Page 42 of The Boxer’s Belle

“We could not have been together—not then. You were right about that. But you made something precious into something tawdry—a mistake. It was not a mistake. It was a beautiful dream I could have carried with me. But you took that from me.”

A knot lodged itself in West’s throat. “Bella…”

“I’ve had so few choices in my life, Miles. My course was charted for me from the moment I was born. And you took that one from me.”

“Bella, I— I thought I was doing right for you—or as right as I could after I’d taken advantage of your fright. Or that was what I told myself—that I was protecting you. Perhaps I was sparing myself the agony of hearing you call it nothing. It would have destroyed me. But then I... That’s what I did to you. It wasn’t nothing.”

Her dark eyes softened, and she pulled herself back into his chest with a grip on his shoulders. “It was everything.”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he agreed, solemn as they rewrote their history. “And I never should have left you last spring.”

“You shouldn’t have,” she whispered into his chest.

“It nearly killed me to do so. But I was so afraid you would send me away.”

“So you sent yourself away?”

West tangled his fingers in her damp curls. “I’m a pudding-headed lout and a simpleton, remember?”

“And an arse.”

“And an arse,” he agreed. “I’ve been assuming—about what you want. I want to be with you. In whatever way you’ll have me. For as long as you’ll have me. There’s never been anyone else, Bella. Do you suppose you might choose me just one more time? I swear I won’t give you cause to regret it.”

Bella tipped her head back, catching his gaze. Wordlessly, she pulled away from his chest, leaving ice in her wake.

Then, slowly, she trailed one hand along his shoulder, sliding a single finger beneath one of his braces with a gentle but definitive tug. She took one step backward, two.

“Come,” she murmured, before pivoting on her heel and continuing along the sopping, barely there path toward the dower house—West trailing after her like a dog on a leash.

“Bella?”

“Stop talking,” she ordered, boots squelching in the mud as they reached the clearing.

Miles’s warm hand fell over hers where she clung to his brace, keeping her in place. As if she had any intention of letting him loose.

The rain had slowed a little, but they were still wet through. A shiver ran down Bella’s spine—no matter, Miles would warm her soon enough.

At last, she reached the peeling paint of the dower house door. She pushed it open with one hand, the other still dragging her captive. To the right was a dusty but serviceable sitting room.

A settee and two chairs, draped with a white cloth, curved around an enormous stone fireplace. Through the window, the rain still streamed over the gutters—Miles would have to clean those. There was a great deal for him to do to make this place habitable.

She strode toward the fireplace, grateful to whomever left a few logs all those years ago. “Light a fire.”

Miles blinked dully at her for a moment before springing into action, placing logs with an alacrity the task did not require. With that chore underway, Bella set about pulling the sheet off the settee, shaking the dust away from the fire.

She examined the burgundy upholstery, dotted with golden flowers, topped with a matching pillow. It would do. Certainly better than the pallet they’d used their first time.

“Bella?” he repeated, turning after he set the wood alight with abandoned matches.

She turned to face him, feeling a hint of nerves well up in her belly for the first time. But her mind was made up. “I am making a choice.”

“Alright,” Miles nodded, shifting on his heels in that way of his.

“Take off your shirt.”

His throat bobbed, but otherwise, he made no sound as he shucked his braces and pulled the damp fabric over his head. The overgrown strands of his hair fell over his forehead, dancing between his darkening eyes.

He stood before her, his heaving torso the only sign of his unease. Bella closed the gap between them in a single step. She drew a surprisingly steady hand to the center of his chest before sliding a few inches to the right.