Page 25 of The Boxer’s Belle

“How many more of the flowers has she got?” he asked.

Bella fought back a scowl. “Too many. Eliza loves her flowers.”

West’s gaze was heavy, weighing on her. “You don’t like her.”

A huff escaped her. “I’ve never met a less objectionable human being in my life. And I don’t like anyone.”

“Good company—among those whom you dislike.” West’s swig of cider was pointed. “It’s not still because of her father, is it?”

Bella’s eyes tipped skyward for a moment before returning to her pasty. It was surely excellent—everything Effie made was—but she could taste none of it. “I can hardly hold her to account for the sins of her father. Not after she forgave me for my actions in service of my own.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“I have no reason to dislike her or her father. It would be entirely irrational to do so.”

“And you are always rational?”

“Of course,” she chirped. “Why am I receiving an interrogation? I agreed to no such thing.”

“You’re welcome to interrogate me any time you like.” His voice dipped low, lingering in the air and leaving no doubt as to his meaning.

“I cannot make out your intent with that one. But you’ll keep your innuendos to yourself, if you please.” Bella finished her pasty and wiped her fingers off on the edge of the blanket.

“That isn’t how I meant it. And I loathed your father with every part of me. But he was still your Pa.”

Bella swallowed past the knot in her throat. West’s dark gaze trapped hers. She was unused to such sincerity within their depths. “It’s… complicated.”

“I can probably follow along.”

The denial caught at the tip of her tongue, paired with a vicious insult. But Bella was so tired of her own thoughts. “My father died. And I felt… relieved.”

West nodded, no hint of judgment crossing his expression.

“He never hurt me—not the way he did Ben. And I doubt he would have. He had more effective methods. But I spent a decade waiting for the next Draycott. Ten years waiting for my father to find some use for me—marriage or...” Worse.

West’s answering swallow was loud on their little blanket in their private corner of the world.

“From the moment I was born, I was told that every single thing wrong in our lives was the fault of Michael Wayland. Every greasy candle, every cobweb, every empty belly—all of it was because he cheated my father of every last shilling. We had this plan, and it was going to fix everything. Destroy Wayland. Ruin his family. Restore ours to glory. But then Ben fell in love with Eliza, and suddenly up is down and down is up. And then he wanted to put an end to our scheme.

“But I wasn’t in love with Eliza. So I wrote to Father. And he sent Draycott.”

The sound that escaped West bordered on animalistic.

“He knew. Surely Father knew. He offered me to the man... But even in my most loyal moment, when I thought I had proved my worth, when I’d succeeded where Benedict failed, he sent the man who tried to—” She couldn’t say what and glanced away. “Do you know the worst part?”

“There’s worse?” West’s voice stretched thin.

Bella’s throat was similarly tight. “I will never know why. Was it some convoluted punishment for a misdeed? Was it retribution for Ben? Or was the Draycott simply the convenient choice? And which of those options is worse? Did my father hate me that much—to send my attacker to assist me? Or was he so indifferent that he didn’t even consider what that choice might do to me? I betrayed my brother. Eliza was nearly killed— I was nearly killed. All in service of that man.”

“Belle…” West murmured. His fingers crept across the blanket, reaching for hers. They paused, a whisper apart. Her heart clenched, and she wished desperately that he would close that gap.

But he didn’t.

So Bella ripped her hand away and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear before corking the cider. Silently, she tucked it into the basket, then began adding the other items alongside it with far too much dedication for the difficulty of the task

Beside her, West cleared his throat, then joined her in packing up the picnic. She felt his attention, not on their task, but on her.

At last she stood and reached for the basket to return it to Effie.