Page 14 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

Charlotte slowly reclined back against her pillows. Her bodice was as twisted as her skirts now, binding her shoulders and pinching at her throat. Why had no one thought to disrobe her? Or at the very least to unfasten the buttons at her neck?

“Husband?” she queried.

His lordship’s shoulders tensed. Though he stopped, he did not turn around. Neither did he reply.

She swallowed before asking, “Do I not have a maid?”

Lord Eversleigh and Turner appeared to exchange a look. “Doubtless you do,” her husband said dryly. “But not here.” He continued to the door. “Turner must suffice. If you need anything⁠—”

“It’s somewhat delicate, my lord,” Charlotte said.

Again, Lord Eversleigh halted.

Charlotte bit her lip. “I’m sorry, but the pain is such…”

Unaccountable heat crept into her face. It was mortifying to ask. But she was married to him. And all things considered, she’d rather have her husband’s help than that of his valet.

“I would be more comfortable in my slip,” she said.

Turner flashed a horrified glance at Lord Eversleigh.

At length, his Lordship turned to face her. His own expression was completely unreadable. “I see.” An endless pause. “Do you prefer I tend to you first or to your dog?”

Charlotte blinked, genuinely surprised by the question. She looked to the other side of the room where a low growl continued to emanate from beneath the wardrobe. “Why, to my dog, of course. He’s⁠—”

“Right.” Lord Eversleigh strode out the door before she could finish.

Chapter Five

Magnus stalked down the hall in the direction of the staircase, his sense of grievance worsening with every step. Trespassing amnesiacs who disturbed his peace. Bites from diminutive half-feral dogs. Scratches from what must be three dozen rosebush thorns. How much more was a man to endure?

“My lord?” Turner scurried after him down the stairs. “My lord!”

“Calm yourself,” Magnus said when his sputtering valet caught up with him in the hall. “I obviously don’t plan to undress the woman.”

“Then how⁠—”

“She’s beginning to regain her memory.” It was the one ray of hope in this whole wretched situation. The only thing that served to keep Magnus’s spirits from sinking completely into the mire. “Another hour,” he said, “and it will be back entirely.

He bounded down the steps to the kitchen. Streaks of afternoon sunlight glinted through the soiled windows. Evidence of Turner’s tea-making efforts lay scattered across the wooden plank table and piled high in the basin of the ancient sink.

“By that time, you’ll have found these Champion people,” Magnus said as he crossed the flagstone floor to the larder. “They can take her back to wherever she came from and undress her there.”

Turner was close at Magnus’s heels. “She’s not, sir.”

“Not what?” Magnus opened the larder door. They’d brought limited provisions when they’d arrived. Only a few bottles of beer remained on the cool, dust-covered shelves, along with a half rasher of bacon, some questionable milk, and the final remnants of a stale loaf of bread. Not much, but surely enough to satisfy the undiscriminating palate of a mongrel dog.

Turner tugged at Magnus’s sleeve. “Mayhap she’s worse!”

“How do you figure that?”

“Her brains are scrambled.”

“Rubbish.” Magnus reached for the milk. “She recalled the name of her dog, didn’t she?”

Turner fervently shook his head. “Mr. Aloysius ain’t her dog’s name, my lord. It’s the name of her sweetheart.”

Magnus stilled. Bottle of milk in hand, he turned to face his valet. “Her what?”