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.
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.
“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.