Page 81 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

Though he’d resumed his search after Charlotte’s departure, his mind hadn’t been fully on his efforts. It was too much occupied with what had transpired in the small parlor. Not just the discovery of the unopened letters he’d sent to his father, but the tender things Charlotte had said to him. With her gentleness, her acceptance.

With that ill-advised kiss they’d shared.

Magnus had told her he was sealing his fate and he’d meant it. He was tied to her now absolutely. Bound by honor. By duty.

By affection.

He tossed aside the iron bar he’d used to remove the paneling. It fell to the uncarpeted floor with a metallic clang. Across the room, Chance lifted his head. The little dog had made a nest for himself in the seat of a tattered nursery chair. He’d been dozing there while Magnus toiled.

“You’re no better than Turner,” Magnus said to him.

Chance’s plumed tail stirred faintly.

Magnus went to him, bestowing a grudging pat on his head. “And I’m a fool.”

The dog’s tail thumped again, as if in acknowledgment of the statement.

Magnus didn’t blame him. Any idiot could see that it wasn’t affection Magnus was feeling for Charlotte Beresford. Or rather, it wasn’t only affection. What he felt for her was something else. Something more.

He had fallen in love with her.

The startling realization made Magnus’s hand freeze on Chance’s head. He remained there for a full five seconds, staring stupidly at the little dog, until a shout from the corridor jolted him back to his senses.

“My lord!” Turner panted, entering the room. “Didn’t you hear me calling?” The look on the valet’s face brought Magnus back to harsh reality. “You’re needed in the kitchen. There’s been folk at the door. Three of ’em. I tried to⁠—”

Magnus’s brows snapped together in immediate irritation. “More bloody callers?”

“Yes, sir. They come one right after the other.”

Magnus stalked to the door. Chance leapt down from the nursery chair to follow, dragging his rope lead behind him.

“Who is it this time?” Magnus asked. “The constable again? That Kitteridge woman?” He exited the nursery. “Or has she managed to stir up a mob of villagers with torches and pitchforks?”

Turner jogged after him down the hall. “It’s villagers all right. But not with torches and pitchforks. They brought provisions.”

Magnus stopped briefly at the top of the staircase. Surely he hadn’t heard correctly? “What in blazes are you talking about?”

“Tradespeople, my lord. They sent carts full of goods. Some lads delivered ’em. Didn’t ask for payment, neither. They did ask questions though, impudent beggars. I sent them off sharpish.”

Magnus’s frown deepened. He bounded down the steps, Turner and Chance close at his heels, swiftly making his way to the kitchen. There, he was greeted by an astonishing sight. Not a few small parcels, but an enormous delivery of goods. They were haphazardly heaped upon the wooden plank table; disorganized piles of bread, tea, bacon, cheese, and milk, along with candles and various dry goods.

His heart clenched hard.

Charlotte.

It had to be her behind this. It could be no other. There was no one else who cared for Magnus enough to bother. Not in Bead’s Hollow. Not in Yorkshire. Not in this world.

“There’s plenty here to feed us until we leave,” Turner said. “And to light the house too. Which’ll help now we have the attics to search. Bound to be black as pitch up there.” He flashed Magnus a hopeful look. “Unless you’ve given up, sir?”

Magnus picked up a jug of lamp oil. A peculiar warmth settled in his breast. By God, she’d thought of everything.

“No one could blame you,” Turner went on. “I’ve told you myself that the fortune ain’t likely to be here. No reason we should be either. Best we set out for London. We could stay there for a time, or⁠—”

“We’re not leaving,” Magnus said quietly.

He may not know what he deserved, but he knew what Charlotte did. Moved as he was by her gesture, she shouldn’t have had to make it. It was his job to be looking after her. To be providing for her. To be keeping her in the grand manner to which she was accustomed.

That was what she deserved.