by Julia Quinn
She did not quite look at him when she said, “I may have set someone’s dress on fire.”
He nearly lost his footing. “You set someone’s dress on fire?”
She waited with exaggerated patience, as if she’d been through this conversation before and knew exactly how long it was going to take to get through it.
He stared at her, dumbfounded. “You set someone’s dress on fire.”
“It wasn’t on purpose,” she snipped.
“Well,” he said, impressed despite himself, “I suppose if anyone was going to—”
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
“How did I not hear of this?” he wondered.
“It was a very small fire,” she said, somewhat primly.
“But still . . .”
“Really?” she demanded. “I set someone’s dress on fire, and your biggest question is how you missed the gossip?”
“I apologize,” he said immediately, but then he could not help but ask (somewhat gingerly), “Are you inviting me to inquire how you set this dress on fire?”
“No,” she said irritably, “and it’s not why I brought it up.”
His first inclination was to tease her further, but then she sighed, and the sound was so tired and disconsolate that his mirth slid away. “Billie,” he said, his voice as gentle as it was sympathetic, “you can’t—”
But she did not let him finish. “I don’t fit the mold, George.”
No, she didn’t. And hadn’t he been thinking the same thing just a few days earlier? If Billie had gone to London for a Season with his sister it would have been an unmitigated disaster. All the things that made her wonderful and strong would have been her downfall in the rarefied world of the ton.
They would have used her for target practice.
They weren’t all cruel, the lords and ladies of high society. But the ones who were . . . Their words were their weapons, and they wielded them like bayonets.
“Why are you telling me this?” he suddenly asked.
Her lips parted, and a flash of pain shot through her eyes.
“I mean, why me?” he said quickly, lest she think he didn’t care enough to listen. “Why not Andrew?”
She didn’t say anything. Not right away. And then— “I don’t know. I don’t . . . Andrew and I don’t talk about such things.”
“Mary will be here soon,” he said helpfully.
“For the love of God, George,” she nearly spat, “if you don’t want to talk to me, you can just say so.”
“No,” he said, grabbing her wrist before she could whirl away. “That’s not what I meant. I’m happy to talk with you,” he assured her. “I’m happy to listen. I just thought you’d rather have someone who . . .”
She stared at him, waiting. But he could not bring himself to say the words that had been on the tip of his tongue.
Someone who cares.
Because it was hurtful. And it was petty. And most of all, it wasn’t true.
He did care.
He cared . . . quite a lot.
“I will . . .” The word trailed off, lost in his turbulent thoughts, and all he could do was watch her. Watch her watching him as he tried to remember how to speak his mother tongue, as he tried to figure out which words were right, which words were reassuring. Because she looked sad. And she looked anxious. And he hated that.
“If you wish,” he said, slowly enough to allow him to pick over his thoughts as he spoke, “I will watch out for you.”
She eyed him cautiously. “What do you mean?”
“Make sure you . . .” He made an air motion with his hands, not that either one of them knew what it meant. “That you’re . . . well.”
“That I’m well?” she echoed.
“I don’t know,” he said, frustrated with his inability to put together a complete thought, much less translate it into actual sentences. “Just that if you need a friend, I will be there.”
Her lips parted, and he saw movement in her throat, all her words trapped there, all her emotions in check.
“Thank you,” she said. “That’s . . .”
“Don’t say it’s kind of me,” he ordered.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not kindness. It’s . . . I don’t know what it is,” he said helplessly. “But it’s not kindness.”
Her lips quivered into a smile. A mischievous smile. “Very well,” she said. “You’re not kind.”
“Never.”
“May I call you selfish?”
“That would be going too far.”
“Conceited?”
He took a step in her direction. “You’re pushing your luck, Billie.”
“Arrogant.” She ran around the table, laughing as she put it between them. “Come now, George. You cannot deny arrogant.”
Something devilish rose up within him. Something devilish and hot. “What do I get to call you?”
“Brilliant?”
He moved closer. “How about maddening?”
“Ah, but that’s in the eye of the beholder.”
“Reckless,” he said.
She feinted left when he feinted right. “It’s not recklessness if you know what you’re doing.”
“You fell onto a roof,” he reminded her.
She grinned wickedly. “I thought you said I jumped.”
He growled her name and lunged, chasing her as she shrieked, “I was trying to save the cat! I was being noble!”
“I’ll show you noble . . .”
She yelped and jumped back.
Straight into the house of cards.
It did not fall gracefully.
Neither did Billie, to tell the truth. When the dust had settled, she was sitting squarely on the table, the wreckage of Andrew’s masterpiece scattered around like a Chinese firecracker had been lit beneath it.
She looked up and said in a very small voice, “I don’t suppose the two of us can put it back together.”
Mutely, he shook his head.
She swallowed. “I think I might have reinjured my ankle.”
“Badly?”
“No.”
“In that case,” he told her, “I’d advise you to lead with that when Andrew returns.”
And of course that was when he walked through the door.
“I hurt my ankle,” Billie all but yelled. “It really hurts.”
George had to turn away. It was the only way to keep from laughing.
Andrew just stared. “Again,” he finally said. “You did it again.”
“It was a very nice house,” she said weakly.
“I suppose it’s a talent,” Andrew said.
“Oh, indeed,” Billie said brightly. “You’re brilliant at it.”
“No, I meant you.”
“Oh.” She swallowed—her pride, most likely—and stretched out a smile. “Well, yes. There’s no point in doing something if you’re not going to do it well, wouldn’t you agree?”
Andrew said nothing. George had the urge to clap his hands in front of his face. Just to make sure he wasn’t sleepwalking.
“I’m truly sorry,” Billie said. “I’ll make it up to you.” She pushed herself off the table and limped her way upright. “Although I don’t really know how.”
“It was my fault,” George said suddenly.
She turned to him. “You don’t need to take the blame.”
He held up his hands in supplication. “I was chasing you.”
That snapped Andrew out of his daze. “You were chasing her?”
Damn. He had not thought that one through. “Not in so many words,” George said.
Andrew turned to Billie. “He was chasing you?”
She didn’t blush, but her expression turned most sheepish. “I might have been somewhat provoking . . .”
“Provoking?” George said with a snort. “You?”
“It’s really the cat’s fault,” she returned. “I would never have fallen if my ankle wasn’t so weak.” She frowned thoughtfully. “I may blame everyt
hing on that mangy beast from now on.”
“What is happening here?” Andrew asked, his face turning slowly from Billie to George and back again. “Why aren’t you killing each other?”
“The small matter of the gallows,” George murmured.
“Not to mention your mother would be very displeased,” Billie added.
Andrew just stared at them, his mouth slack. “I’m going home,” he finally said.
Billie giggled.
And George . . . his breath caught. Because he’d heard Billie giggle before. A thousand times he’d heard her giggle. But this time was different. It sounded exactly the same, but when the light laugh reached his ears . . .
It was the loveliest sound he’d ever heard.
And quite possibly the most terrifying. Because he had a feeling he knew what it meant. And if there was one person in this world he was not going to fall in love with, it was Billie Bridgerton.
Chapter 11
Billie wasn’t exactly certain what she’d done to her ankle when she crashed into Andrew’s house of cards, but it felt only a little bit worse than before, so on the last day before the house party she decided that she was well enough to ride, as long as she did so sidesaddle.
She really didn’t have any choice. Honestly, if she didn’t get out to the west fields to monitor the progress of the barley crops, she had no idea who would. But dismounting was difficult, which meant she’d had to take a groom with her. Which neither of them enjoyed. The last thing the groom wanted was to inspect barley, and the last thing Billie wanted was to be watched by a groom while she inspected barley.
Her mare was in bad spirits as well, just to round out the cranky triumvirate. It had been a long time since Billie had sat in a sidesaddle, and Argo didn’t like it one bit.
Neither did Billie. She had not forgotten how much she hated riding sidesaddle, but she had forgotten how much it hurt the next day when one was out of practice. With every step her right hip and thigh groaned with pain. Factor in her ankle, which was still twinging like mad, and it was a wonder she wasn’t lurching around the house like a drunken sailor.
Or maybe she was. The servants gave her very odd looks when she made her way down the next morning to break her fast.
She supposed it was for the best that she was too sore to get back in the saddle. Her mother had made it explicitly clear that Billie was to remain at Aubrey Hall throughout the day. There were four Bridgertons currently in residence, she said, and there would be four Bridgertons standing in the drive to greet each and every guest.
And so Billie stood between her mother and Georgiana at one o’clock, when the Duchess of Westborough arrived in her grand coach and four, accompanied by her daughters (one engaged, one not) and niece.
Billie stood between her mother and Georgiana at half two, when Henry Maynard drove up in his racy little curricle with his good friend Sir Reginald McVie.
And she stood between her mother and Georgiana at twenty minutes past three, when Felix and Mary arrived with their neighbors Edward and Niall Berbrooke, who were both of good family and, it just so happened, of marriageable age.
“Finally,” Lord Bridgerton grumbled, stretching a crick from his neck as they waited in their neat little row for Felix and Mary’s carriage to come to a halt, “someone I know.”
“You know the Berbrookes?” Georgiana asked, leaning forward to speak to him past her sister and mother.
“I know Felix and Mary,” he replied. He looked at his wife. “When do the Rokesbys arrive?”
“An hour before supper,” she said without turning her head. The carriage had come to a stop, and, consummate hostess that she was, her eyes were on the door, awaiting her guests.
“Remind me why they’re sleeping over?” he asked.
“Because it will be infinitely more festive.”
Lord Bridgerton frowned, but he very wisely chose not to question her further.
Billie, however, showed no such restraint. “If it were me,” she said, tugging on the sleeve of her printed cotton dress, “I would want to sleep in my own bed.”
“It’s not you,” her mother replied tartly, “and stop fidgeting.”
“I can’t help it. It’s itchy.”
“I think it looks lovely on you,” Georgiana said.
“Thank you,” Billie said, momentarily nonplussed. “I’m not so sure about the front.” She looked down. The bodice draped in a crisscross fashion, rather like a shawl. She’d never worn anything quite like it, although her mother assured her it had been in style for several years.
Was she revealing too much décolletage? She reached for the pin that secured the linen near her waist. It looked like she could adjust it with a little—
“Stop it,” her mother hissed.
Billie sighed.
The carriage finally came to a complete stop, and Felix alighted first, holding out his hand to assist his wife. Mary Maynard (née Rokesby) wore a chintz traveling jacket and shawl that even Billie could tell was the height of fashion. It looked absolutely perfect on her, Billie realized. Mary looked happy and jaunty from her light brown curls right down to the tips of her elegantly shod feet.
“Mary!” Lady Bridgerton gushed, striding forward with outstretched arms. “You are blooming!”
Georgiana elbowed Billie. “Does that mean what I think it means?”
Billie gave her a lopsided grimace and a shrug—code universal for I-haven’t-a-clue. Was Mary pregnant? And if so, why on earth did her mother know this before she did?
Georgiana leaned slightly in, whispering out the corner of her mouth. “She doesn’t look—”
“Well, if she is,” Billie cut in, whispering out the corner of her mouth, “she can’t be very far along.”
“Billie!” Mary exclaimed, hurrying over to greet her good friend with a hug.
Billie leaned forward, speaking in a low voice. “Is there something you need to tell me?”
Mary didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “I don’t know how your mother knows,” she said.
“Did you inform your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there’s your answer.”
Mary laughed, her Rokesby-blue eyes crinkling just the way George’s did when he—
Billie blinked. Just one moment . . . What the devil was that about? Since when did George have the right to plague her thoughts? Perhaps they were getting on somewhat better than they had done in the past, but still, he was not a welcome distraction.
Mary, she reminded herself. She was talking to Mary. Or rather, Mary was talking to her.
“It is so good to see you,” Mary was saying. She clasped both of Billie’s hands in her own.
Billie felt something warm and tingly behind her eyes. She’d known she was missing Mary, but she hadn’t realized how very much until now. “I agree,” she said, working hard to keep the choke of emotion out of her voice. It wouldn’t do to turn into a watering pot in the front drive.
It wouldn’t do to turn into a watering pot, period. Goodness, her mother would probably send for the physician before the first tear reached her chin. Billie Bridgerton was not a crier.
She did not cry. What could be the use of it?
She swallowed, and somehow this reclaimed her equilibrium enough to smile at Mary and say, “Letters just aren’t the same.”
Mary rolled her eyes. “Especially with you as a correspondent.”
“What?” Billie’s mouth fell open. “That’s not true. I am a brilliant letter-writer.”
“When you write,” Mary retorted.
“I send you a letter every two—”
“Every three.”
“—every three weeks,” Billie finished, keeping her voice filled with enough outrage to masque the fact that she had changed her story. “Without fail.”
“You really should come to visit,” Mary said.
“You know I can’t,” Billie replied. Mary had been inviting her for a visit for over a year, but it was so
difficult for Billie to get away. There was always something that needed to be done around the estate. And truly, didn’t it make more sense for Mary to come to Kent, where she already knew everyone?
“You can,” Mary insisted, “you just won’t.”
“Perhaps in the winter,” Billie said, “when there isn’t as much to do in the fields.”
Mary’s brows rose doubtfully.
“I would have visited last winter,” Billie insisted, “but there was no point. You had already decided to come home for Christmas.”
Mary’s dubious expression did not alter in the least, and she gave Billie’s hand one final squeeze before turning to Georgiana. “My goodness,” she said, “I think you’ve grown three inches since I last saw you.”
“Unlikely,” Georgiana replied with a smile. “You were just here in December.”
Mary glanced from sister to sister. “I think you’re going to be taller than Billie.”
“Stop saying that,” Billie ordered.
“But it’s true.” Mary grinned, fully enjoying Billie’s scowl. “We are all going to be taller than you.” She turned back toward her husband, who was introducing the Berbrooke brothers to Lord and Lady Bridgerton. “Darling,” she called out, “don’t you think Georgiana has grown tremendously since we last saw her?”
Billie bit back a smile as she watched a flash of utter incomprehension cross Felix’s face before he carefully schooled his features into indulgent affection.
“I have no idea,” he said, “but if you say it, it must be true.”
“I hate when he does that,” Mary said to Billie.
Billie didn’t bother to hide her smile that time.
“Billie,” Felix said as he stepped forward to greet them. “And Georgiana. It is so good to see you both again.”
Billie bobbed a curtsy.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Niall Berbrooke and Mr. Edward Berbrooke,” Felix continued, motioning to the two sandy-haired gentlemen at his side. “They live just a few miles away from us in Sussex. Niall, Ned, this is Miss Sybilla Bridgerton and Miss Georgiana Bridgerton, childhood friends of Mary’s.”
“Miss Bridgerton,” one of the Berbrookes said, bowing over her hand. “Miss Georgiana.”
The second Berbrooke repeated his brother’s felicitations, then straightened and gave a somewhat eager smile. He reminded her of a puppy, Billie decided, with nothing but endless good cheer.