by Julia Quinn
“Sorry.” She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a moment to catch her breath. “You surprised me.”
“My apologies. It was not my intention.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “Why are you here?”
“I needed a bit of quiet.” She still could not see his face clearly, but she could well imagine his bemused countenance, so she added, “Even I need quiet every now and again.”
He smiled faintly. “You don’t feel cooped up?”
“Not at all.” She tipped her head, acknowledging the riposte.
He took a moment to consider this, then said, “Would you like me to leave you to your solitude?”
“No, it’s all right,” Billie said, surprising herself with her statement. George’s presence was oddly calming, in a way Andrew’s or her mother’s or really any of the others’ never were.
“You’re in pain,” he said, finally stepping into the room.
How had he known? Nobody else had. But then again, George had always been uncomfortably observant. “Yes,” she said. There was little point pretending otherwise.
“A great deal?”
“No. But more than a little.”
“You should have rested this evening.”
“Perhaps. But I enjoyed myself, and I think it was worth it. It was lovely to see your mother so happy.”
George’s head cocked to the side. “You thought she was happy?”
“Didn’t you?”
“To see Andrew, perhaps, but in some ways his presence only serves to remind her that Edward is not here.”
“I suppose. I mean, of course she’d rather have two sons home, but the reminder of Edward’s absence is surely outweighed by the joy of Andrew’s presence.”
George’s lips pressed into a wry, one-sided curve. “She did have two sons home.”
Billie stared at him for a moment before— “Oh! I’m so sorry. Of course she did. I was just thinking of the sons who aren’t normally at home. I . . . Good God, I’m really sorry.” Her face was burning. Thank heavens the candlelight hid her blush.
He shrugged. “Think nothing of it.”
She couldn’t, though. No matter how even his mien, she couldn’t help but think she’d hurt his feelings. Which was mad; George Rokesby did not care enough for her good opinion to be bothered by anything she said.
But still, there had been something in his expression . . .
“Does it bother you?” she asked.
He came further into the room, stopping by the shelf where the good brandy was kept. “Does what bother me?”
“Being left behind.” She bit her lip. There had to be a better way of saying it. “Remaining home,” she amended, “when everyone else is gone.”
“You’re here,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but I’m hardly a comfort. To you, I mean.”
He chuckled. Well, not really, but he did exhale a bit through his nose, and it sounded amused.
“Even Mary’s gone to Sussex,” Billie said, shifting her position so that she could watch him over the back of the sofa.
George poured himself a brandy, setting the glass down as he returned the stopper to the decanter. “I can’t begrudge my sister a happy marriage. To one of my closest friends, no less.”
“Of course not. Nor could I. But I still miss her. And you’re still the only Rokesby in regular residence.”
He brought his glass to his lips, but he didn’t quite take a sip. “You do have a way of cutting right to the heart of the matter, don’t you?”
Billie held her tongue.
“Does it bother you?” he asked.
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question. “My siblings aren’t all gone. Georgiana is still home.”
“And you have so much in common with her,” he said in a dry voice.
“More than I used to think,” Billie told him. It was true. Georgiana had been a sickly child, worried over by her parents, stuck inside while the rest of the children ran wild across the countryside.
Billie had never disliked her younger sister; but at the same time, she hadn’t found her very interesting. Most of the time, she’d forgotten she was even there. There were nine years between them. Really, what could they possibly have had in common?
But then everyone else went away, and now Georgiana was finally growing close enough to adulthood to become interesting.
It was George’s turn to speak, but he did not seem to have noticed this fact, and the silence stretched for long enough to be vaguely unsettling.
“George?” Billie murmured. He was looking at her in the oddest manner. As if she were a puzzle—no, not that. As if he were thinking, quite deeply, and she just happened to be in the way of his eyes.
“George?” she repeated. “Are you all—”
He looked up suddenly. “You should be nicer to her.” And then, as if he hadn’t just said the most appalling thing, he motioned to the brandy. “Would you like a glass?”
“Yes,” Billie said, even though she was well aware that most ladies would have refused, “and what on earth do you mean, I should be nicer to her? When have I ever been unkind?”
“Never,” he agreed, splashing a bit of liquid into a glass, “but you ignore her.”
“I do not.”
“You forget about her,” he amended. “It amounts to the same thing.”
“Oh, and you pay so much attention to Nicholas.”
“Nicholas is at Eton. I can hardly shower him with attention from here.”
He handed her a brandy. She noticed her glass was considerably less full than his had been.
“I don’t ignore her,” Billie muttered. She didn’t like being scolded, especially by George Rokesby. Especially when he was right.
“It’s all right,” he said, surprising her with his sudden kindness. “I’m sure it’s different when Andrew isn’t home.”
“What does Andrew have to do with anything?”
He turned to her with an expression that hovered somewhere between surprised and amused. “Really?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Maddening man.
George took a long sip, and then—without even turning toward her—he managed to give her a condescending look. “He should just marry you and be done with it.”
“What?” Her surprise was unfeigned. Not that she might marry Andrew. She’d always thought she’d one day marry him. Or Edward. She didn’t really care which; it was all the same to her. But that George was actually speaking of it in such a manner . . .
She didn’t like it.
“I’m sure you’re aware,” she said, quickly regaining her composure, “that Andrew and I have no understanding.”
He waved that off with a roll of his eyes. “You could do worse.”
“So could he,” she retorted.
George chuckled. “True enough.”
“I’m not going to marry Andrew,” she said. Not yet, anyway. But if he asked . . .
She would probably say yes. It was what everyone expected.
George took a sip of his brandy, watching her enigmatically over the rim of his glass.
“The last thing I’d want to do,” Billie said, unable to leave the silence be, “is get engaged to someone who is going to turn around and leave.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” George said with a thoughtful frown. “Many military wives follow their husbands. And you’re more adventurous than most.”
“I like it here.”
“In my father’s library?” he quipped.
“In Kent,” she said pertly. “At Aubrey Hall. I’m needed.”
He made a patronizing sound.
“I am!”
“I’m sure you are.”
Her spine stiffened. If her ankle weren’t throbbing, she’d have probably jumped to her feet. “You have no idea all I do.”
“Please don’t tell me.”
“What?”
He made a dismissive motion with his hand. “You have that look about you.”
“The one that says you’re about to launch into a very long speech.”
Her lips parted with shock. Of all the condescending, supercilious . . . Then she saw his face. He was enjoying himself!
Of course he was. He lived to get under her skin. Like a needle. A dull, rusty needle.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Billie,” he said, leaning against a bookcase as he chuckled. “Can’t you take a ribbing? I know you help your father from time to time.”
From time to time? She ran the bloody place. Aubrey Hall would fall apart without her direction. Her father had all but ceded the ledgers to her, and the steward had long since given up protesting about having to answer to a woman. Billie had, for all intents and purposes, been raised as her father’s eldest son. Except that she couldn’t inherit anything. And eventually Edmund would grow up, take his rightful place. Her younger brother wasn’t stupid; he’d learn what to do quickly enough, and when he did . . . when Edmund showed all of Aubrey how capable he was, everyone would breathe a sigh of relief and say something about natural order being restored.
Billie would be superfluous.
Replaced.
The ledgers would be quietly removed from her purview. No one would ask her to inspect the cottages or settle disputes. Edmund would become lord of the manor, and she’d be his long-toothed older sister, the one people quietly pitied and mocked.
God, maybe she should marry Andrew.
“Are you sure you’re not unwell?” George asked.
“I’m fine,” she said curtly.
He shrugged. “You looked rather ill all of a sudden.”
She’d felt rather ill all of a sudden. Her future had finally danced before her, and there was nothing bright and beautiful about it.
She tossed back the rest of her brandy.
“Careful there,” George cautioned, but she was already coughing, unaccustomed to setting her throat on fire. “It’s better to sip it slowly,” he added.
“I know,” she ground out, well aware that she sounded like an idiot.
“Of course you do,” he murmured, and just like that, she felt better. George Rokesby was being a pompous ass. Everything was back to normal. Or almost normal.
Normal enough.
Chapter 8
Lady Bridgerton began planning her assault on the social Season the very next morning. Billie hobbled into the small dining room to break her fast, fully prepared to be drafted into service, but to her relief and amazement her mother said that she did not require Billie’s assistance with the planning. All she asked was that Billie write a note of invitation to Mary and Felix. Billie nodded her grateful agreement. This she could do.
“Georgiana has offered to help me,” Lady Bridgerton said as she signaled to a footman to prepare a breakfast plate. Billie was agile on her crutches, but even she could not fix her own meal from the sideboard while balanced on a pair of sticks.
Billie glanced at her younger sister, who appeared quite pleased at this prospect. “It will be great fun,” Georgiana said.
Billie swallowed a retort. She couldn’t think of much that would be less fun, but she did not need to insult her sister by saying so. If Georgiana wanted to spend the afternoon penning invitations and planning menus, she was welcome to it.
Lady Bridgerton prepared a cup of tea for Billie. “How do you plan to spend your day?”
“I’m not sure,” Billie said, nodding her thanks to the footman as he set her plate in front of her. She gazed wistfully out the window. The sun was just beginning to break through the clouds, and within an hour the morning dew would have evaporated. A perfect day to be out of doors. On horseback. Being useful.
And she had so much to do. One of the tenants was rethatching the roof of his cottage, and even though his neighbors knew they were expected to offer their aid, Billie still suspected that John and Harry Williamson would try to weasel out of it. Someone needed to make sure that the brothers did their share, just like someone needed to make sure that the western fields were being planted properly and the rose garden had been pruned to her mother’s exact specifications.
Someone needed to do all that, and Billie had no idea who that would be if not her.
But no, she was stuck inside with a stupid swollen foot, and it wasn’t even her fault. All right, maybe it was a little bit her fault, but certainly more the cat’s fault, and the bloody thing hurt like the devil—her foot, that was, not the cat, although she was small-minded enough to hope that the beastly little creature also had reason to limp.
She paused to consider that. When it came right down to it . . .
“Billie?” her mother murmured, eyeing her above the rim of her bone china teacup.
“I think I’m not a very nice person,” Billie mused.
Lady Bridgerton choked so hard tea came out her nose. It was quite a sight, really, and not one Billie had ever expected to see in her lifetime.
“I could have told you that,” Georgiana said.
Billie flashed a scowl at her sister that was, all things considered, rather immature.
“Sybilla Bridgerton,” came her mother’s brook-no-dissent voice. “You are a perfectly nice person.”
Billie opened her mouth to speak, not that she had anything intelligent to say.
“If you’re not,” her mother continued, her voice leaping into the moment with a don’t-you-dare-think-of-contradicting-me punch of volume, “it reflects badly upon me, and I refuse to believe I am so derelict a mother as that.”
“Of course not,” Billie said quickly. Very quickly.
“Therefore I will repeat my question,” her mother said. She took a delicate sip of her tea and gazed upon her elder daughter with remarkable impassivity. “What do you plan to do today?”
“Well,” Billie stalled. She glanced over at her sister, but Georgiana was no help. She just lifted her shoulders in a helpless little shrug that could have meant anything from I-have-no-idea-what’s-got-into-her to I-am-enjoying-your-discomfort-immensely.
Billie scowled. Wouldn’t it be lovely if people just said what they thought?
Billie turned back to her mother, who was still regarding her with a deceptively placid expression. “Well,” she stalled again. “I might read a book?”
“A book,” her mother repeated. She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “How delightful.”
Billie eyed her cautiously. Any number of sarcastic retorts sprang to mind, but despite her mother’s serene demeanor, there was a gleam in her eye that told Billie she’d be wise to keep her mouth shut.
Lady Bridgerton reached for the teapot. She always drank more tea at breakfast than the rest of the family combined. “I could recommend something, if you like,” she said to Billie. She also generally read more books than the rest of the family combined.
“No, that’s all right,” Billie replied, cutting her sausage into rounds. “Father bought the latest volume of Prescott’s Encyclopaedia of Agriculture when he was in London last month. I should have already started it, but the weather has been so fine I haven’t had the chance.”
“You could read outside,” Georgiana suggested. “We could put down a blanket. Or drag out a chaise.”
Billie nodded absently as she stabbed a sausage disc. “It would be better than remaining in, I suppose.”
“You could help me plan the entertainments for the house party,” Georgiana said.
Billie gave her a condescending look. “I don’t think so.”
“Why not, darling?” Lady Bridgerton put in. “It might be fun.”
“You just told me I didn’t have to take part in the planning.”
“Only because I didn’t think you wanted to.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Of course not,” her mother said smoothly, “but you do want to spend time with your sister.”
Oh, hell. Her mother was good. Billie pasted a smile on her face. “Can’t Georgie and I do something else?”
> “If you can convince her to read your agricultural treatise over your shoulder,” her mother said, her hand flitting delicately through the air.
Delicately like a bullet, Billie thought. “I’ll help with some of the planning,” she conceded.
“Oh, that will be marvelous!” Georgiana exclaimed. “And so very helpful. You’ll have much more experience with this sort of thing than I.”
“Not really,” Billie said frankly.
“But you’ve been to house parties.”
“Well, yes, but . . .” Billie didn’t bother finishing her sentence. Georgiana looked so happy. It would be like kicking a puppy to tell Georgiana that she had hated being dragged to house parties with their mother. Or if hate was too strong a word, she certainly hadn’t enjoyed herself. She really didn’t like traveling. She’d learned that much about herself.
And she did not enjoy the company of strangers. She wasn’t shy; not at all. She just preferred being among people she knew.
People who knew her.
Life was so much easier that way.
“Look at it this way,” Lady Bridgerton said to Billie. “You don’t want a house party. You don’t like house parties. But I am your mother, and I have decided to host one. Therefore, you have no choice but to attend. Why not take the opportunity to mold this gathering into something you might actually enjoy?”
“But I’m not going to enjoy it.”
“You certainly won’t if you approach it with that attitude.”
Billie took a moment to compose herself. And to hold down the urge to argue her point and defend herself and tell her mother that she would not be spoken to as if she was a child . . .
“I would be delighted to assist Georgiana,” Billie said tightly, “as long as I get some time to read my book.”
“I wouldn’t dream of pulling you away from Prescott’s,” her mother murmured.
Billie glared at her. “You shouldn’t mock it. It’s exactly that sort of book that has enabled me to increase productivity at Aubrey Hall by a full ten percent. Not to mention the improvements to the tenant farms. They are all eating better now that—”
She cut herself off. Swallowed. She’d just done exactly what she’d told herself not to do.