Because of Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  Argue her point.

  Defend herself.

  Act like a child.

  She shoveled as much of her breakfast into her mouth as she could manage in thirty seconds, then stood and grabbed her crutches, which were leaning against the table. “I will be in the library if anyone needs me.” To Georgiana she added, “Let me know when the ground is dry enough to spread a blanket.”

  Georgiana nodded.

  “Mother,” Billie said to Lady Bridgerton with a nod to replace the normal bob of a curtsy she gave when she took her leave. Yet another thing one couldn’t manage on crutches.

  “Billie,” her mother said, her voice conciliatory. And perhaps a little frustrated. “I wish you wouldn’t . . .”

  Billie waited for her to finish her sentence, but her mother just shook her head.

  “Never mind,” she said.

  Billie nodded again, pressing a crutch into the ground for balance as she pivoted on her good foot. She thunked the crutches on the ground, then swung her body between them, her shoulders held tight and straight as she repeated the motion all the way to the door.

  It was bloody hard to make a dignified exit on crutches.

  GEORGE STILL WASN’T sure how Andrew had talked him into accompanying him to Aubrey Hall for a late morning visit, but here he was, standing in the grand entry as he handed his hat to Thamesly, butler to the Bridgertons since before he was born.

  “You’re doing a good deed, old man,” Andrew said, slapping George’s shoulder with surely more force than was necessary.

  “Don’t call me old man.” God, he hated that.

  But this only made Andrew laugh. Of course. “Whomever you might be, you’re still doing a good deed. Billie will be out of her mind with boredom.”

  “She could use a little boredom in her life,” George muttered.

  “True enough,” Andrew conceded, “but my concern was for her family. God only knows what madness she’ll inflict upon them if no one shows up to entertain her.”

  “You talk as if she’s a child.”

  “A child?” Andrew turned to look at him, his face taking on an enigmatic serenity that George knew well enough to find suspicious in the extreme. “Not at all.”

  “Miss Bridgerton is in the library,” Thamesly informed them. “If you will wait in the drawing room, I will alert her to your presence.”

  “No need,” Andrew said cheerily. “We will join her in the library. The last thing we want is to force Miss Bridgerton to hobble about more than is necessary.”

  “Very kind of you, sir,” Thamesly murmured.

  “Is she in a great deal of pain?” George inquired.

  “I would not know,” the butler said diplomatically, “but it may be worth noting that the weather is very fine, and Miss Bridgerton is in the library.”

  “So she’s miserable, then.”

  “Very much so, my lord.”

  George supposed this was why he’d allowed Andrew to drag him away from his weekly meeting with their father’s steward. He’d known Billie’s ankle could not have been much improved. It had been grotesquely swollen the night before, no matter how festively she’d wrapped it with that ridiculous pink ribbon. Injuries like that did not resolve themselves overnight.

  And while he and Billie had never been friends, precisely, he felt a strange responsibility for her well-being, at least as pertained to her current situation. What was that old Chinese proverb? If you saved a life, you were responsible for it forever? He certainly had not saved Billie’s life, but he had been stuck up on a roof with her, and . . .

  And bloody hell, he had no idea what any of this meant, just that he thought he ought to make sure she was feeling at least somewhat better. Even though she was the most exasperating female, and she bloody well set his teeth on edge half the time.

  It was still the right thing to do. That was all.

  “Oh, Billie . . .” Andrew called as they made their way to the back of the house. “We’ve come to rescue you . . .”

  George shook his head. How his brother survived in the navy he would never know. Andrew had not a serious bone in his body.

  “Billie . . .” he called again, his voice warbling into a ridiculous singsong. “Where aaaaaarrrrrre you?”

  “In the library,” George reminded him.

  “Well, of course she is,” Andrew said with a blinding grin, “but isn’t this more fun?”

  Naturally, he did not wait for an answer.

  “Billie!” he called again. “Oh, Billiebilliebilliebill—”

  “For heaven’s sake!” Billie’s head popped out of the doorway to the library. Her chestnut hair had been pulled back into the loose coiffure of a lady with no plans to socialize. “You’re loud enough to wake the dead. What are you doing here?”

  “Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  “I saw you last night.”

  “So you did.” Andrew leaned down and dropped a brotherly kiss on her cheek. “But you had to go without for so very long. You need to stock up.”

  “On your company?” Billie asked dubiously.

  Andrew patted her arm. “We are so fortunate that you have this opportunity.”

  George leaned to the right so that he could see her from behind his brother. “Shall I strangle him or will you?”

  She rewarded him with a devious smile. “Oh, it must be a joint endeavor, don’t you think?”

  “So that you may share the blame?” Andrew quipped.

  “So that we may share the joy,” Billie corrected.

  “You wound me.”

  “Happily, I assure you.” She hopped to the left and looked at George. “What brings you here this fine morning, Lord Kennard?”

  He gave her a bit of a look at her use of his title. The Bridgertons and Rokesbys never stood on occasion when it was just the two families. Even now, no one so much as blinked at Billie being alone with two unmarried gentlemen in the library. It wasn’t the sort of thing that would be permitted during the upcoming house party, though. They were all well aware that their relaxed manners would not stand in extended company.

  “Dragged along by my brother, I’m afraid,” George admitted. “There was some fear for your family’s safety.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Really.”

  “Now, now, Billie,” Andrew said. “We all know you don’t do well trapped indoors.”

  “I came for his safety,” George said with a jerk of his head toward Andrew. “Although it is my belief that any injury you might do to him would be entirely justified.”

  Billie threw back her head and laughed. “Come, join me in the library. I need to sit back down.”

  While George was recovering from the unexpectedly marvelous sight of Billie in full joy, she hopped back to the nearest reading table, holding her light blue skirts above her ankles for easier motion.

  “You should use your crutches,” he told her.

  “Not worth it for such a short trip,” she replied, settling back down into her chair. “Besides, they tipped over and it was far too much trouble to retrieve them.”

  George followed her gaze to where the crutches lay askew on the ground, one slightly atop the other. He leaned down and picked them up, setting them gently against the side of the library table. “If you need help,” he said in a quiet voice, “you should ask for it.”

  She looked at him and blinked. “I didn’t need help.”

  George started to tell her not to be so defensive, but then he realized she hadn’t been defensive. She was merely stating a fact. A fact as she saw it.

  He shook his head. Billie could be so bloody literal.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  He shrugged. He had no idea what she was about.

  “What were you going to say?” she demanded.

  “Nothing.”

  Her mouth tightened at the corners. “That’s not true. You were definitely going to say something.”

  Literal and tenacious. It was a frightening combination
. “Did you sleep well?” he asked politely.

  “Of course,” she said, with just enough of an arch to her brows to tell him that she was well aware that he’d changed the subject. “I told you yesterday. I never have trouble sleeping.”

  “You said you never have trouble falling asleep,” he corrected, somewhat surprised that he recalled the distinction.

  She shrugged. “It’s much the same thing.”

  “The pain did not wake you up?”

  She glanced down at her foot as if she’d quite forgotten it was there. “Apparently not.”

  “If I might interrupt,” Andrew said, bowing to Billie with a ridiculous sweep of his arm, “we are here to offer our assistance and succor in any way you deem necessary.”

  She gave Andrew the sort of look George normally reserved for small, recalcitrant children. “Are you sure you want to make such a sweeping promise?”

  George leaned down until his lips were at the same latitude as her ear. “Pray remember that he uses ‘we’ as a grandiose gesture, not as a plural pronoun.”

  She grinned. “In other words, you want no part of it?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “You insult the lady,” Andrew said without a hint of protest in his voice. He sprawled in one of the Bridgertons’ fine wingback chairs, his long legs stretched out so that the heels of his boots rested against the carpet.

  Billie gave him an exasperated glance before turning back to George. “Why are you here?”

  George took a seat at the table across from her. “What he said, but without the hyperbole. We thought you might need company.”

  “Oh.” She drew back a touch, clearly surprised by his frankness. “Thank you. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Thank you, that’s very kind of you?” Andrew echoed. “Who are you?”

  She whipped her head to face him. “Was I supposed to curtsy?”

  “It would have been nice,” he demurred.

  “Impossible on crutches.”

  “Well, if that’s the case . . .”

  Billie turned back to George. “He’s an idiot.”

  He held up his hands. “You will find no argument here.”

  “The plight of the younger son,” Andrew said with a sigh.

  Billie rolled her eyes, tipping her head toward Andrew as she said to George, “Don’t encourage him.”

  “To be ganged up upon,” Andrew went on, “never respected . . .”

  George craned his neck, trying to read the title of Billie’s book. “What are you reading?”

  “And,” Andrew continued, “apparently ignored as well.”

  Billie rotated her book so that the gold leaf lettering faced George. “Prescott’s Encyclopaedia of Agriculture.”

  “Volume Four,” he said approvingly. He had volumes one through three in his own personal library.

  “Yes, it was only recently published,” Billie confirmed.

  “It must have been very recently, or I would have purchased it when I was last in London.”

  “My father brought it back from his most recent trip. You can read it when I’m done if you wish.”

  “Oh, no, I’m sure I’ll need a copy of my own.”

  “As a reference,” she said with an approving nod.

  “This might be the dullest conversation I have ever beheld,” Andrew said from behind them.

  They ignored him.

  “Do you often read such tomes?” George asked, nodding at the Prescott book. He’d always thought ladies preferred slim volumes of poetry or plays by Shakespeare and Marlowe. It was what his sister and mother seemed to enjoy reading.

  “Of course,” she replied, scowling as if he’d insulted her with the very question.

  “Billie helps her father with the land management,” Andrew said, apparently bored of making fun of them. He pushed himself to his feet and wandered over to the wall of shelves, selecting a book seemingly at random. He leafed through a few pages, frowned, and put it back.

  “Yes, you mentioned you’d been assisting him,” George said. He looked at Billie. “Very singular of you.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “That was not meant as an insult,” he got in before she could open her rash little mouth, “just an observation.”

  She did not look convinced.

  “You will concede,” he said smoothly, “that most young ladies do not assist their fathers in such a manner. Hence, your singularity.”

  “I swear, George,” Andrew said, glancing up from the book he was paging through, “you even give your compliments like a conceited ass.”

  “I’m going to kill him,” George muttered.

  “You’ll have to form a line,” Billie remarked. But then she lowered her voice. “It’s a little bit true, though.”

  He drew back. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You did sound a little . . .” She waved her hand in the air as a substitute for actually finishing her sentence.

  “Like an ass?” George supplied.

  “No!” She said this with enough speed and conviction for him to believe her. “Just a little bit . . .”

  He waited.

  “Are you talking about me?” Andrew asked, settling back in his chair with a book in his hand.

  “No,” they said in unison.

  “I don’t mind if it’s complimentary,” he murmured.

  George ignored him, keeping his eyes on Billie. She was frowning. Two small lines formed between her brows, curving against each other like an hourglass, and her lips tightened into a curious pucker, almost as if she were anticipating a kiss.

  He’d never watched her think, he realized.

  Then he realized what a staggeringly odd observation that was.

  “You did sound a little conceited,” Billie finally said. Her voice was quiet, meant for their ears only. “But I think that’s understandable?”

  Understandable? He leaned forward. “Why are you saying that like it’s a question?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He sat back and crossed his arms, quirking one brow to indicate that he was waiting for her to continue.

  “Fine,” she said, less than graciously. “You’re the eldest, the heir. You’re the brilliant, the handsome, oh, and we must not forget, the eligible Earl of Kennard.”

  George felt a slow smile spread across his face. “You think I’m handsome?”

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about!”

  “Brilliant, too,” George murmured. “I had no idea.”

  “You’re acting like Andrew,” Billie muttered.

  For some reason, this made him chuckle.

  Billie’s eyes narrowed into a glare.

  George’s smile stretched into a full-fledged grin. By God, it was fun to needle her.

  She leaned forward, and in that moment he realized just how well people could speak through clenched teeth. “I was trying to be considerate,” she ground out.

  “I’m sorry,” George said immediately.

  Her lips pressed together. “You asked me a question. I was trying to give you an honest, thoughtful answer. I thought you deserved as much.”

  Well, now he felt like an ass.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, and this time it was more than an ingrained bit of polite manners.

  Billie let out a breath, and she caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth. She was thinking again, George realized. How remarkable it was to see another person think. Was everyone this expressive as they pondered their ideas?

  “It’s how you were brought up,” she finally said. “You’re no more to blame than . . .” She exhaled again, but George was patient. She would find the right words.

  And after a few moments, she did. “You’ve been raised—” But this time she stopped herself quite suddenly.

  “To be conceited?” he said softly.

  “To be confident,” she corrected, but he had a feeling that his statement was a lot closer to what she had been about to say. “It’s no
t your fault,” she added.

  “Now who’s being patronizing?”

  She gave him a wry smile. “Me, I’m sure. But it’s true. You can’t help it any more than I can help being a . . .” She waved her hands again, which was apparently her all-purpose gesture for things that were too awkward to say aloud.

  “What I am,” she finally finished.

  “What you are.” He said it softly. He said it because he had to say it, even if he didn’t know why.

  She looked up at him, but only with her eyes. Her face remained tipped slightly down, and he had the oddest notion that if he did not meet her gaze, if he did not hold it with his own, she would return hers to her tightly clutched hands, and the moment would be lost forever.

  “What are you?” he whispered.

  She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

  “Is anyone hungry?” Andrew suddenly asked.

  George blinked, trying to snap himself out of whatever spell had been cast over him.

  “Because I am,” Andrew continued. “Famished. Utterly. I ate only one breakfast this morning.”

  “One breakfast?” Billie started to say, but Andrew was already on his feet, bounding over to her side.

  He set his hands on the table, leaning down to murmur, “I was hoping I’d be invited to tea.”

  “Of course you’re invited to tea,” Billie said, but she sounded just as off-balance as George felt. She frowned. “It’s a little early, though.”

  “It’s never too early for tea,” Andrew declared. “Not if your cook has been making shortbread.” He turned to George. “I don’t know what she puts in it, but it’s divine.”

  “Butter,” Billie said absently. “Quite a lot of it.”

  Andrew cocked his head to the side. “Well, that makes sense. Everything tastes better with quite a lot of butter.”

  “We should ask Georgiana to join us,” Billie said, reaching for her crutches. “I’m meant to be helping her plan the entertainments for the house party.” She rolled her eyes. “My mother’s orders.”

  Andrew let out a bark of laughter. “Does your mother even know you?”

  Billie threw an irritated look at him over her shoulder.

  “Seriously, Billie-goat, what will you have us do? Head out to the south lawn to plant barley?”