Page 18 of The Boxer’s Belle

“Yes, you’re a veritable saint.”

“Patron saint of fighting and gambling. Didn’t you know?” He offered her a cheeky smile.

“Do not forget the drinking and whoring,” she added.

“Drinking, I’ll allow. The whoring must go to some other worthy contender.”

Black lashes flicked skyward as Bella rolled her eyes.

Her easy dismissal rankled him. “I mean it, Bella. Much as I wish to claim the title, I’m not actually a saint. There’ve been other women, but not half so many as you like to think.”

“So you’ve only patronized a quarter of the brothels in the country.”

“One.”

“One entire brothel?”

“One woman, only bedded one. I’ve courted one shop girl and one seamstress. Kissed one—just once. And patronized one actress a handful of times.”

Her expression softened, eyes searching his. Whatever she saw in them had her straightening, her shoulders dropping. “Couldn’t retain their interest?”

“No.”

“Pardon?” she demanded, brows furrowed.

He took a step back and leaned against the doorframe of the shed, one leg crossed over the other. “No, I couldn’t retain their interest. It never felt right—paying attention to some other girl.”

Those rich eyes widened, her gaze trapped. His arms ached to wrap across his chest, but he resisted, barely. He cleared his throat. “They were too nice to me.”

The corner of Bella’s lip twitched, just once, as her flush deepened. “Yes, well… Despite your many flaws, you’ve always taken constructive criticism well.”

“Constructive criticism? You called me a knuckle-headed lout.”

“I’ve called you worse than that.”

A grin teased at the corners of his mouth. “I know, but it would be inappropriate to repeat the more colorful insults in front of a lady.”

“Even the lady’s own insults?”

“Especially the lady’s own—filthy fucking mouth that one.”

Her giggle was bright and melodic. The chime settled into his chest, warming him.

“We ought to get started. Eliza certainly won’t be improved by tomorrow— I suspect we’ll be conscripted again.”

“She’ll not? How do you know?”

“Woman’s intuition…” A too-knowing inflection rang through the words.

A grumble rolled through his chest. “Bleeding hell, woman, no riddles. What’s wrong with her?”

“It’s not my secret to tell.” The sentiment was earnest, but her expression was one of smug satisfaction.

“Do you delight in being difficult?”

“I prefer mysterious,” she said, a low, sensual pitch to her voice.

Bella was a great many things. Some men would find her mysterious. But West fancied he read her rather well—and that tone was affected.