The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,12
he always chose older, experienced lovers, bluntly negotiating what he wanted in advance, making sure they knew he was interested only in mutual sexual gratification.
The few occasions when women had showed signs of becoming too attached Jago had immediately curtailed the arrangements.
He had no interest or tolerance for romance, amour fou, or passion. Not anymore.
And he most certainly had no intention of being lured into Ria’s treacherous web a second time.
But even knowing all that, his body responded to the erotic promise in her eyes and he began to harden.
“I won’t play your games, Ria. What do you want?” he asked coolly when she showed no sign of leaving.
“Then I shan’t beat about the bush; I believe we could be very good for each other.”
“Oh?”
Her eyes glinted at his dismissive tone, but her smile never faltered. “I know the state of affairs here, my dear.” She paused, as if waiting for him to admit to being pockets-to-let. When he didn’t speak, she continued, “I have what you need, Jago. And you have what I want.” She gave his person a heated, lustful look.
Jago knew that what she desired was not his person, but his title. Even at the age of sixteen—the first time he’d met her—Ria had known what she wanted: wealth and status. She had already gained the first in abundance.
But status, he surmised, had proved far more elusive.
As exquisite and wealthy as she was, she was still the love child of a parlor maid and the widow of a man born and raised in the London stews.
That she could easily buy herself a title, Jago did not doubt. But it would likely come attached to an ancient syphilitic gambler who was more of a social pariah than she was.
Jago might not move in tonnish circles, but that wasn’t because they were closed to him, but rather because he lacked any interest.
He snorted at her offer and shut the door with more force than was necessary. “Still the same old Ria, I see, willing to sacrifice everything and everyone to get what you want.”
She rested her delicate fingers on the edge of the partially opened window. “It would be no great sacrifice to marry you, Jago.”
The desire to tell that her that he’d been speaking of his own sacrifice was strong, but he kept his mouth shut. As much as Jago despised her, he could not afford, out of hand, to ignore what she was offering. He didn’t wish to marry, but he strongly suspected that he would have to. Perhaps marrying the devil he knew was better than marrying a stranger. But he doubted it.
Rather than be offended when Jago didn’t respond with flattery, she smiled. “Don’t fall victim to your pride, Jago. Money is not the only thing I would bring to the table. If you are curious to explore what I mean, I would be delighted to provide you with a … sample.”
He barked a laugh, more disgusted by his body’s immediate reaction to her carnal offer than by the offer itself. “Still as persistent as ever, I see.”
“Persistence is a virtue, my dear Jago.”
“I didn’t think you were interested in virtue, Ria.”
She chuckled. “It has been so wonderful to see you again after all this time, Jago. Don’t wait too long to pay me a visit.”
Jago stepped away from the carriage. “Good day, Mrs. Valera.”
Identical red-headed postilions in emerald and gold livery spurred the leaders and the coach leapt forward. It was a glossy black monstrosity, pulled by four black horses magnificent enough to draw the carriage of Satan himself.
Or, in this case, Satan herself.
Chapter Three
Scotland
1811
Six Years Earlier
“What do you mean you won’t prepare my carriage?”
The groom, Bannock—yet another of her cousin’s new additions to the stables—eyed her up and down, his gaze insolent. Benna couldn’t blame him; she looked like an idiot in the ruffly carriage dress Michael had ordered and she was now forced to wear.
“I want to speak to Tom.” Benna was so furious she could barely force the words out.
“The old gaffer don’t work here no more … Your Grace.”
“What?”
Bannock smirked and nodded.
“What happened?”
“Got done for thievin’.”
“That’s a bloody lie,” Benna shouted. “I want to talk to him. Now.”
Bannock recoiled from her anger but made a quick recovery. “Well, ye can’t. He left before first light, one step ahead of the sheriff.”
“Left to go where?”
“Don’t know. He’s lucky his lordship didn’t send the sheriff after him.”
Benna couldn’t even recall making the journey to the breakfast room, where she suspected Michael would