Page 9 of The Boxer’s Belle

“You cannot stay here for four months!”

“I’d go— be happy to”—he tipped his thumb over his shoulder—“it’s only… I already told Mam I’m staying through Christmas. If I leave before that… someone’ll need to explain to Effie.” He offered a shrug dripping in false sympathy.

Bella exhaled through her nose, sharp and fast. Her teeth ground in impotent fury. He knew the only person in the world she couldn’t bear to disappoint was Effie Weston.

“You absolute pillock.”

“Lady Arabella! Such language!” He pressed his fingers to his chest in mock outrage—the smooth pectoral skin left bare by his wide-collared shirt.

“Must you continue to speak?” Bella felt the upper hand slipping from her grasp. In truth, she wasn’t certain she’d ever had it at all.

“Suppose there are other ways to… connect.” He delivered the line with a raised brow, ensuring she could not mistake his meaning.

Lord, he was the most infuriating man in England! As though there existed a man she wished to connect with less. The very concept of such a thing was too horrific to be considered. She shuddered.

West was the very definition of vexatious, and he found unbridled joy in the act of flustering her. Bella could not, would not, allow him to revel in his success.

There was but one weapon left to her—fortunately, it had always proven effective against West. She stood and set Ben’s shirt aside. Strategically, she allowed her robe to gape, offering him a sliver of her nightdress before wrapping it tighter over her chest.

Her triumph was etched on his face and in his stance. No longer slouching, he’d straightened, arms unwrapped from his chest. Those clear eyes had darkened to a deep, intimate navy shade that always sent her heart tripping. His tongue dipped between parted lips, just a flash, but enough to have her biting her own.

“I suppose I ought to begin my day. I’m afraid you’ll have to… connect with yourself. You can manage? It’s a familiar practice, I’d imagine.” Bella waited a singular beat, just for his gaze to catch hers, before she started for the door.

His chuckle, delivered to her back, warmed something in her chest. “Imagine it frequently, do you?”

Her fists clenched, nails digging into her palms as she strode across the hall. She would not give him the satisfaction of an acknowledgment—not when her tongue was without a retort.

Bella cursed herself for allowing him to fluster her as she shut her door—a touch too loud for nonchalance. She slumped back against the cool mahogany before sliding to the floor in a heap. Cool palms found her burning cheeks and pressed there, but it was no use.

No one knew how to draw a blush from her like West.

Their every exchange left her flushed and vexed—had done since they were little more than children. But that had been an innocent, impossible flirtation.

Or at least it had been until the night she offered him everything—every dented, broken piece of herself. And he took what he wanted and then tossed out the rest like rubbish.

West could fluster her all he liked. But she would never, ever allow him into her heart again.

CHAPTER 3

West called on every vulgarity he knew during his private castigation as he thrust his leg into the creased hessians.

Why could he never resist the urge to needle her?

If he were honest, he knew the answer. He’d always known. Anger was the only reaction he could still provoke in her. Anger and an occasional spark of arousal—he was particularly fond of those moments. Often used them to connect with himself.

Bella was so damn beautiful when her eyes flashed, and her cheeks heated. It was an addiction, sewing such a response in her. Barely dressed, with her hair unbound the way she was that morning—he hadn’t the slightest hope of propriety.

Sparring with Bella was more demanding and satisfying than any fight in the ring.

He slipped his braces over his shoulders, ignoring the way the clasp pressed against his bruised pectoral. The water in the washstand was cool and fresh as he dipped his fingers in it before running them through his overgrown locks. His mam was going to have an opinion on those.

That had been wrong of him too—using his mam against Bella. Effie Weston adopted children the way others adopted stray cats. When they were young, Ben and Bella had been conveniently located and appropriately desperate for affection. With Bella’s own mother gone, Effie was probably the closest she’d ever come.

And honestly, if his mam knew his presence was upsetting Lady Bella, she’d have him on the first coach back to London. After she’d scolded both ears off.

His fingers fumbled against the buttons of his falls, joints too stiff to cooperate. Eventually, he succeeded, much slower than he wished. His hands were always tighter after he woke; throughout the day they loosened up.

Finally, the navy cravat was all that remained to fuss with.