Because of Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  “Have my parents arrived?” Mary asked.

  “Not yet,” Lady Bridgerton told her. “We expect them just before dinner. Your mother preferred to dress at home.”

  “And my brothers?”

  “Coming with your parents.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” Mary said with a bit of grumble, “but you would think Andrew could have ridden ahead to say hello. I haven’t seen him for ages.”

  “He’s not riding much right now,” Billie said offhandedly. “His arm, you know.”

  “That must be driving him mad.”

  “I think it would do, were he not so proficient at milking the injury for all it’s worth.”

  Mary laughed and linked her arm through Billie’s. “Let us go inside and catch up. Oh, you’re limping!”

  “A silly accident,” Billie said with a wave of her hand. “It’s nearly healed.”

  “Well, you must have loads to tell me.”

  “Actually, I don’t,” Billie said as they ascended the portico stairs. “Nothing has changed around here. Not really.”

  Mary gave her a curious look. “Nothing?”

  “Other than Andrew being home, it’s all just as it ever was.” Billie shrugged, wondering if she ought to be disappointed in all the sameness. She supposed she had been spending a little more time with George, but that hardly counted as an event.

  “Your mother’s not trying to marry you off to the new vicar?” Mary teased.

  “We don’t have a new vicar, and I believe she’s trying to marry me off to Felix’s brother.” She tipped her head. “Or one of the Berbrookes.”

  “Henry is practically engaged,” Mary said authoritatively, “and you do not want to marry one of the Berbrookes. Trust me.”

  Billie gave her a sideways glance. “Do tell.”

  “Stop that,” Mary admonished. “It’s nothing salacious. Or even interesting. They’re lovely, both of them, but they’re dull as sticks.”

  “Here, let’s go up to my room,” Billie said, steering them toward the main staircase. “And you know,” she added, mostly to be contrary, “some sticks are actually quite pointy.”

  “Not the Berbrookes.”

  “Why did you offer to bring them, then?”

  “Your mother begged! She sent me a three-page letter.”

  “My mother?” Billie echoed.

  “Yes. With an addendum from mine.”

  Billie winced. The collective might of the Ladies Rokesby and Bridgerton was not easily ignored.

  “She needed more gentlemen,” Mary continued. “I don’t think she was anticipating that the Duchess of Westborough would bring both of her daughters and her niece. And anyway, Niall and Ned are both very good-natured. They will make lovely husbands for someone.” She gave Billie a pointed look. “But not for you.”

  Billie decided there was no point taking affront. “You don’t see me marrying someone good-natured?”

  “I don’t see you marrying someone who can barely read his name.”

  “Oh, come now.”

  “Fine. I exaggerate. But this is important.” Mary stopped in the middle of the upstairs hall, forcing Billie to a halt beside her. “You know I know you better than anyone.”

  Billie waited while Mary fixed her with a serious stare. Mary liked to dispense advice. Billie didn’t ordinarily like to receive it, but it had been so long since she’d had the company of her closest friend. Just this once she could be patient. Placid, even.

  “Billie, listen to me,” Mary said with an odd urgency. “You cannot treat your future so flippantly. Eventually you are going to have to choose a husband, and you will go mad if you do not marry a man of at least equal intelligence to yourself.”

  “That presupposes that I marry anyone.” Or, Billie did not add, that she might actually have a choice of husbands.

  Mary drew back. “Don’t say such a thing! Of course you will get married. You need only to find the right gentleman.”

  Billie rolled her eyes. Mary had long since succumbed to that sickness that seemed to afflict all recently married individuals: the fever to see everyone else blissful and wed. “I’ll probably just marry Andrew,” Billie said with a shrug. “Or Edward.”

  Mary stared at her.

  “What?” Billie finally asked.

  “If you can say it like that,” Mary said with hot disbelief, “like you don’t care which Rokesby you meet at the altar, you have no business marrying either one of them.”

  “Well, I don’t care. I love them both.”

  “As brothers. Goodness, if you’re going to take that view of it, you might as well marry George.”

  Billie stopped short. “Don’t be daft.”

  She, marry George? It was ludicrous.

  “Honestly, Mary,” she said with a stern little hiss to her voice. “That’s not even something to joke about.”

  “You said that one Rokesby brother would be as good as another.”

  “No, you said that. I said either Edward or Andrew would do.” Really, she did not understand why Mary was so upset. Marriage to either brother would have the same effect. Billie would become a Rokesby, and she and Mary would be sisters in truth. Billie thought it sounded rather lovely.

  Mary clapped her hand to her forehead and groaned. “You are so unromantic.”

  “I don’t necessarily see that as a flaw.”

  “No,” Mary grumbled, “you wouldn’t.”

  She’d meant it as criticism, but Billie just laughed. “Some of us need to view the world with practicality and sense.”

  “But not at the price of your happiness.”

  For the longest moment, Billie said nothing. She felt her head tipping slightly to the side, her eyes narrowing with thought as she watched Mary’s face. Mary wanted what was best for her; she understood that. But Mary didn’t know. How could she know?

  “Who are you,” Billie asked softly, “to decide what constitutes another person’s happiness?” She made sure to keep her words gentle, her tone without edge. She did not want Mary to feel attacked by the question; she did not mean the question as such. But she did want Mary to think about this, to stop for one moment and try to understand that despite their deep friendship, they were fundamentally different people.

  Mary looked up with stricken eyes. “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know you didn’t,” Billie assured her. Mary had always longed for love and marriage. She’d pined for Felix since the moment she’d first met him—at the age of twelve! When Billie was twelve all she’d been concerned about was the litter of puppies in the barn and whether she could climb the old oak tree faster than Andrew.

  Truth be told, she was still concerned about this. It would be a massive blow if he could make it to the top branch before she could. Not that they’d be conducting a test anytime soon, what with his arm and her ankle. But still, these things were important.

  Not that Mary would ever see them as such.

  “I’m sorry,” Mary said, but her smile was a little too tight. “I’ve no call to be so grave when I’ve only just arrived.”

  Billie almost asked her if that meant she had plans for later in the visit. But she didn’t.

  Such restraint. When had she developed such maturity?

  “Why are you smiling?” Mary asked.

  “What? I’m not smiling.”

  “Oh, you are.”

  And because Mary was her best friend, even when she was trying to tell her how to live her life, Billie laughed and linked their arms back together. “If you must know,” she said, “I was congratulating myself on not making a smart comment at you.”

  “Such restraint,” Mary said, echoing Billie’s thoughts precisely.

  “I know. It’s so unlike me.” Billie tipped her head toward the end of the hall. “Can we continue on to my bedroom? My foot hurts.”

  “Of course. How did you injure it?”

  Billie smiled wryly as she resumed walking. “You’re never going to believe who ended up be
ing my hero . . .”

  Chapter 12

  At dinner that night, it became quickly apparent to George that one side of the table was the “fun” side.

  He was not seated on that side.

  To his left was Lady Frederica Fortescue-Endicott, who spoke incessantly of her new fiancé, the Earl of Northwick. To his right was Lady Frederica’s younger sister, Lady Alexandra.

  Who also spoke incessantly about the Earl of Northwick.

  George was not quite sure what to make of this. For Lady Alexandra’s sake, he hoped Northwick had a brother.

  Billie was seated directly across from George, not that he could see her over the elaborate fruited epergne that graced the center of table. But he could hear her laughter, rich and deep, inevitably followed by Andrew’s guffaw and then some asinine bon mot delivered by the absurdly handsome Sir Reginald McVie.

  Sir Reggie, as he had instructed everyone to call him.

  George disliked him intensely.

  Never mind that they had been introduced only one hour earlier; sometimes an hour was all it took. In this case, a minute had been enough. Sir Reggie had sauntered up to George and Billie, who were enjoying a private laugh about something entirely inconsequential (but nonetheless private), and then he’d flashed a smile that was positively blinding.

  The man’s teeth were so straight they might have been laid into place with a yardstick. Really, who had teeth like that? It was unnatural.

  Then the lout had taken Billie’s hand and kissed it like some French count, proclaiming her a beauty beyond the sea, sand, stars, and skies (in French, no less, despite the loss of alliteration).

  It was beyond ridiculous; George had been sure that Billie would burst out laughing. But no, she blushed.

  She blushed!

  And then she had batted her eyelashes. It was quite possibly the least Billie Bridgerton-like thing he’d ever seen.

  All for a set of freakishly straight teeth. And she didn’t even speak French!

  Of course they had been seated next to each other at dinner. Lady Bridgerton had eyes like an eagle when it came to the marriage prospects of her eldest daughter; George did not doubt she had noticed Sir Reggie flirting with Billie within seconds of the first pearly white grin. If Billie hadn’t been seated next to him earlier that day, she would be by the dinner gong.

  With Andrew on Billie’s other side, there was no stopping her. Laughter rang like church bells as that side of the table ate, drank, and made merry.

  George’s side continued to extoll the many virtues of the Earl of Northwick.

  The many, many virtues.

  By the time the soup was removed, George was ready to put the man forth for a sainthood. To hear the Ladies Frederica and Alexandra tell it, nothing less would do him justice. The two ladies were regaling him with some nonsense involving Northwick and a parasol he had held for the both of them on a particularly rainy day, and George was just about to comment that it all sounded very crowded, when yet another peal of laughter rang out from the other side of the table.

  George glowered, not that Billie could see him. She wouldn’t have seen him even if they didn’t have that damned fruit bowl between them. She was far too busy being the life of the party. The girl was a veritable shining star. Honestly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she was literally sparkling.

  And he’d offered to watch out for her.

  Please. She was doing quite well on her own.

  “What do you suppose they are talking about?” Lady Alexandra queried after a particularly loud burst of merriment.

  “Teeth,” George muttered.

  “What did you say?”

  He turned with a bland smile. “I have no idea.”

  “They seem to be enjoying themselves a great deal,” Lady Frederica said with a thoughtful frown.

  George shrugged.

  “Northie is such a wonderful conversationalist,” she said.

  “Is he?” George murmured, stabbing a piece of roasted beef.

  “Oh, yes. Surely you know him?”

  George nodded absently. Lord Northwick was a few years his senior, but they had crossed paths at both Eton and Cambridge. George couldn’t remember much about him other than his shock of violently blond hair.

  “Then you know,” Lady Frederica said with an adoring smile, “he’s perfectly droll.”

  “Perfectly,” George echoed.

  Lady Alexandra leaned forward. “Are you talking about Lord Northwick?”

  “Er, yes,” George replied.

  “He is so delightful at a house party,” Lady Alexandra concurred. “I wonder why you did not invite him.”

  “Strictly speaking,” George reminded her, “I did not draw up the guest list.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. I’d quite forgotten that you are not a member of the family. You seem so at home at Aubrey Hall.”

  “The Bridgertons and Rokesbys have long been amiable neighbors,” he told her.

  “Miss Sybilla is practically his sister,” Lady Frederica said, leaning forward to keep herself in the conversation.

  Billie? His sister? George frowned. That wasn’t right. “I wouldn’t say . . .” he began.

  But Lady Alexandra was already talking again. “Lady Mary said as much earlier this evening. She told the most amusing tales. I do so adore your sister.”

  George had a mouthful of food, so he nodded and hoped she’d take that as a thank you.

  Lady Alexandra leaned forward. “Lady Mary said the lot of you ran wild together as children. It sounded dreadfully exciting.”

  “I was a bit older,” he said. “I rarely—”

  “—and then it ran off!” Andrew chortled from across the table, loudly enough to put a (thankful) halt to George’s conversation with the two Fortescue-Endicott ladies.

  Lady Frederica peered at them through the fruit display. “What do you think they are talking about?” she inquired.

  “Lord Northwick,” George said firmly.

  Her entire face lit up. “Really?”

  “But Mr. Rokesby said ‘it’,” Lady Alexandra pointed out. “Surely he would not refer to Northie as an it.”

  “I’m sure you misheard,” George lied. “My brother very much admires Lord Northwick.”

  “He does?” She leaned forward, far enough to attract her sister’s attention. “Frederica, did you hear that? Lord Kennard said that his brother admires Lord Northwick.”

  Lady Frederica blushed prettily.

  George wanted to plant his face in his potatoes.

  “. . . ungrateful feline!” Billie’s voice wafted over the asparagus terrine. More laughter ensued, followed by: “I was furious!”

  George sighed. He never thought he would yearn for Billie Bridgerton, but her smile was bright, her laughter infectious, and he was quite sure that if he had to endure another moment seated between the Ladies Frederica and Alexandra his brain was going to start washing out his ears.

  Billie must have caught him moping, because she moved just a bit to the side. “We’re talking about the cat,” she said.

  “Yes, I’d gathered.”

  She smiled—a rather encouraging and pleasant smile that had the effect of making him feel rather discouraged.

  And unpleasant.

  “Do you know what she meant?” Lady Alexandra asked. “I believe she said something about a cat.”

  “Northie adores cats,” Lady Frederica said.

  “I can’t stand them myself,” George said with a renewed sense of affability. The statement wasn’t precisely true, but one couldn’t discount the pleasure to be found in being contrary.

  Lady Frederica blinked with surprise. “Everybody likes cats.”

  “Not me!”

  Both Fortescue-Endicott sisters stared at him in shock. George supposed he couldn’t blame them; his tone had been downright gleeful. But as he was finally starting to enjoy himself, he decided he didn’t care. “I prefer dogs,” he said.

  “Well, of course everyone l
ikes dogs,” Lady Frederica said. But she sounded hesitant.

  “And badgers,” George said cheerfully, popping a bit of bread into his mouth.

  “Badgers,” she repeated.

  “And moles.” He grinned. She was now regarding him with visible unease. George congratulated himself on a job well done. A few more minutes of this, and she would surely think him insane.

  He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had so much fun at a formal dinner.

  He looked over at Billie, suddenly eager to tell her about his conversation. It was exactly the sort of thing she’d find amusing. They would have such a good laugh over it.

  But she was busy with Sir Reginald, who was now gazing at her as if she were a rare creature.

  Which she was, George thought violently. She just wasn’t his rare creature.

  George had a sudden urge to leap across the table and rearrange Sir Reggie’s perfect teeth into something far more abstract.

  For the love of God, who was born with teeth like that? The man’s parents had clearly sold their souls to the devil.

  “Oh, Lord Kennard,” Lady Alexandra said, “do you plan to observe the ladies’ archery tournament tomorrow?”

  “I wasn’t aware there was one,” he replied.

  “Oh yes. Frederica and I both plan to take part. We’ve practiced extensively.”

  “With Lord Northwick?” he could not help but ask.

  “Of course not,” she said. “Why on earth would you think that?”

  He shrugged helplessly. Dear God, how much longer would this meal last?

  She laid her hand on his arm. “I do hope you will come to watch.”

  He glanced down at her hand. It looked so very wrong on his sleeve. But he had a feeling she misinterpreted his gesture, because if anything her fingers tightened. He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to Lord Northwick. God help him if he’d replaced the earl in her affections.

  George wanted to shake her off, but there was that damned gentlemanly nature of his, so instead he gave a tight smile and said, “I will of a certain come to watch.”

  Lady Frederica leaned forward and beamed. “Lord Northwick very much enjoys observing archery, too.”