Free Fallen Angel by Charlotte Louise Dolan

inclined.
    His wish was only halfway granted. Joining the ladies, he skillfully secured a seat for himself and Miss Jolliffe on a small settee, leaving no room for a third party to join them.
    Thwarted in that respect, the baroness prevailed upon her daughter to play a tune for them on the piano. As entertainment, it fell far short of the mark, and as punishment for his failure to accommodate his hostess’s wishes, it was much too severe.
    “Do you sing?” he murmured to Miss Jolliffe, keeping his voice low enough that the others would not be able to hear above the music.
    Glancing up at him, she replied quietly, “I am afraid I am not musically inclined, my lord.”
    “I suspect, Miss Jolliffe, that you are not being completely honest with me.”
    “No, I assure you, I neither sing nor play on an instrument.”
    “But from the slightly glazed look about your eyes, I am inclined to believe that your ear is good enough to recognize the difference between good music and what we are hearing at present.”
    With a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, she said, “I must confess, I do prefer to hear the pianoforte played more ... gently.”
    “I would appreciate it, Miss Jolliffe, if in the future you would be honest with me.”
    Stricken, she looked up at him. “I had not meant—” Her voice faltered, then sitting up a little straighter she met his gaze as squarely as she had at the Crown and Thistle in Northumberland. “I promise I shall never lie to you again.”
    Strangely enough, he believed her. Such an odd person she was—and obviously it was not her looks alone that made her a total misfit in London society. He could well understand why other men had not had the wits to recognize her sterling qualities, and any last doubts he may have had that he made the right choice for his wife vanished.
    “And you must promise never again, under any circumstances whatsoever, to allow your niece to play the piano in my presence,” he added in an undertone.
    “She also sings,” Miss Jolliffe pointed out, this time making no effort to hide her amusement.
    “On key?” Gabriel asked, wondering what further tortures he had let himself in for.
    “No,” she replied quite candidly, “but Antoinette does her best to make up in volume what she lacks in pitch. Fortunately, as you pointed out before dinner, I do owe you something for your assistance in Northumberland, so I shall contrive somehow to cancel future performances.”
    “If you do, you will earn my undying devotion,” he said lightly.
     
    Gabriel perused the invitations that had accumulated during his absence. The Season might still be months away, and London might be almost devoid of company, but even so there were an adequate number of activities for the socially minded to engage in: Poetry readings, musical evenings, improving lectures, political dinners—the ingenuity of London hostesses was impressive.
    Unfortunately, having met Lord Wasteney in person, Gabriel knew there was little chance that the baron, despite the name-dropping he had engaged in the previous evening when they were sitting over their port, had received any of these same invitations.
    Which meant Gabriel would have to exert himself to an unaccustomed degree today and call upon some of the more socially prominent matrons—those without marriageable daughters, to be sure. A few hints dropped in the proper ears, and the word would soon spread that the elusive Lord Sherington might be persuaded to put in an appearance if certain close friends of his were likewise issued invitations.
    Selecting a half-dozen gilt-edged cards, he cast the others aside and rang for his carriage. To alleviate some of the boredom, since making morning calls was not his chosen way to spend an afternoon, he made a bet with himself as to how quickly the news would spread.
    When the fourth hostess managed within the first three minutes of his visit to mention casually that she and Lady Wasteney had been schoolgirls