The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,17

wearing the last night she saw Geoff.

“Thank you for indulging me,” he said, rising from behind his desk and offering her a full-body view.

Benna gave a silent prayer of thanks for his cutaway coat, which exposed his slim hips and muscular thighs to her hungry gaze.

“It has been a long time since I’ve played,” she reminded him, not that she was truly worried.

She’d played hundreds of games against Geoff, losing all but the very last one to him. After that, he’d made Benna play for money at the various inns and pubs on their travels. He’d taken whatever money she lost out of her paltry wages as an incentive not to lose.

The earl crossed the room to where the chess table had been moved slightly closer to the crackling hearth. The game from earlier was gone, the pieces re-set.

He flipped back his tails and sat, looking expectantly at her.

Benna took the other seat, moving in the jerky, self-conscious way she did whenever she felt herself being observed.

She set her hat on her knees and forced herself to look up at him.

He was holding out his fists.

Benna pointed to his right, careful not to touch him.

He opened his hand to expose a white pawn. “First move to you,” he said, replacing the pawns and then reaching for something under the table that made a clicking sound. He rotated the top until the white pieces were before her and then she heard the same click.

Benna exhaled slowly and then moved her king’s pawn to open.

***

Jago tipped his king onto its side—for the second time that evening—and gave Ben a rueful look. “I believe I shall spare myself some pain and concede now.”

He could see by the way that Ben’s mouth tightened that the younger man was fighting not to smile.

“Go ahead and gloat,” Jago said, chuckling when the Ben’s normally serious features shifted into a grin. “Not that much,” he chided.

Ben gave a soft, huffing laugh. “I was just lucky, my lord.”

“No, you are a better player than I. A far better player.” Indeed, Jago had a suspicion that Ben had allowed him to win their second match.

“So, that was two to you and one to me. I’m not sure I’m up for another thrashing tonight,” Jago confessed, giving Ben a wry smile. “I’m afraid I’m not accustomed to losing.”

Ben’s expression, which had been one of intense concentration this past hour and a half, was once again guarded and opaque, that of a servant with his master. “You’re a good player, my lord.”

“But?” Jago prodded. “Go on, I am not too proud to listen to advice.”

Ben dipped his gaze to the board and chewed his lip.

Jago had to laugh. “Fine, just pick one thing I do wrong and tell me about it.”

Ben peeped up at him, his mouth curving into a shy, taking smile. “You have a tendency to push your pawns without supporting them. My lord,” he added.

Jago stared at the board, mentally replaying as much as he could recall; the boy was right.

He glanced up and saw Ben anxiously waiting for his response. “I shall do better next time.” The longcase clock chimed eleven and Jago yawned. “I have kept you up late.”

“I usually go to bed around now.” Ben replaced the game pieces with fingers that were long and slender like his person. Jago noticed the nails had been bitten to the quick and there was a rather nasty cut on the index finger of his right hand.

“That should have had stitches,” Jago said, pointing to the cut.

Ben glanced down and looked surprised, as if he’d not even realized that he’d suffered such a deep gash.

“Next time something like that happens, come to me,” Jago said, smiling at the lad’s startled look. “It’s one of the benefits of having a doctor living only across the drive.”

Ben inclined his head. “Yes, my lord.”

“How did you cut yourself?”

“I was just carving.”

“Oh? Carving what?”

Ben hesitated, and then reached into his pocket and brought out a folding penny knife and a small wooden figure, which he handed to Jago.

Jago stared at the tiny, perfect-looking goose in his hand. “Good Lord! You carved this?”

Ben ducked his head. “Yes, my lord.”

“It’s amazing—and so tiny.” He squinted at the boy’s grubby glasses. “You must have good vision to be able to carve such details.” The miniature goose had its head lowered at a threating angle and Jago could practically hear it hissing.

He handed back the carving. “So, is that what keeps you up so late?” he