Fallen Angel by Charlotte Louise Dolan

the river flowed onward, never pausing in its journey toward the sea, and beside him Miss Jolliffe sat silent and still for what seemed to him an eternity.
     

 
    6
    Gabriel expected M iss Jolliffe to recoil from him in disgust, as any properly brought up young lady might be expected to do upon learning that her escort was in essence a bastard, but instead she linked her arm through his and asked, “Which of the countries that you have traveled to did you like the best?”
    “England,” he replied without hesitation.
    She tilted her head and smiled up at him, and he felt some of the tension drain out of his body. Reaching the place where the road curved away from the river’s edge, he turned the carriage around, and they started back toward the bridge.
    “You say you love the water—do you miss being at sea?” she asked.
    “There are times when I do, and I have considered purchasing a yacht for my own enjoyment, but for the most part life on board a warship or merchant ship is too brutal for any person of sense to wish to subject himself to it. But still, I find it soothing to go to the river or to the seashore, and I feel much more at home on the docks than I do in the drawing rooms in London.”
    “I have never been on board ship,” she commented, “and doubtless I would find it a very strange and alien place.”
    “And now you have made me curious to know where you feel most at home.”
    “I used to feel at home when I was in my grandmother’s room in Oakwood Manor, but she has been dead five years now, and everything has changed. It is odd—even though I have lived with my sister for eight years, I cannot say that I truly feel at home in her house.” Gabriel started to reply, but before he could utter a word, her expression changed and she snapped out, “And no more than you do, do I want your pity.” She was glaring up at him with the first sign of temper that he had ever seen her display.
    “I do not pity you, Miss Jolliffe. I save my pity for people who are weak. You, however, are quite a strong person, although you do your best to disguise it.”
    “Indeed I am not,” she replied tartly. “As you have pointed out to me not an hour ago, I am a spineless creature—a poor relation who delights in being used as a doormat.”
    He laughed. “On the contrary, it is your relatives who are weak. Only people who know themselves to be powerless have a need to browbeat someone else.”
    “And the person who allows herself to be browbeaten? She is not weak? You will excuse me for contradicting you, Lord Sherington, but your logic is faulty.”
    “I do not mind if you contradict me,” he said, “but you will find I am seldom wrong, and certainly not in this case. It is only common sense to realize when one is not in a position to fight back. But it is inner strength that keeps a person from being broken in spirit, and you have that strength, Miss Jolliffe, despite what you may think.”
    She was a fraud, Verity realized. The man sitting beside her quite misunderstood the situation. It was just like that day in Nicholay’s Fur & Feather Manufactory—all the strength she felt, all the fortitude he thought he saw in her—it all came from him.
    Before Lord Sherington decided it amused him to befriend her, she had been so weak, her relatives had used her as they wished—ignoring her, ordering her around, criticizing her, humiliating her in front of others—and she had been too much a pudding-heart to object. Only when he was with her did she feel strong.
    And after he lost interest in her? How well would she manage after he became bored with her and sought out someone new to entertain him?
    Even worse, how could she suffer the pain of losing him without dying herself of a broken heart?
    Linking her fingers tightly together in her lap, she tried to hide her agitation of spirit, wishing desperately that she could think of something innocuous to say that would get her mind off the coming pain. But she had