The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,115
it brought back such happy memories. My parents were like gods to us that night—Cadan and I must have been four and seven—when they visited the nursery before going out. Never had my mother looked more beautiful. She had a tiara that looked like it had been made from a tiny rose hedge.” He frowned, and Benna guessed that he was wondering where his mother’s jewelry was, now.
“You look very nice yourself, sir.”
He smirked. “You are revolted by my laziness.”
“Not at all. How clever of you to come disguised as a country doctor.”
He laughed at her acerbic tone and the sound drew interested looks from more than one woman in their vicinity—especially their hostess, who was standing not far away talking to a clutch of adoring young bucks Benna assumed to be houseguests.
Benna didn’t know much about parties of any sort, but she was fairly certain they didn’t usually include quite so many handsome, unattached young men.
“You dance, I presume?” Jago asked.
“Adequately. But my lessons were quite, er, different.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding in comprehension, his gaze on Mariah as she avoided a collision with a very youthful-looking George III. “My nieces say you helped them practice while Lady Trebolton played for you.”
She had; it was the first time she’d taken the man’s role dancing.
“The countess plays beautifully.” Benna had been surprised that the normally languid woman had roused herself to join in the dance lessons. They’d only had four, but she’d been excessively merry at the first three, laughing and encouraging Lady Mariah’s outrageous capering.
At the last lesson, yesterday, she’d looked so exhausted and gray that she’d scarcely been able to lift her hands to the keys. She had played for only a quarter of an hour before turning the instrument over to Catherine.
Benna felt Jago looking at her and turned. “What is it?” she asked.
“It just occurred to me that this must be your first ball—if you left before you were seventeen.”
“I hadn’t realized that,” she admitted.
He clucked his tongue, the sound one of sympathy.
“Please don’t feel sorry for me. I dug in like a stubborn mule when my brother broached the subject of a Season.”
“Did you? Why?”
“Some of what I told you is true, my lord. I always have preferred horses to people.”
“I hope you like some people better than horses.”
“Are you … flirting with me, sir?”
He chuckled. “If you have to ask then I’m doing a dreadful job of it.”
Mrs. Valera appeared beside the earl. “Jago, my dear, I do hope you’ve saved some of your dances.” She turned to Ben and gave her a glorious but superficial smile. “Please excuse us, Ben, but I’m going to steal your employer.”
Benna bowed her head, biting back a smile at the quick scowl of annoyance that flickered over Jago’s face before his social mask slid into place.
Once he was gone, she studied the rest of the room. The ballroom at Stanford Hall was as cavernous as that at Wake House. And tonight it was full to capacity. Benna knew—thanks to intelligence gathered by Lady Catherine, that a good many of the guests were staying at the monstrous country house.
“There are over one hundred guest rooms,” Catherine had confided in accents of wonder. “And Ria says they will all be occupied for at least some of the house party.”
After working below stairs for so many years Benna was more impressed at the thought of serving so many revelers. Indeed, the house was larger than most hotels, she wondered if—
“Excuse me, sir, Mr. Piddock?”
A footman hovered beside her. “Yes.”
The servant came closer, as if to impart a confidence. “I was sent to tell you that Lady Trebolton is unwell.”
Benna glanced toward where she’d seen the countess sitting and watching her daughters only a few minutes ago; another woman now sat in her chair.
“Where is she?”
“If you’ll follow me, sir.”
Benna hesitated to leave Catherine and Mariah if their mother had gone, but the dance was currently in the middle of the set and Jago was in the huge room, somewhere; they should be safe.
She nodded and the footman led her through clusters of milling guests toward a set of double doors with a pair of liveried footmen posted on either side. He opened one door of the doors and waited for her to pass through before closing it behind them.
Benna saw they’d entered a long, broad gallery. “Where are you taking me?” she asked as they passed several guests who were promenading and enjoying the paintings.