Page 33 of The Boxer’s Belle

“Are you well enough to break your fast?” Bella asked Eliza.

Benedict remained standing like a dolt.

“Some toast, I think. Pryor had some suggestions that might settle my stomach. But the upset is normal at this stage, apparently.”

“I still think we should get a second opinion,” Ben insisted, finally sitting.

“I’m certain it’s quite normal,” Eliza repeated.

“But surely you shouldn’t be feeling so poorly.”

“It’s not so unbearable,” Eliza said, then took a bite of bare toast. She chewed slowly, methodically, then a sickly green tinge overtook her flush.

Bella glanced between her brother and his wife. She’d give it even odds which one was more likely to cast up their accounts first. Beneath the table, she gave Ben a sharp kick to the shin. He straightened, glaring at her.

The sharp rattle of a chair leg against wood echoed through the room. “Excuse me,” Eliza mumbled as she rushed toward the door.

“I’ll just⁠—”

Bella waved him off with a dismissive gesture and settled in for an unusually quiet breakfast.

Ten minutes later, Ben returned. He slumped into his usual chair and stared at his plate with a lost expression.

“She will be well, Ben,” Bella said, unable to abide the silence a moment longer.

His gaze flicked up to meet her own, an unusual sorrow in his dark eyes. “I— you cannot know that.”

Bella felt the annoyance seep from her spine. “She is not Mother. Eliza is strong, healthy.”

“I thought Mother was too⁠—”

“If you think that way, you’ll make yourself sick with worry—and Eliza, as well—before she reaches the midpoint.”

“I need her. I don’t know how to exist without her anymore. If she— If something I did…”

Bella huffed. “That notion didn’t slow you down every morning and night—sometimes twice.”

An unfamiliar blush bloomed on Ben’s cheeks. “You heard that?”

“Every damn morning and night,” she repeated.

“Sorry.” He drew a hand behind his head, scratching the scruff of his neck.

“You can apologize by ensuring the men return to work on the other wing as soon as the harvest is over—sharing a wall with you on one side and West on the other is bad enough—I am not built for squalling infants, Benedict.”

“Agreed.”

“She’ll be well. You’ll see.”

Ben’s expression did not shift with her reassurance. Theirs was not a relationship for sincere moments—Ben had others for that.

“What did West say? He’s much more rational about these sorts of things—side effect of a loving family, presumably.”

“I haven’t told him. He was not in his room.”

“Oh,” she murmured, unease falling over her. Why should she care if West had fled from the house? It was no fault of hers. Last night, she had been well within her rights to order him from her room—it was the proper response.

Never mind the warmth she’d felt in his arms. The safety.