Because of Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  “Agreed,” George said, raising his glass in salute.

  “I can’t believe you’re toasting to the possible demise of a cat,” Georgiana said.

  “I’m not,” Billie replied, glancing around to see if someone might bring her a drink. “But I’d like to.”

  “It’s all right, darling,” Lady Bridgerton murmured, giving her younger daughter a reassuring smile. “Don’t fret so.”

  Billie looked back at Georgiana. If their mother used such a tone on her, she would likely go mad. But Georgiana had been sickly as a child, and Lady Bridgerton had never quite learned to treat her with anything less than solicitous concern.

  “I’m sure the cat survived its ordeal,” Billie told Georgiana. “He was quite a scrappy fellow. Had the look of a survivor in his eye.”

  Andrew loped over and leaned down near Georgiana’s shoulder. “Always lands on its feet, that one.”

  “Oh, stop!” Georgiana batted him away, but it was clear she wasn’t angry about the joke. No one was ever angry at Andrew. Not for long, at least.

  “Is there any news of Edward?” Billie asked Lady Manston.

  Lady Manston’s eyes clouded as she shook her head. “None since the last letter. The one we received last month.”

  “I’m sure he’s well,” Billie said. “He is such a talented soldier.”

  “I’m not sure how much talent plays into it when someone is aiming a gun at your chest,” George said darkly.

  Billie turned to glare. “Don’t listen to him,” she said to Lady Manston. “He’s never been a soldier.”

  Lady Manston smiled at her, an expression that was sad and sweet and loving, all at once. “I think he would like to have been,” she said, peering up at her eldest. “Wouldn’t you, George?”

  Chapter 6

  George forced his face into an impassive mask. His mother meant well; she always did. But she was a woman. She could never understand what it meant to fight for one’s king and country. She could never understand what it meant not to do so.

  “It doesn’t matter what I wanted,” he said gruffly. He took a large gulp of his brandy. Then he took another. “I was needed here.”

  “For which I am grateful,” his mother declared. She turned back to the other ladies with a determined smile, but her eyes were overbright. “I don’t need all of my sons going off to war. God willing, this nonsense will be over before Nicholas is of an age to take a commission.”

  At first no one spoke. Lady Manston’s voice had been just a little too loud, her words just a little too shrill. It was one of those awkward moments that no one quite knew how to break. George finally took a small sip of his drink and said in a low voice, “There will always be nonsense among men.”

  That seemed to let some of the tension out of the air, and sure enough, Billie looked up at him with a defiant tilt to her chin. “Women would do a far better job if we were allowed to govern.”

  He returned her volley with a bland smile. She was trying to goad him. He refused to indulge her.

  Billie’s father, however, was hooked quite neatly on her bait. “I’m certain you would,” he said, with enough placation in his voice for everyone to know he did not mean it.

  “We would,” Billie insisted. “Certainly there would be less war.”

  “I would have to agree with her there,” Andrew said, lifting his glass in her direction.

  “It’s a moot point,” Lord Manston said. “If God had wanted women to govern and fight, he would have made them strong enough to wield swords and muskets.”

  “I can shoot,” Billie said.

  Lord Manston looked at her and blinked. “Yes,” he said, almost as if he were contemplating an odd scientific curiosity, “you probably can.”

  “Billie brought down a stag last winter,” Lord Bridgerton said, shrugging as if this were a normal occurrence.

  “Did you?” Andrew said admiringly. “Well done.”

  Billie smiled. “It was delicious.”

  “I can’t believe you allow her to hunt,” Lord Manston said to Lord Bridgerton.

  “Do you really think I could stop her?”

  “No one can stop Billie,” George muttered. He turned abruptly and crossed the room to get another drink.

  There was a long silence. An uncomfortable silence. George decided that this time he didn’t care.

  “How is Nicholas?” Lady Bridgerton asked. George smiled into his glass. She’d always known how to deflect a conversation from delicate topics. Sure enough, her perfect social smile was evident in her voice as she added, “Better behaved than Edmund and Hugo, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure he isn’t,” Lady Manston returned with a laugh.

  “Nicholas wouldn’t—” Georgiana started to say.

  But Billie’s voice came out on top. “It’s difficult to imagine anyone getting sent down more often than Andrew.”

  Andrew held up a hand. “I hold the record.”

  Georgiana’s eyes grew wide. “Among Rokesbys?”

  “Among everyone.”

  “That cannot be true,” Billie scoffed.

  “I assure you, it is. There’s a reason I left early, you know. I reckon if I showed up for a visit, they would not let me back through the gate.”

  Billie gratefully accepted the glass of wine the footman finally brought over and then lifted it toward Andrew in a skeptical salute. “That only shows that the headmaster should be applauded for his great good sense.”

  “Andrew, stop your exaggerations,” Lady Manston said. She rolled her eyes as she turned back to Lady Bridgerton. “He did get sent down from Eton more than once, but I assure you, he has not been banished.”

  “Not for want of trying,” Billie quipped.

  George let out a long breath and turned back to the window, peering out into the inky night. Perhaps he was an insufferable prig—an insufferable prig who, as it happened, had never been sent down from Eton or Cambridge—but he really didn’t feel like listening to Andrew and Billie’s endless banter.

  It never changed. Billie would be deliciously clever, and then Andrew would play the rogue, and then Billie would say something utterly deflating, and then Andrew would laugh and twinkle, and then everyone would laugh and twinkle, and it was always, always the same damned thing.

  He was just so bored of it all.

  George glanced briefly at Georgiana, sitting morosely in what was, in his opinion, the least comfortable chair in the house. How was it possible that no one noticed she’d been left out of the conversation? Billie and Andrew were lighting up the room with their wit and vivacity, and poor Georgiana couldn’t get a word in. Not that she appeared to be trying, but at fourteen, how could she hope to compete?

  Abruptly, he crossed the room to the younger girl’s side and leaned down. “I saw the cat,” he said, his words disappearing into her gingery hair. “It dashed off into the woods.”

  It hadn’t, of course. He had no idea what had become of the cat. Something involving brimstone and the wrath of the devil, if there was any justice in the world.

  Georgiana started, then turned to him with a wide smile that was disconcertingly like her sister’s. “Did you? Oh, thank you for letting me know.”

  George glanced over at Billie as he straightened. She was regarding him with a keen eye, silently admonishing him for lying. He returned the expression with equal insolence, his quirked brow almost daring her to call him out on it.

  But she didn’t. Instead she dismissed him with a one-shouldered shrug so tiny no one could possibly have noticed it but him. Then she turned back to Andrew with her usual sparkle and charm. George returned his attention to Georgiana, who was clearly a cleverer girl than he’d ever realized, because she was watching the scene with slow-rising curiosity, her eyes moving back and forth between all of them, as if they were players on a field.

  He shrugged. Good for her. He was glad she had a brain in her head. She was going to need it with her family.

  He took another sip of his
brandy, losing himself in his thoughts until the conversation around him descended into a low hum. He felt restless tonight, unusually so. Here he was, surrounded by people he’d known and loved his entire life, and all he wanted . . .

  He stared toward the window, searching for an answer. All he wanted was to . . .

  He didn’t know.

  There was the problem. Right there. He didn’t know what he wanted, just that it wasn’t here.

  His life, he realized, had reached a new depth of banality.

  “George? George?”

  He blinked. His mother was calling his name.

  “Lady Frederica Fortescue-Endicott has become betrothed to the Earl of Northwick,” she said to him. “Had you heard?”

  Ah. So this was to be tonight’s conversation. He finished his drink. “I had not.”

  “The Duke of Westborough’s eldest daughter,” his mother said to Lady Bridgerton. “Such a charming young lady.”

  “Oh, of course, lovely girl. Dark hair, yes?”

  “And such beautiful blue eyes. Sings like a bird.”

  George stifled a sigh.

  His father slapped him on the back. “The duke set her up with a good dowry,” he said, coming straight to the point. “Twenty thousand and a piece of property.”

  “As I’ve missed my chance,” George said with a diplomatically impassive smile, “there can be no benefit to the catalogue of her many attributes.”

  “Of course not,” his mother said. “It’s far too late for that. But if you had listened to me last spring—”

  The supper gong sounded—thank God—and his mother must have decided that there was no use in further pressing her matchmaking points because the next words out of her mouth had to do with the evening’s menu, and the apparent lack of good fish this week at market.

  George made his way back to Billie’s side. “Shall I?” he murmured, holding out his arms.

  “Oh,” she exclaimed lightly, although for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine why she’d be surprised. Nothing had changed in the past quarter of an hour; who else was going to carry her into the dining room?

  “How very gallant of you, George,” his mother said, taking her husband’s hand and allowing him to lead her across the room.

  He gave her a dry smile. “I confess it’s a heady feeling to have Billie Bridgerton at my mercy.”

  Lord Bridgerton laughed. “Enjoy it while you can, son. She doesn’t like to lose, that one.”

  “Does anyone?” Billie retorted.

  “Of course not,” her father replied. “It’s more of a question of how gracefully one concedes.”

  “I’m perfectly gr—”

  George scooped her into his arms. “Are you sure you want to finish that sentence?” he murmured. Because they all knew. Billie Bridgerton was rarely graceful in defeat.

  Billie clamped her mouth together.

  “Two points for honesty,” he said.

  “What would it take to earn three?” she shot back.

  He laughed.

  “And anyway,” Billie said to her father, fundamentally unable to let a point drop, “I didn’t lose anything.”

  “You lost the cat,” Georgiana said.

  “And your dignity,” Andrew added.

  “Now that earns three points,” George said.

  “I sprained my ankle!”

  “We know, dear,” Lady Bridgerton said, giving her daughter a little pat on the arm. “You’ll feel better soon. You said so.”

  Four points, George started to say, but Billie fixed him with a murderous glare.

  “Don’t you dare,” she ground out.

  “But you make it so easy.”

  “Are we mocking Billie?” Andrew asked, catching up as they entered the hall. “Because if we are, I’ll have you know I’m hurt that you would begin without me.”

  “Andrew,” Billie all but growled.

  Andrew laid his good hand on his heart in feigned affront. “Hurt. Hurt, I say.”

  “Do we think we could not mock me?” Billie asked in an exasperated voice. “Just for one evening?”

  “I suppose,” Andrew said, “but George isn’t nearly so much fun.”

  George started to say something, but then he caught a glance at Billie’s face. She was tired. And in pain. What Andrew had taken as customary banter was actually a plea for relief.

  He brought his lips close to her ear, lowering his voice to a quiet murmur. “Are you certain you’re up to supper?”

  “Of course!” she replied, visibly chagrined that he’d asked. “I’m fine.”

  “But are you well?”

  Her lips tightened. Then trembled.

  George slowed his pace, allowing Andrew to amble ahead of them. “There is no shame in needing a rest, Billie.”

  She looked up at him, something almost rueful in her eyes. “I’m hungry,” she said.

  He nodded. “I can ask that a small ottoman be placed under the table so that you might elevate your leg.”

  Billie blinked up at him in surprise, and for a moment he could have sworn he could hear the sound of her breath passing across her lips. “That would be most welcome,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “Consider it done.” He paused. “You do look rather fetching in that gown, by the way.”

  “What?”

  He had no idea why he’d said that. And judging from her shocked expression, neither did she.

  He shrugged, wishing he had a free hand to adjust his cravat. It felt unaccountably tight. And of course he would say something complimentary about her gown; wasn’t that what gentlemen did? Plus, she’d looked as if she could use a little boost. And it did suit her quite well. “It’s a nice color,” he improvised. He could be occasionally charming. “It, ehrm . . . brings out your eyes.”

  “My eyes are brown.”

  “It still brings them out.”

  She looked vaguely alarmed. “Good heavens, George. Have you ever paid a lady a compliment before?”

  “Have you ever received one?”

  Too late he realized how awful that sounded, and he stammered something that was meant to approximate an apology, but Billie was already shaking with laughter. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she gasped, wiping her eyes on her shoulder since her hands were around his neck. “Oh, that was funny. Your face . . .”

  Amazingly, George felt himself smile. “I was trying to ask if you’d ever accepted one,” he was compelled to say. Then he muttered, “Obviously, you’ve received them.”

  “Oh, obviously.”

  He shook his head. “Truly, I’m sorry.”

  “You’re such a gentleman,” she teased.

  “This surprises you?”

  “Not at all. I think you would die before insulting a lady, however inadvertently.”

  “I’m fairly certain I’ve insulted you at some point in our history.”

  She waved that off. “I’m not sure I count.”

  “I will confess,” he said, “you do seem more of a lady than usual this evening.”

  Her expression grew shrewd. “There is an insult in there somewhere, I’m sure.”

  “Or a compliment.”

  “No,” she said, pretending to give it serious thought, “I don’t think there is.”

  He laughed, full and throaty, and it was only when his mirth had subsided to a light chuckle that he realized how unfamiliar it had felt. It had been a long time since he had given himself over to laughter, allowing it to tickle through his body.

  It was a far cry from the social titters one encountered in London.

  “I have received a compliment before,” Billie said, her voice softening when she added, “but I will own that I am not well-skilled in accepting them. At least not for the color of my gown.”

  George slowed his pace yet again as he turned a corner and the door to the dining room came into view. “You never did go to London for a Season, did you?”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  He wondered why. Mary had d
one so, and she and Billie usually did everything together. But it didn’t seem polite to ask, at least not now, just as supper was about to commence.

  “I didn’t want to,” Billie said.

  George did not point out that he had not asked for an explanation.

  “I’d have been dreadful at it.”

  “You’d have been a breath of fresh air,” he lied. She would have been dreadful at it, and then he’d have been conscripted to be her social savior, making sure her dance card was at least halfway filled, and then defending her honor every time some brainless young lord assumed she was lax of morals because she was a bit too loud and free.

  It would have been exhausting.

  “Excuse me,” he murmured, pausing to ask a footman to find her an ottoman. “Shall I hold you until he returns?”

  “Hold me?” she echoed, as if she had suddenly lost her command of English.

  “Is something wrong?” his mother asked, watching them with undisguised curiosity through the open doorway. She, Lady Bridgerton, and Georgiana had already taken their seats. The gentlemen were waiting for Billie to be set down.

  “Sit,” George told them, “please. I’ve asked a footman to bring something for under the table. So that Billie may elevate her foot.”

  “That’s very kind of you, George,” Lady Bridgerton said. “I should have thought of that.”

  “I’ve turned an ankle before,” he said, carrying Billie into the room.

  “And I have not,” Lady Bridgerton returned, “although one would think I’d be an expert on them by now.” She looked over at Georgiana. “I think you might be the only one of my children who hasn’t broken a bone or twisted a joint yet.”

  “It’s my special skill,” Georgiana said in a flat voice.

  “I must say,” Lady Manston said, looking over at George and Billie with a deceptively placid smile, “the two of you make quite a pair.”

  George speared his mother with a stare. No. She might want to see him married, but she was not going to try this.

  “Don’t tease so,” Billie said, with exactly the right amount of affectionate admonishment in her voice to put a halt to that line of thinking. “Who else would carry me if not George?”

  “Alas, my fractured limb,” Andrew murmured.