcely sufficient in number to surround me.”

“But my niece, Antoinette, who is to be presented this Season, is to dine with us also, as well as my brother-in-law’s two nephews, Bevis and Cedric Wasteney.”

“Even so, that is not an impossible number to contend with,” he said, not looking the least bit put out. “But you are still looking worried. Having offered you my protection—in a manner of speaking—on the journey back to London, do you now feel obliged to reciprocate by protecting me from your relatives?”

Verity’s thoughts, which had been confused for the last several hours, finally settled, and she realized what it was that she was afraid of. “I am well aware, as I am sure you are also, that people in the higher levels of society delight in making sport of others—that sometimes they cultivate a friendship only so that they can later relate amusing stories to their cronies.”

“I assure you,” he said, “that I never tell stories, amusing or otherwise.”