Page 7 of The Boxer’s Belle

“Is it?”

West grumbled, only half in jest, “Go. See to your wife.”

A foolish grin overtook Ben’s face, and he left West with a cheerful wave—already distracted by thoughts of the warm, sweet woman waiting for him all the way in Grosvenor’s Square.

West’s door required a delicate touch. While twisting and lifting the knob, he kicked it on the hinged corner. It opened with minimal complaint.

Mucky, fishy-smelling boots lined the hall in disorderly pairs in front of each door. The staircase creaked in greeting as West started up. His knees twinged—though less than the rest of him—as he navigated the three floors to his scarred oak door.

Inside, he toed off his boots before flopping onto the bed. The ancient iron frame groaned under his weight. Dull light flickered along the stark walls; the lamps outside hardly dared penetrate his dingy window, casting half-hearted shadows.

West flexed his stiff fingers, already swelling from the day’s work. With a dramatic grunt that no one save the rat that lived in the wall could appreciate, West sat upright and reached for the chest he kept beside the bed. He set the unlit candle that lived atop it onto the floor before tipping the lid up. He shuffled past his meager clothing for the arnica salve his mam sent religiously.

Once he located the box of tinctures, with its amber grain and brass hardware, he opened it to find his meager treasures. The jar of salve he set on the bed, distracted by the other contents.

He’d nearly worn the nape off the russet velvet ribbon from running it between his thumb and forefinger. For years, he naively thought he’d rid himself of the habit. For years, the fabric had lived untouched, gathering dust inside this box. But then Bella had crashed back into his life sixteen months ago. And once again his fingers felt empty without the worn silk and its scant piling.

The last item was newer. A morbid remnant of the wretched hours when he’d held her slack, cool hand against his cheek and prayed to the god he believed in and several he didn’t for good measure. Inky black at the shaft before it twisted into a fiery orange and finally a blazing yellow—her feather from the masquerade ball.

That night, Bella had been reborn as a phoenix. Blazing plumes fluttered along her graceful frame. With every breath, she shimmered and smoldered, flames licking along her graceful curves.

West had yet to decide which was the worst night of his life: the one where he stole his ribbon, or the one where she dropped his feather.

He made a living of violence. At least six times a year, he dragged his body through round after round of bone-shattering brutality. But when it really counted, when Bella needed him, he’d failed her.

Twice.

And he was about to fail her again. Because the temptation Ben presented was too great.

It was a truth fundamental to his being—Miles Weston had never been able to stay away from Arabella Sinclair. No matter how hard he tried.

CHAPTER 2

BLACKWOOD GRANGE, CORNWALL

Bella shot up in bed with a gasp, one hand pressed to her chest, the other snatching at the back of her head. Those fingers found nothing but air. Her hair ran down her back in a singular braid.

There was no hairpin to grasp.

Images of sunken cheekbones and cold eyes evaporated like fog meeting the sun as her heartbeat slowed. She dropped her hands to the bed coverings pooled around her waist, allowing her fingertips to run across the velvet nap. With each measured breath, she switched the direction of her hand, catching with the inhale, smoothing on exhale.

A giggle intruded on the remnants of her panic, followed by a masculine shushing sound. The last of the tension melted from her spine.

Moans joined the giggles through the wall—not at all quieted by her brother’s half-hearted effort to stifle them. Bella gritted her teeth. A fortnight’s reprieve from the newlyweds had been a gift indeed.

Could her brother and his wife still be considered newlyweds after a year? And when were they next for town?

Now more irritated than frightened, she raised a tired hand to run along her braid. Uninterrupted sleep had become a precious commodity. Brief flashes were all that remained of her nightmares—but Peregrin Draycott’s ghost still haunted her.

After untangling her feet from the russet bed linens, she rose. Bella drew a robe over her shoulders before taking a seat at her dressing table. The ribbon at the end of her braid had wound itself between the strands, and she coaxed it free with her fingernails. Task finished, she finally braved a glance in the mirror.

The darkness etched below her eyes was becoming a permanent feature—along with the slowly lightening scar at her left temple. She brushed her fingers along the ragged flesh. It was small, easy to miss when her hair was styled. But it was there—an enduring reminder of her near miss.

Ben’s headboard thumped against their shared wall. And again, beginning a wretchedly familiar rhythm.

Benedict was exceptionally irritating when he was in love. When he’d been raking about the country, she never had to hear it.

She abandoned any intention of dressing for the day when she caught the edge of a masculine murmur. Her brother also liked to talk. And Bella would rather claw off her own ears than listen to it. She surrendered her bedroom to the lovers next door.