Page 16 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

The possibility provoked a painful knot in her stomach.

Something wasn’t right. She could feel it. A fundamental error at the core. Her core.

“I’m sorry to have been so careless and unkind,” she said. “I mean to do better in future.”

“Careless and unkind?” a deep voice repeated.

Charlotte’s gaze jolted to the door to find her husband entering the room. His face was still badly scratched and bloody in places. So were his hands. He held a tarnished silver tray in them. “To whom?” he asked.

She stared at him.

“Not to me, I gather,” he said.

Her pulse quickened as he approached the bed. “To…To everyone,” she stammered. “To you and my dog.” She made a vague gesture about her. “To our home.”

“When was this?” He set the tray down on the mattress beside her. It contained a dish of milk and bread, along with a fresh pot of tea and a chipped porcelain cup.

“Before,” Charlotte said. She’d have thought it was evident.

Lord Eversleigh picked up the dish of milk from the tray. “Shall I do the honors? Or would you rather?”

She attempted to push herself up to a sitting position. Another sharp pain in her head made her gasp.

“Me it is, then.” He directed a pointed look at her pillows. “If you would avail yourself?”

Reluctantly, Charlotte lowered herself back onto the bed. Oh but she hated feeling so weak and confused! It wasn’t like her. She didn’t have to remember that fact to know it absolutely.

His lordship took the milk and bread to the wardrobe in the corner. Sinking down on his haunches, he placed the dish on the floor and slid it under the wardrobe’s stubby legs.

The dog’s growls ceased. The instant Lord Eversleigh rose and stepped away, a furious lapping began.

Charlotte’s tense mouth relaxed into a smile. “He’s enjoying it.”

Lord Eversleigh dusted off his hands on his trousers. “I bloody well hope so. It was the last of our bread.”

“Surely we can get more?”

“Oh yes. Nothing easier.” His lordship’s words were tinged with sarcasm.

Charlotte’s smile dimmed. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance.”

Another gentleman might have disputed the fact, if only to spare her feelings. Her husband did not. “The accommodations are ill equipped for an invalid,” he replied instead.

She plucked at one of the many stray threads on her faded quilt. “Yes. I can see that.”

“Not up to your standards, I imagine.”

“Or yours, I daresay.” Her attention remained focused on the rapidly unraveling thread. “It seems I’ve failed in my duties.”

“What duties?”

She chanced a fleeting look at him from beneath her lashes. “Wifely duties,” she said. “Obviously.”

A strange expression crossed his scarred face.

“I don’t wonder you think so little of me,” she continued in a small voice. “I’ve not made our home a very welcoming place. And I haven’t cared very much for poor Mr. Aloysius. He’s dreadfully thin and dirty.”

“I won’t argue with you on that score.”