Page 18 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

“The state of the place? No. It’s your fault you stupidly cracked your head and put Turner and me to such inconvenience. Other than that⁠—”

“I didn’t mean to,” she interjected hurriedly. “Indeed, I don’t know how I did.”

“You fell off of a wall,” he said.

“A wall?” Charlotte’s teacup stopped halfway to her mouth. “What was I doing on a wall?”

“An excellent question.” He studied her face. There was a frown in his eyes. “So, my lady.” He plucked her dangling teacup from her hands and returned it to the tray. “Tell me, how am I to assist you out of your things?”

Charlotte’s pulse accelerated in immediate apprehension. She’d almost forgotten that she’d asked for his help. Still…there was no denying that she needed it.

She heaved a resigned sigh. “With difficulty, I fear.”

His fingers brushed the ruffled trim of her bodice, making her heart stutter. Foolish. One would think he’d never touched her before. Which wasn’t the case, clearly. Even if they were only newlyweds.

“I’m finding it hard to sit up for any length of time,” she told him. “Or to raise my head.”

Lord Eversleigh nodded once. “Leave it to me.”

Chapter Six

Magnus hadn’t ever undressed a fine lady before, but it didn’t take a great intellect to deduce the particulars. He’d already removed her mud-stained redingote earlier. Simple enough, really. All that remained was to divest her of her gown and—he assumed—her corset.

A vastly different business from removing an overcoat.

It was bloody awkward, truth be told.

As he leaned over her on the bed, he privately debated whether it might not be better to wait for the doctor to arrive or for Charlotte to regain her memory, whichever came first. But evening was already approaching. And Turner was still away on his possibly fruitless errand, returning heaven knew when.

There was nothing Magnus could do but get the unpleasant task over with.

“Are the fastenings at the front or the back?” he asked her.

Charlotte regarded him warily from her tower of pillows, her anxious face illuminated in a halo of lamplight. She was still worryingly pale, and her hair was in complete disarray. It fanned out all around her in dark auburn tendrils, putting him in mind of a mermaid who had been mistakenly washed ashore.

She moistened her lips. “At the back, I think.”

Magnus moved to slide his hands around her waist. He paused only briefly to receive her permission. “All right?”

She seemed to steel herself. “All right.”

He gathered her up from the bed, lifting her into a sitting position. She stifled a moan of pain. “Easy,” Magnus said. “Won’t take a moment.”

“My head⁠—”

“I know. Lean on me.”

She slowly relaxed against his chest. Her cheek came to rest in the crook of his shoulder and her arms crept tentatively around his midsection. Touch by devastating touch, overwhelming him with her trembling warmth, her rose-bud sweet smell.

His muscles jumped beneath her fingers. It was all he could do not to flinch.

No one had touched him in a very long while. Not in this way, with complete and utter trust. As though he were someone safe. Not a rogue or a monster, but a refuge in a storm. A man she might run to rather than from.

He fumbled at the row of tiny buttons at the back of her long-sleeved bodice. He’d always considered himself a dexterous fellow. Now, he seemed to be all thumbs. “Blasted fastenings,” he said crossly. “Who the devil needs so many?”

“I don’t know,” she said weakly.

“And you put this on yourself this morning?” He opened another five buttons in clumsy succession. “Or don’t you remember that either?”