Page 88 of Miss Beresford and the Beast

“You’re in no position to make her a proper offer,” Lord St. Clare said. “And, if you’re as honorable as the Vice-Admiral claims, you will admit that she’s in no fit state to accept one.”

Any indignation Magnus felt at the viscount’s words was overwhelmed by an immediate surge of concern. “What do you mean she’s in no fit state? She hasn’t had any returning symptoms, or a recurrent loss of⁠—”

“Memory?” Lord St. Clare supplied for him. His brief smile vanished. “No. She has not shown any symptoms. On the contrary, she appears very much herself.”

Relief washed over Magnus.

Recognizing it, the viscount thawed a fraction. “I’m pleased to see that her well-being is of importance to you.”

“It is,” Magnus said. “I had thought she’d recovered.”

“I’ve nevertheless made arrangements for her to be seen by a specialist in Harley Street. Her head injury was not a minor one. I must satisfy myself that she’s not suffering continued consequences from it. After that, we return to Somerset.”

Magnus was almost afraid to ask. “And I?”

“According to the terms of our agreement, you will refrain from seeing her for a time,” Lord St. Clare replied. “It will allow the scandal to die down—and any errant passions to cool.”

Magnus wanted to be offended. But he couldn’t be. Much as he hated the high-handedness of Charlotte’s father, he understood it. Charlotte was a treasure worth protecting. One worth waiting for too.

“For how long?” he asked.

“Because I love my daughter, I shall limit it to just six months,” Lord St. Clare answered. “If you’re wise, you will use that time to get yourself, and your house, in order. But be warned, sir. If I catch so much as a glimpse of you near Charlotte at any time before then, you will not find me half so congenial.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Six months!” Charlotte’s hand fell from Magnus’s sleeve. She stopped alongside one of the tangled, thorn-covered rose bushes to stare up at him in disbelief. “And you consented to it in writing?”

“I did,” Magnus said.

They faced each other in the sunlight, amid the ruins of the Moorcross Manor gardens. Papa had allowed them a brief moment to talk without the burden of his presence, so long as their conversation took place out of doors. Strolls in the park were, after all, permitted for courting couples. As were rides in open carriages and a dance or two at a ball.

The trouble was, Charlotte was no longer sure if she and Magnus were courting.

They had made no explicit arrangement with each other. It had only ever been implied through tender looks and touches.

And kisses.

Charlotte’s chest ached at the injustice of it. “You mean to say that all the while I was in the kitchen, organizing your cupboards, you and my father were upstairs coming to this diabolical agreement?”

Magnus’s brows lowered. “Organizing my cupboards?”

“Mr. Turner had put all of the supplies I sent you in the larder, which makes no sense at all. Everyone knows that bread and dry goods should go in the pantry. I made a start of it, but⁠—”

“While he was drinking his blasted tea?”

She waved off his outrage. “Never mind that.”

“He was supposed to offer you refreshment.”

“He did offer. But I wasn’t going to sit there drinking tea, was I? Not with my future hanging in the balance.”

Magnus ran a hand over his jaw. “The contract is merely symbolic, I suspect.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she said. “Papa often uses legal devices to force his enemies into compliance.”

“I hope I am not his enemy.”

Charlotte wished she could be as hopeful as he was. “Was he very angry?”