Page 8 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

“Better than her remaining there,” Turner said.

Magnus might have agreed with the premise if he were a different man. But he wasn’t. Too easily, he recalled a similar circumstance from his past. He also recalled just how that fateful encounter had ended. “And what if he demands satisfaction?”

“I don’t think a duel would be likely in this day and age.”

“A scandal would.”

“But, sir⁠—”

“No.” Magnus shook his head. “I’ll not invite the meddling of some enraged paramour with a false idea of gallantry. He’s likely not even at the bridge anymore. Not unless he’s waited over three hours. It’s approaching noon.”

“Mayhap he did wait,” Turner said. “She’s a right pretty lass.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Turner wisely made no reply. Which was a reply in itself.

Magnus scowled at him. “Forget the rogue at the bridge. Direct your thoughts to finding the Champions.”

“And if I do find ’em?” Turner asked. “What, then?”

“Call on them in my stead,” Magnus said. “Tell them to send a carriage to retrieve their guest.”

Turner’s narrow shoulders slumped with resignation. “Anything else, my lord?”

“Oooh…” A weak moan sounded behind them.

Magnus and his valet turned sharply in unison.

The young lady moved restlessly in the bed. Her thick lashes fluttered. Slowly, ever so slowly, she opened her eyes. They were a soft shade of cyan blue. The exact color of a robin’s egg.

Magnus’s heart briefly lost its rhythm.

But only briefly.

He’d seen hundreds of sets of fine eyes during his travels. Hers were nothing new. Never mind that they were a little wider, a little more vulnerable. Never mind that she was in his bed.

She raised her hand to her wound with a whimper. “My head.”

Steeling himself against any further physical reaction, Magnus returned to her side. He caught her hand in what he hoped was a sufficiently gentle clasp. “Don’t touch it,” he commanded. “I’ve only just cleaned it.”

She blinked up at him in confusion. There was no sign of horror in her face at the sight of his burn scars. No hint of repulsion at all. “I don’t understand…”

Her words trailed away as her unfocused gaze drifted about the room, moving from Magnus’s face to the rumpled bedclothes and then to the nearby washstand where Magnus’s shaving implements were still laid out from his morning ablutions. She scarcely seemed to notice Turner, though the valet was steadily creeping forward, his hat in his hand.

“You had a fall, Charlotte,” Magnus said, speaking loudly and clearly. “That is your name, isn’t it? Charlotte?”

Her eyes returned to his. “Are you my husband?”

Magnus dropped her hand as if she’d scalded him. He’d have backed away completely if it wasn’t for Turner standing behind him. Her husband, by heaven!

“And this is our bedchamber?” Charlotte asked in the same perplexed tone.

Turner poked his head out from behind Magnus. “Don’t you remember, my lady?”

Charlotte looked at him for the first time. “I don’t remember anything.”

Magnus marshaled his scattered senses. “You fell,” he said. “You hit your head on the stones. And I’m not your⁠—”