Page 8 of The Boxer’s Belle

The hall was blessedly empty as she slipped across it into their makeshift morning room and shut the door against the sounds of the lovers. A fire the prior year had claimed much of the house, including her own rooms. Flames and smoke had left Blackwood scarred.

The temporary morning room was tastefully arranged, with walls the color of fresh cream. Bella had claimed the armchair next to the window for her personal use. She curled up atop it and tucked her legs beneath her so the robe covered her chilled feet.

Her brother and his wife would be occupied for some time, and Bella would be undisturbed until a servant arrived to set the small table.

The basket beside her chair held one of Benedict’s shirts in need of mending, a nightdress, and several stockings to darn. She reached for the dingy white cotton shirt and spread it across her lap.

He hadn’t asked her to repair the shirt. He hadn’t asked her to repair anything lately. But after two decades of mending, Bella wasn’t yet capable of letting something go without a fight. Lord only knew what her brother had done for the linen to fray at a side seam and tear at one shoulder. She picked at the seam, straightening out the loose weave. Satisfied it wasn’t in need of a patch, she dug through her tin and pulled out the white thread and her needle.

The morning sun spilled into the room, lighting her task. Just outside the window, a robin sang its cheery melody from the nearby tree. Autumn was pressing in on them. The days grew shorter, and the tips of the maple leaves were teasing their inevitable brilliant-vermillion end.

She worked quickly—Benedict wasn’t fussy about his shirts the way their father had been. Bella shook away the thought of that man, piercing the linen with unnecessary fierceness.

There was no point dwelling on thoughts of her father. He was gone.

The doorknob turned. Bella jerked and spun in her seat.

Expecting Benedict’s dark locks or Eliza’s wild curls, her heart jolted at the devastatingly familiar crystal-blue eyes that met hers.

Damn.

One of those unfairly beautiful eyes was ringed with the mottled green of a waning bruise. The infuriating eyes that shone against his perpetually tanned skin. Several days of stubble, a shade darker than the burnt gold of his hair, covered another lingering bruise along his jaw.

Miles Weston.

Bella was going to murder her brother.

He slid into the room, shoulders hunched as he stuffed his swollen fists into his pockets. A furrow formed in the middle of West’s brow as he rocked back on his heels, one foot slipping back instinctively.

“Good morning,” he offered, voice tentative, wary. Good.

“What are you doing here, Weston?” A tinny pitch rang in her voice, but it was steadier than she felt equal to.

He shifted, righting his weight as he stepped forward. He reached the table in the center and rounded it to face her. Then he propped his backside against it, one ankle crossing the other—blasé heathen.

“Ben invited me. Thought you could put a series of events together on your own.”

“And you agreed?” she asked, ignoring the slight for the moment.

“You don’t own the west country, Bella. Nor the house.” West crossed his arms, biceps flexing under the flimsy fabric of his shirt.

She hated that the movement drew her eyes—and the smirk he wore when he caught her.

“Lady Arabella,” she snapped.

His eye roll was pointed, dramatic. “My most noble patroness, Lady Arabella, might I beg of you shelter?”

She caught the inside of her cheek between her teeth. “How long do you intend to stay?”

“Don’t fret, m’lady. You’ll enjoy the privilege of my company through Boxing Day at least.”

Bella’s heart stopped. “You cannot be serious.”

“I cannot?”

“That’s nearly four months!” Only Miles Weston could draw such a shrill note from her. But Bella doubted she would survive four days under his too-knowing gaze. Four months?

“I know. I counted them myself.” A self-satisfied sort of mirth settled across his lips and into the damned dimple on his cheek as he peered at her from beneath too-thick lashes.