The Postilion (The Masqueraders #2) - S.M. LaViolette Page 0,84
ham-fistedness left him worse off than he’d been before his meddling. Not only did you not marry the heiress, but you abandoned him to deal with the mess he’d created.”
The shame he felt at her accusation was ancient, but it was still as sharp and cruel as a razor.
He had left his brother to deal with a mess—true, one of his own making—while he’d gone off to lick his wounds.
Jago shook away the old guilt, unwilling to be distracted from the point by Ria’s diversion. “So, between the two of you—with me as your ignorant dupe—you drove Brian to kill himself.”
“We could hardly imagine that he would do such a thing,” she insisted. “You can never know how heavily what happened weighed on the two of us.”
“Oh, can’t I? You had no problem allowing me to shoulder the guilt, did you? Did Brian even write that letter, Ria?”
“How dare you?” she demanded, but her outrage lacked any real heat. “Besides, you would have reacted the same without a letter. You were eager to martyr yourself for the cause, Jago, don’t try to deny it.”
Jago didn’t deny it; he happened to agree with her. He’d been an arrogant self-important pup back then. Hell, perhaps she was right and he still was.
Whether or not that was true, he knew one thing for certain: this farrago that she’d just spun for his consumption made no sense. She was lying; whatever it was that she’d gotten up to with Cadan, it had nothing to do with paying her to reject Jago.
Her lower lip trembled as he stared at her, trying to see beyond her beautiful façade to the untruths beneath.
But there was no point; her mask was a thick carapace of lies accumulated over decades.
“I can see that you will never forgive me, Jago.”
She was right about that, at least.
“I deeply regret what happened. We were just foolish children—it was so long ago.” Ria grabbed his hand. “Please, I implore you, Jago. Can’t we put all that behind? I know we could if only you would give us a chance.” When he didn’t answer she squeezed his hand painfully hard. “I can help you, Jago.”
He didn’t pretend to be ignorant of what she meant. “I am flattered and tempted by your offer, Ria.” Both statements were blatant lies but there was no reason to be offensive.
The corners of her lush mouth pulled down. “You’re flattered but your answer is a gentlemanly but unequivocal no, isn’t it?”
“I am no bargain, Ria. You can do far better.”
Her hand tightened. “We were once so good together. That summer, before Cadan interfered, there was something between us, wasn’t there?”
For the first time, Jago noticed the web of fine lines around her eyes.
She was right; it was a lifetime ago and they had been different people then.
When Jago tried to recall that long ago summer and recapture his feelings for her the image that formed in his mind’s eye wasn’t Ria’s face, but a different woman entirely: Benna.
Even a man who was infatuated with Benna—as Jago clearly was—could not objectively call her beautiful.
And yet there was something so taking—so loveable—in the character, intelligence, and strength in her face that she had speedily become the most attractive woman of Jago’s acquaintance.
He met Ria’s pleading green gaze and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You may always count me among your friends, Ria.”
It wasn’t until after Jago had escorted Ria to her grand coach and watched it disappear down the driveway that he remembered that she had never answered his question about her connection to the prior Viscount Fenwick.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Cornwall
1817
Present Day
After being dismissed from the library Benna was far too abstracted to do anything that required concentration.
Instead, she’d tied on her apron and went to tackle an enormous suite of rooms in the long-disused east wing of the house. Not only were the rooms in question cold and musty, but they were positively stuffed with trunks and crates.
She’d only been working half an hour when the heavy oak door creaked open.
“Ah, there you are,” Nance said for the second time that day.
“You need me?”
“His lordship wanted to remind you to meet him down at the stables at four o’clock.”
As if Benna were likely to forget a ride with Lord Trebolton.
“Thank you, Nance,” she said, wondering why he was delivering messages today instead of a footman.
Rather than turn and leave, Nance glanced up at the coffered ceiling of the magnificent room. “Our current king’s grandfather once slept in this room.”