The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,60

shall be to plan a few dinners and a ball for after the New Year.”

Only because he was looking at her did he see her face fall.

“You do not look particularly excited about that, Ben.”

“I know nothing of such matters, my lord.”

“You said you managed all aspects of your, er, Mr. Fenton’s household.”

He experienced an unpleasant frisson in his belly at the thought of her handling all facets of some stranger’s life. He was pathetic; how was it possible to be jealous of an old dead man whom he’d never met?

Jago shook off the demoralizing thought and turned back to Benna. “Surely you must have arranged dinners and so forth for him?”

“I can’t imagine you want me to organize the same sort of parties Mr. Fenton preferred.”

Jago laughed at her tart rejoinder. “No, probably not card parties, but no doubt the precepts are similar.”

She did not look optimistic.

“In any event,” he said, “you can’t know less than I do.”

“I will be pleased to help wherever I can, my lord.”

Jago paused, and then said, “I’m going to call you Ben even in private. I believe using the name at all times will keep me from slipping up.” It was too bad that calling her by a male name could not make him think of her as a man.

“Tomorrow your first official act should be to supervise the moving of my desk and the trestle table back into the library. Then the study can function as your office.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I assume you own no dinner dress?”

Her eyebrows, which he suddenly noticed were far darker than her hair, arched. “Sir?”

“It is common practice for a secretary or steward to dine with the family. Besides, you will hardly be comfortable below stairs once you begin to work in such an elevated capacity.” Jago continued without waiting for an answer. “There is a tailor in Redruth, you needn’t go all the way to Truro to purchase appropriate clothing. Until he can make you something appropriate you may wear the suit you wore in Truro. My sister-in-law rarely joins us for meals and my nieces and I are not sticklers when it comes to proper dress.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jago turned away from the unspoken questions in her eyes and opened the door to the corridor. “Dinner is served at seven o’clock sharp.”

Chapter Seventeen

Carlisle

February 1817

Nine Months Ago

“Happy birthday, darling!”

Geoff topped up both their glasses and then raised his in yet another a toast—the dozenth of the evening, or so it seemed. “Here is to the five happiest years of my life. Bottoms up, my dear.”

Benna threw back the contents of her glass in a couple of gulps, burped, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and set the empty vessel down with a thump, looking up when Geoff laughed.

She had to blink rapidly to focus her blurry gaze. “Huh?”

“Such delightful manners, my love,” he teased. His heavy-lidded gaze told Benna that she wasn’t the only one who was more than a trifle disguised.

Geoff had insisted on celebrating her twenty-second birthday by first dragging her out to a vulgar little theater—where they’d stood in the pit along with all the other young bucks—and afterward taking her to the grubbiest gambling hell Benna had ever seen.

She wasn’t sure why they’d come to Carlisle as Geoff hadn’t been invited to stay at any of his usual haunts. Although the town was bustling, it was gray with smoke from all the industrial endeavors, not to mention painfully provincial.

She’d just caught her breath from the last round when Geoff poured the remains of the bottle into both their glasses and once again raised his.

Benna groaned. “Ugh, Geoff, I’m not sure—”

“This is the last one, my love. And I’m sure enough for both of us.” His charming grin stretched from ear to ear. “This last toast is to you.” He cocked his head, his eyes glittering. “The only woman who can make me a happy man. What say you, Ben? Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife.”

Benna’s glass shook, some of the wine he’d poured sloshing over the rim. “Oh, Geoff.” She wanted to say more, but her wits were too fuddled, her tongue too thick.

He chuckled. “Oh, you needn’t look so tragic, darling. You can’t blame a man for trying—again—can you?” His eyes seemed especially blue as he gazed across at her. “I didn’t mean to distress you. Instead, let’s drink to whatever the future holds.” He raised his glass again. “May we each get what we desire, rather