The Boxer's Forbidden Belle

Prologue

BLACKWOOD GRANGE, CORNWALL

West had won the match. Victory was evident in the way he carried himself down the lane with her brother, Ben, at his side. The swagger of his new independence lined each jaunty step.

Arabella Sinclair hadn’t doubted for a moment that he would win. He’d certainly trained day and night.

Satisfied that he wasn’t grievously injured, she abandoned her mother’s rocking chair beside her bedroom window.

She padded along the hall and down the cobwebbed staircase, biting back a sigh at the state of it.

Last month, she’d had to dismiss their last scullery maid, and the house was worse for it.

But even with that economization, Bella wasn’t certain how they would pay their remaining servants that month.

Determined to avoid the stale air and flick of cards emanating from her father’s study, she turned right down another musty, dusty hall.

Even with that distance, the clink of too precious coins and vulgar jeers followed her.

At last, she spilled from the side door out into the crisp autumn breeze and bright sunlight and drew a fresh breath into her lungs.

With quick steps, she rounded the back of the house, crossed the overgrown field, and slipped between the shabby shed and decaying greenhouse to the woodland beyond. Though it wasn’t a true path—they hadn’t the servants to maintain such a thing—the trail was familiar to Bella.

The walk was short, no more than ten minutes, before she came to a clearing.

The Blackwood dower house sat in a small valley, surrounded by rowan, oak, and hawthorn trees—likely once intentional plantings that had since run wild.

Sprigs of vibrant butter-yellow toadflax, blue harebell, violet devil’s bit, and pink campion dotted the untamed grasses encircling the cottage.

Ivy and moss adopted the stone slabs for their footholds.

Someday, nature would reclaim those slabs entirely, leaving nothing but the memories of the women who came before her.

Women who certainly would not approve if they knew her purpose.

Snap.

Bella’s breath caught in anticipation. But she didn’t spin around—she couldn’t appear too eager. Such things were unseemly. She may be only eight and ten, but she was a lady. And ladies did not whirl about in giddy delight at the mere presence of a stable master’s son.

“Thought I might find you here.” His voice was warm and worn, washing over her like the sunlight peering through the swaying branches above.

“Did you?” she asked, finally turning with as much nonchalance as she could gather.

Miles Weston was unfairly handsome, even with a split lip and blackened eye—perhaps especially with the injuries. He nodded and shifted on his heels, notching his thumbs along the braces that peeked out beneath his unbuttoned vest. His knuckles bore the scrapes and mottled bruises of triumph.

“You won, then?” she asked, though she had already surmised the answer.

“Aye— I’m a proper boxer now. Have my next match all lined up.” That torn lip quirked with pride.

The congratulations she offered were tinged with a disarming blend of earnestness and devastation. She banded first one arm, then the other about her waist, wishing not for the first time that her cotton dress was finer, less threadbare.

“Are you for London then?”

A thick, dark blond lock fell across his brow as West shook his head.

“Not just yet. Ben returns to school in a few weeks. Someone needs to… The estate needs looking after. I’m hopeful, though.

In the long run”—his gaze flicked away from her for the space of a breath before snapping back to hers, pinning her in place—“there’s nothing for me here…

Right?” West tilted his head in that infuriatingly sincere way of his.

The foolish, missish part of her heart wanted desperately to disagree.

“Right.” Her tone rang hollow as she nudged a pebble with the toe of her boot.

West swallowed, his throat bobbing as he reached one hand up to scratch at his eyebrow—then winced when his fingers met a bruise.

“I—” He cleared his throat. “I brought you something.”

“You did?”

He nodded as he tucked his hand into his trouser pocket. Tentatively, he pulled it free and opened his palm. Resting atop the calloused flesh was a delicate silver hairpin. As long as his hand, it tapered to an elegant point, with filigree scrollwork on the opposite end.

“Miles…”

“It’s—uh—it’s not only a hairpin.” His blunt-tipped fingers closed around the center of the glinting metal, and his thumb caught in the notch on the decorative end. In his fist, its true purpose became apparent.

Not merely a hairpin, indeed—a dagger.

His hand fell open again, his bright eyes entreating her to reach for the intricate weapon. Her fingers found the silver blade. What she hadn’t anticipated was the burning warmth of West’s skin beneath the cool metal—the contrast stole her breath.

She ripped her hand away. “Miles, this is too much. I couldn’t possibly—”

“Bella, there’s not a single woman I know more capable of skinning a man—no better an owner for this.”

“But it must have—”

“If you mention the cost, I’ll chuck it in the lake—don’t you think I won’t.” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder to the little pond, nearly a quarter mile away.

Her arm wrapped back around her waist with the other. “Surely Effie—”

“Mam’s got no cause to defend herself.” Bella’s gaze shot to Miles’s deep blue eyes, her stomach rolling.

She hadn’t thought he’d noticed—hadn’t thought anyone had, in truth.

But with each year that passed, her father’s guests’ beady eyes lingered increasingly on her frame.

With each leer, revulsion curled through her, burrowing deeper and deeper into her core until she had to flee the house to breathe.

“Know you can gut a man with mere words—you’ve done it to me once and again. But… I just wanted you to have something more… substantial.”

“If you said fewer foolish things, I wouldn’t have cause to insult you.”

His gaze flicked pointedly to the curve of her bosom. “Maybe if your frocks had more fabric, I could keep my thoughts on my words.” The private dimple that only appeared when he flirted with her popped onto his cheek. She wanted to bite it.

“You’ve thoughts? Not intelligent ones, surely.”

“Aye, but none fit for a lady’s ears.”

Bella fought back an indelicate snort, but she couldn’t quite hide the smile that crept across her face.

West employed no such restraint, instead unleashing a full-bodied chuckle. Her answering laugh broke free a moment later.

Miles’s chortles slowed before the breeze carried them off to places unknown. Her own quieted, chasing after his. “Your laugh—it’s like bells. It’s my favorite sound.”

Her skin heated at his unexpected sincerity. His free hand reached up toward her cheek, only to freeze midair. Miles shook whatever thoughts were in his head away, then dropped that hand.

“I’ll have cause to regret this when you have me at the wrong end of it. But it’s yours.” He lifted the hairpin again, gesturing for her to take it. “There’s not a soul more suited to it.”

Bella steeled herself for the charge of his touch and plucked it from his palm. Her fingers wrapped around the filigree, thumb instinctively finding the intended notch.

“I don’t know how to use it.”

“I can teach you. If you’d like.”

She nodded, her gaze catching his once more. Something like anticipation curled in her belly. An unfamiliar heat swirled with it, marking an entirely new sensation.

“I’d like.”

“Shall we, then?” There was that dimple again as West reached for her hand, folded his fingers over hers, and adjusted her grip.

This was an absolutely wretched idea.

West was no stranger to foolish notions. At the grand age of one and twenty, he already planned a living with his fists. His mam had many thoughts on the madness of that scheme. But this would be the one that killed him.

Day after day, for nearly a fortnight, he’d watched Bella’s silky bronze waves tumble across her shoulders time and again, perfumed by the wildflowers still clinging to life around them. Her amber-and-spice scent enfolding him with each attempt on his life.

Now he’d had the damfool notion to act as her attacker.

The words had made perfect sense when they’d spilled from his mouth.

But now he had both arms wrapped around her from behind. If he tilted his hips even an inch out of line, she was going to know. He was fit to pound steel; and she would take the damn knife to his pecker. He would deserve it.

But, Lord, she was glorious. Flushed and freckled, smelling like heaven with her ribcage rising and falling beneath his palms with each panted breath…

He was only a man. No one could expect a mere mortal to see and smell and feel and be insulted by Arabella Sinclair and not feel his breeches tighten.

“I do not know whether to be offended that you’re holding back or embarrassed on behalf of your opponent in the ring.” She whirled in his arms, hairpin thrusting toward his neck. Bella generously stayed her hand an inch away from his throat.

West rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. “Your father will have me drawn and quartered if I hurt you.”

“My father doesn’t know you exist. And they haven’t drawn and quartered anyone while they were still alive in decades.”

West bit his tongue on the subject of Ambrose Sinclair. The Earl of Blackwood was the greatest villain West had ever known. But his thoughts wouldn’t do Bella a damned bit of good.

Instead, he released her and stepped back from her blade, ignoring the pointed rush of cool air along his front.

“Ben, then. And how do you know that?”

“If Benedict were aware of the situation, he would fear far more for your safety than mine. And some of us like to be informed.”

“I doubt that. Besides, I told you—you must practice as you mean to go on. You cannot slash at your attacker’s neck and then stop to insult him.”

“Truly? This hypothetical man intends to continue his assault while bleeding to death?”