by Julia Quinn
“Of course he does,” George said under his breath.
“Did you say something?” Lady Alexandra asked.
“Merely that Miss Bridgerton is a very accomplished archer,” he said. It was the truth, even if that hadn’t been what he’d said. He looked over at Billie, intending to motion to her with his head, but she was already staring at him with a ferocious expression.
He leaned to the right to see her better.
Her mouth tightened.
He cocked his head.
She rolled her eyes and turned back to Sir Reginald.
George blinked. What the hell had that been about?
And honestly, why did he care?
BILLIE WAS HAVING a marvelous time. Truly, she wasn’t quite certain just what she’d been so nervous about. Andrew was always an amusing dinner companion, and Sir Reggie was so kind and handsome; he’d put her right at ease even if he had started speaking in French when they had been introduced.
She hadn’t understood a word of it, but she’d figured it must be complimentary, so she’d nodded and smiled, and even blinked a few times the way she’d seen other ladies do when they were trying to act particularly feminine.
No one could say she wasn’t trying her best.
The one fly in the proverbial ointment was George. Or rather George’s predicament. She felt desperately sorry for him.
Lady Alexandra had seemed like a perfectly pleasant sort of lady when they had been introduced in the drive, but the moment she arrived in the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks, the little shrew had latched on to George like a barnacle.
Billie was appalled. She knew the man was rich and handsome and going to be an earl, but did the grasping little wench need to be quite so obvious about it?
Poor George. Was this what he’d had to contend with every time he went to London? Perhaps she ought to have had more compassion for him. At the very least she should have taken a peek into the dining room before the guests filed in to check on the seating arrangement. She could have saved him from a full evening of Lady Alexandra Four-handed-Endicott.
Blergh. She could come up with something better than that.
Formidable . . . For-heaven’s-sake . . . For-the-last-time . . .
Fine. She couldn’t come up with something better. But really, the woman might as well have had four hands with the way she kept clutching on to George in the drawing room.
At dinner she was even worse. It was difficult to see George across the table with her mother’s monstrous fruit epergne blocking the way, but she had a clear view of Lady Alexandra, and it had to be said—the lady was displaying a highly impractical expanse of bosom.
Billie wouldn’t have been surprised if she had an entire tea service hiding down there.
And then. And then! She’d put her hand on George’s forearm like she owned it. Even Billie wouldn’t have dared such a familiar gesture in such a formal setting. She leaned in her chair, trying to get a look at George’s face. He could not be happy about this.
“Are you all right?”
She turned. Andrew was regarding her with an expression that hovered somewhere between suspicion and concern.
“I’m fine,” she said in a clipped voice. “Why?”
“You’re about to fall in my lap.”
She lurched upright. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Has Sir Reginald broken wind?” Andrew murmured.
“Andrew!”
He gave her an unrepentant smirk. “It was either that or you’ve developed a new fondness for me.”
She glared at him.
“I do love you, Billie,” he drawled, “but not that way.”
She rolled her eyes because . . . Well, because. Andrew was a wretch. He had always been a wretch. And she didn’t love him that way, either.
But he didn’t have to be quite so mean-spirited about it.
“What do you think of Lady Alexandra?” she whispered.
“Which one is she?”
“The one who is crawling over your brother,” she said impatiently.
“Oh, that one.” Andrew sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
“He looks very unhappy.”
Andrew tipped his head as he regarded his brother. Unlike Billie, he did not have a gargantuan fruit display to contend with. “I don’t know,” he mused. “He doesn’t look like he minds.”
“Are you blind?” Billie hissed.
“Not that I’m aware.”
“He—Oh, never mind. You’re of no use.”
Billie leaned again, this time toward Sir Reggie. He was talking with the woman on his left, so hopefully he wouldn’t notice.
Lady Alexandra’s hand was still on George’s arm.
Billie’s jaw clenched. He could not be happy about this. George was a very private person. She looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but he was saying something to Lady Alexandra, something perfectly pleasant and polite.
He didn’t look the least bit perturbed.
She fumed.
And then he looked up. He must have caught her looking at him because he leaned to his right just far enough to catch her eye.
His brows rose.
She flicked her gaze toward the ceiling and turned back to Sir Reggie, even though he was still speaking to the duchess’s niece.
She waited for a moment, but he seemed in no rush to return his attention to her, so she picked up her fork and knife and cut her meat into ever-tinier pieces.
Maybe George liked Lady Alexandra. Maybe he’d court her, and maybe they’d get married and have a flock of little Rokesby babies, all blue-eyed and plump-cheeked.
If that was what George wanted, that was what he should do.
But why did it seem so very wrong? And why did it hurt so much just to think about it?
Chapter 13
By one o’clock the following afternoon, George was remembering why he disliked house parties. Or rather, he was remembering that he disliked house parties.
Or maybe he just disliked this house party. Between the Northwick-besotted Fortescue-Endicott girls, Lord Reggie of the snow white teeth, and Ned Berbrooke, who had accidentally spilled port all over George’s boots the previous night, he was ready to crawl back to Crake House.
It was only three miles away. He could do it.
He’d skipped the midday meal—the only way to avoid Lady Alexandra, who seemed to have decided he was the next best thing to Northwick—and now he was in a very bad mood. He was hungry and he was tired, twin demons guaranteed to reduce a grown man’s disposition to that of a querulous three-year-old.
The previous night’s sleep had been . . .
Unsatisfying.
Yes, that seemed the most appropriate word. Desperately inadequate, but appropriate.
The Bridgertons had put all of the Rokesbys in the family wing, and George had sat in the cushioned chair by his fireplace, listening to the regular, ordinary sounds of a family ending the day—the maids attending the ladies, doors opening and closing . . .
It should have been of no consequence. They were all the same noises one heard at Crake. But somehow, here at Aubrey Hall it felt too intimate, almost as if he were eavesdropping.
With every soft and sleepy sound, his imagination took flight. He knew he couldn’t hear Billie moving about; her bedroom was across the hall and three doors down. But it felt like he heard her. In the silence of the night he sensed her feet lightly padding across her carpet. He felt the whisper of her breath as she blew out a candle. And when she settled into her bed, he was sure he could hear the rustling of her sheets.
She’d said she fell asleep immediately—but what then? Was she a restless sleeper? Did she wriggle about, kicking the covers, pushing the sheets to the bottom of the bed with her feet?
Or did she lie still, sweetly on her side with her hands tucked under her cheek?
He’d wager she was a squirmer; this was Billie, after all. She’d spent her entire childhood in constant motion. Why would
she sleep any other way? And if she shared a bed with someone . . .
His brandy nightcap turned into three, but when he’d finally laid his head against his pillow, it had taken him hours to fall asleep. And then when he did, he’d dreamed of her.
And the dream . . . Oh, the dream.
He shuddered, the memory washing over him anew. If he’d ever thought of Billie as a sister . . .
He certainly didn’t now.
It had started in the library, in the moonlit dark, and he didn’t know what she’d been wearing—just that it wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen her in before. It had to have been a nightgown . . . white and diaphanous. With every breeze it molded to her body, revealing perfectly lush curves designed to fit his hands.
Never mind that they were in the library, and there was no logical reason for a breeze. It was his dream, and it was breezy, and then it didn’t matter anyway because when he took her hand and pulled her hard against him they were suddenly in his bedroom. Not the one here at Aubrey Hall but back at Crake, with his mahogany four-poster bed, the mattress large and square, with room for all sorts of reckless abandon.
She didn’t say a word, which he had to admit was very unlike her, but then again, it was a dream. When she smiled, though, it was pure Billie—wide and free—and when he laid her on the bed, her eyes met his, and it was as if she had been born for that moment.
As if he had been born for that moment.
His hands opened the folds of her gown, and she arched beneath him, her perfect breasts thrusting toward him like an offering.
It was mad. It was madness. He shouldn’t know what her breasts looked like. He shouldn’t even be able to imagine it.
But he did, and in his dream, he worshipped them. He cupped them, squeezed them, pushed them together until that intoxicatingly feminine valley formed between them. Then he bent down and took her nipple between his teeth, teasing and tempting until she moaned with delight.
But it didn’t end there. He slid his hands to the junction of her legs and her hips and he pushed her thighs open, his thumbs coming torturously close to her center.
And then he stroked . . . closer . . . closer . . . until he could sense the wet heat of her, and he knew that their joining was inevitable. She would be his, and it would be glorious. His clothes melted away, and he positioned himself at her opening . . .
And woke up.
Bloody goddamn bleeding bollocks.
He woke up.
Life was spectacularly unfair.
The following morning was the ladies’ archery competition, and if George had felt a bit of irony while watching, surely he could be forgiven. There was Billie with a stiff, pointy thing, and there was he, still with a stiff, pointy thing, and it had to be said: only one of them was having any fun.
It had taken a full hour of very icy thoughts before he was able to move from his carefully cross-legged position in the chairs that had been set up at the edge of the field. Every other gentleman had got up at some point to inspect the targets, but not George. He’d smiled, and he’d laughed, and he made up some sort of nonsense about enjoying the sun. Which was ridiculous, because the one spot of blue in the sky was about the size of his thumbnail.
Desperate for a moment of his own company, he made for the library immediately after the tournament. No one in the party struck him as much of a reader; surely he could find some peace and quiet.
Which he did, for all of ten minutes before Billie and Andrew came squabbling through the door.
“George!” Billie exclaimed, limping in his direction. She looked glowingly well-rested.
She never had difficulty falling asleep, George thought irritably. She probably dreamed of roses and rainbows.
“Just the person I’d hoped to find,” she said with a smile.
“Words to strike terror in his heart,” Andrew drawled.
So true, George thought, although not for the reasons Andrew supposed.
“Stop.” Billie scowled at him before turning back to George. “We need you to settle a point.”
“If it’s who can climb a tree faster, it’s Billie,” George said without missing a beat. “If it’s who can shoot with more accuracy, it’s Andrew.”
“It’s neither,” Billie said with a light frown. “It’s got to do with Pall Mall.”
“Then God help us all,” George muttered, getting up and heading for the door. He’d played Pall Mall with his brother and Billie; it was a vicious, bloodthirsty sport involving wooden balls, heavy mallets, and the constant risk of grievous head injury. Definitely not something for Lady Bridgerton’s gentle house party.
“Andrew accused me of cheating,” Billie said.
“When?” George asked, honestly perplexed. As far as he knew, the entire morning had been taken up by the ladies’ archery tournament. (Billie had won, not that anyone named Rokesby or Bridgerton was surprised.)
“Last April,” Billie said.
“And you’re arguing about it now?”
“It’s the principle of the matter,” Andrew said.
George looked at Billie. “Did you cheat?”
“Of course not! I don’t need to cheat to beat Andrew. Edward maybe,” she allowed with a flick of her eyes, “but not Andrew.”
“Uncalled for, Billie,” Andrew scolded.
“But true,” she returned.
“I’m leaving,” George said. Neither was listening, but it seemed only polite to announce his departure. Besides, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea for him to be in the same room as Billie just then. His pulse had already begun a slow, inexorable acceleration and he knew he didn’t want to be near her when it reached its crescendo.
This way lies ruin, his mind was screaming. Miraculously, his legs didn’t put up any resistance, and he made it all the way to the door before Billie said, “Oh, don’t go. It’s just about to get interesting.”
He managed a small but exhausted smile as he turned around. “With you it’s always about to get interesting.”
“Do you think so?” she asked delightedly.
Andrew gave her a look of pure disbelief. “That wasn’t a compliment, Billie.”
Billie looked at George.
“I have no idea what it was,” he admitted.
Billie just chuckled, then jerked her head toward Andrew. “I’m calling him out.”
George knew better—oh, he definitely knew better—but he couldn’t stop himself from turning the rest of the way around to gape at her.
“You’re calling me out?” Andrew repeated.
“Mallets at dawn,” she said with flair. Then she shrugged. “Or this afternoon. I’d rather avoid getting up early, wouldn’t you?”
Andrew raised one brow. “You’d challenge a one-armed man to a game of Pall Mall?”
“I’d challenge you.”
He leaned in, blue eyes glittering. “I’ll still beat you, you know.”
“George!” Billie yelled.
Damn it. He’d almost escaped. “Yes?” he murmured, poking his head back through the doorway.
“We need you.”
“No you don’t. You need a nanny. You can barely walk.”
“I can walk perfectly well.” She limped a few steps. “See? I can’t even feel it.”
George looked at Andrew, not that he expected him to exhibit anything remotely approaching sense.
“I have a broken arm,” Andrew said, which George supposed was meant to serve as an explanation. Or an excuse.
“You’re idiots. The both of you.”
“Idiots who need more players,” Billie said. “It doesn’t work with only two.”
Technically that was true. The Pall Mall set was meant to be played with six, although anything over three would do in a pinch. But George had played this scene before; the rest of them were bit players to Andrew and Billie’s tragic, vicious leads. For the two of them, the game was less about winning than it was making sure the other didn’t. George was expected merely to move his ball along in
their fray.
“You still don’t have enough players,” George said.
“Georgiana!” Billie yelled.
“Georgiana?” Andrew echoed. “You know your mother doesn’t let her play.”
“For the love of heaven, she hasn’t been ill for years. It’s time we stopped coddling her.”
Georgiana came skidding around the corner. “Stop bellowing, Billie. You’re going to give Mama a palpitation, and then I’ll have to be the one to deal with her.”
“We’re playing Pall Mall,” Billie told her.
“Oh. That’s nice. I’ll—” Georgiana’s words tumbled to a halt, and her blue eyes went wide. “Wait, I get to play, too?”
“Of course,” Billie said, almost dismissively. “You’re a Bridgerton.”
“Oh, brilliant!” Georgiana practically leapt into the air. “Can I be orange? No, green. I wish to be green.”
“Anything you want,” Andrew said.
Georgiana turned to George. “Are you playing, as well?”
“I suppose I must.”
“Don’t sound so resigned,” Billie said. “You’ll have a splendid time of it. You know you will.”
“We still need more players,” Andrew said.
“Perhaps Sir Reggie?” Georgiana asked.
“No!” came George’s instant reply.
Three heads swiveled in his direction.
In retrospect, he might have been a bit forceful in his objection.
“He doesn’t strike me as the sort of gentleman to enjoy such a rough and tumble game,” George said with a haphazard shrug. He glanced down at his fingernails since he couldn’t possibly look anyone in the eye when he said, “His teeth, you know.”
“His teeth?” Billie echoed.
George didn’t need to see her face to know that she was staring at him as if she were afraid he’d lost his mind.
“I suppose he does have a very elegant smile,” Billie said, apparently prepared to concede the point. “And I suppose we did knock out one of Edward’s teeth that one summer.” She looked over at Andrew. “Do you remember? I think he was six.”
“Precisely,” George said, although in truth he did not recollect the incident. It must have been a milk tooth; Edward was no Sir Reginald McVie, but as far as George knew, his brother’s smile was fully populated.