The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,48

close and spoke against her shoulder, his breath hot and his lips sinfully soft. “God, I missed you so bloody much. It scared the hell out of me, Ben. I’ve never needed anyone before. And—and, well, I didn’t like it.”

Benna’s breathing froze at the ache in his voice.

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” he went on, his voice muffled by the thin material of her nightshirt. “Especially not after all this time and how rotten I’ve been. Lord, I never expected to feel like this, myself—ever. I kept waiting for it to go away, but it hasn’t. I—I’d just like a chance to prove I’m not a lost cause. Just … give me a chance, Ben.” His lips landed on her temple so softly that she might have imagined the kiss.

He rose from the bed, taking the heat of his body and his intoxicating scent with him.

She had to bite her tongue not to give in to weakness and call him back.

“I swear to you that I’m still worth something, Ben. I know I don’t deserve you—yet. But I’ll prove to you that I can be a man you can trust and rely on.”

Benna heard the squeak of a floorboard, and the soft click of the door closing, leaving her completely in the dark; in more ways than one.

Chapter Fourteen

Cornwall

1817

Present Day

The morning was a frosty one and Benna could see her breath in the air.

She’d just finished bringing hay to the horses when a throat cleared behind her.

Benna yelped and spun around.

“I apologize for startling you,” Lord Trebolton said coolly, a faint smile on his lips.

“Oh, your lordship. Er, was there something you needed?” she asked, when he just looked at her, his dark eyes inscrutable.

He’d barely said a word to her yesterday when they’d left Truro. When they got back to Lenshurst he thanked her, instructed her to see that all the packages were delivered to the appropriate persons, and took his leave.

And now here he was, dressed in a dark green claw hammer she’d never seen before and leather breeches so formfitting that she thought they must be lambskin.

Her hands twitched to feel the soft leather on his warm, hard body.

Benna swallowed. Lord; he was a masterpiece. As awe-inspiring as a holy relic.

And you want to drop to your knees and worship at his altar.

God help her; she did.

Lord Trebolton tapped his whip against his top boot—the only thing he was wearing that she recognized—and her head jerked up.

“Saddle Asclepius for me, please.”

She bobbed her head. “Right away, sir.”

Benna was worried that he would stand there and watch her work, but, to her relief, he strolled through the stable block and disappeared into the smithy.

Befitting his status as the master’s horse Asclepius’s stall was the biggest and airiest in that block of the stables. “Come along, lad,” she murmured to the powerful gelding, who looked haughtily annoyed to be interrupted in the middle of his breakfast.

Benna clucked her tongue at him. “Don’t look daggers at me—your master is here. You’ll love a good, hard ride, won’t you?”

He’s not the only one …

Benna sighed, her face burning in the frosty air.

Asclepius’s ears perked up and Benna swore the gelding knew the word ride.

The earl hadn’t ridden much in these past few weeks, certainly not for pleasure. Not that she knew where he was going this morning. She was just happy that he was getting out and not hunched over a desk.

She’d be even happier if he told her what he planned to do with her.

“Well, if wishes were horses, eh?” she whispered, scratching that spot beneath Asclepius’s chin that made him her drooling slave. If only that worked as well on men.

As she saddled and bridled the restive horse she couldn’t help noticing that his lordship’s saddle, while soft and supple from her sedulous care, was worn with age.

The earl was a clipping rider and Asclepius a top shelf mount, they both deserved far better and she hoped he would order a new saddle when the man came to fit the girls and Lady Trebolton.

When Benna led the horse out to the courtyard, she found his lordship waiting, his gaze on a section of rock wall that she’d been working on.

“Here you are, my lord. He’s got the fidgets,” she warned.

“Thank you, er, Ben,” he said, his hesitation and slight flush the only indication that the evening in Truro had actually happened.

He mounted smoothly, gave her a nod, and cantered from the yard. He had an excellent seat;