by Julia Quinn
“Should you win, you will look the worst sort of champion, taking advantage of the weakness of others.”
She looked at him with wide, innocent eyes. “I can barely walk myself.”
“You, Miss Bridgerton, have a convenient grasp on reality.”
She grinned. “Convenient for me, yes.”
He shook his head, smiling despite himself.
“Now then,” she said, lowering her voice even though no one was within earshot, “you’re on my team, are you not?”
George narrowed his eyes. “Since when are there teams?”
“Since today.” She leaned closer. “We must crush Andrew.”
“You’re beginning to frighten me, Billie.”
“Don’t be silly, you’re just as competitive as I am.”
“Do you know, I don’t think I am.”
“Of course you are. You just show it differently.”
He thought she might elucidate, but of course she did not.
“You don’t want Andrew to win, do you?” she asked.
“I’m not certain how much I care.”
She drew back.
He laughed. He couldn’t help it. She looked so affronted. “No, of course I don’t want him to win,” he said. “He’s my brother. But at the same time, I’m not sure I feel the need to resort to espionage to ensure the outcome.”
She stared at him with heavy, disappointed eyes.
“Oh, fine,” he gave in. “Who’s on Andrew’s team, then?”
She brightened up immediately. “No one. That’s the beauty of it. He won’t know that we’ve formed an alliance.”
“There is no way this ends well,” he said, sending the words out to the world at large.
He was fairly certain the world was not listening.
Billie set the last wicket into place. “This one’s evil,” she told him. “Overshoot and you’re in the rosebushes.”
“I shall take that under advisement.”
“Do.” She smiled, and his breath caught. No one smiled like Billie. No one ever had. He’d known this for years and yet . . . it was only now . . .
He indulged in a mental curse. This had to be the most inconvenient attraction in the history of man. Billie Bridgerton, for God’s sake. She was everything he’d never wanted in a woman. She was headstrong, stupidly reckless, and if she’d ever had a mysterious, feminine moment in her life, he’d never seen it.
And yet . . .
He swallowed.
He wanted her. He wanted her like he’d never wanted anything in his life. He wanted her smile, and he wanted it exclusively. He wanted her in his arms, beneath his body . . . because somehow he knew that in his bed, she would be everything mysterious and feminine.
He also knew that every single one of these delightful activities required that he marry her, which was so patently ludicrous that—
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Billie muttered.
George snapped back to attention.
“Andrew’s coming over,” she said. “Hold your horses!” she bellowed. “I swear,” she said to George, “he is so impatient.”
“Said the—”
“Don’t call me a kettle.” She started marching back to the beginning of the course. As best as she could; she really did look ridiculous with her two-part limp.
He waited for a moment, grinning at her back. “Are you sure you don’t want the black mallet?”
“I hate you!” she called.
He couldn’t help but smile. It was quite the merriest declaration of hate he’d ever heard.
“I hate you, too,” he murmured.
But he didn’t mean it, either.
Chapter 15
Billie was humming quite happily by the time she reached the beginning of the Pall Mall course. She was in a remarkably cheerful mood, all things considered. Andrew was still being abominably impatient, and Lady Alexandra was still the most awful person in the history of the world, but none of that seemed to matter.
She peeked over her shoulder at George. He’d been following her the whole way, trading insults with a wolfish smile.
“What are you so happy about?” Andrew demanded.
She smiled enigmatically. Let him stew for a bit. Besides, she wasn’t sure why she was so happy. She just was.
“Who plays first?” Lady Alexandra asked.
Billie opened her mouth to reply, but Andrew beat her to it.
“We usually play youngest to oldest,” he said, “but it does seem somewhat rude to inquire . . .”
“I am certainly first, then,” Georgiana announced, plopping the green ball down near the starting stick. “No question about it.”
“I should think I am second,” Lady Alexandra said, sending a pitying glance over at Billie.
Billie ignored her. “Mr. Berbrooke, might we inquire as to your age?”
“What? Oh, I’m twenty-five.” He smiled broadly. He did that a lot. “Quarter of a century, you know.”
“Very well, then,” Billie said, “the order of play shall be Georgiana, Lady Alexandra . . . we assume, Andrew, me, Mr. Berbrooke, and George.”
“Don’t you mean Lord Kennard?” Lady Alexandra asked.
“No, I’m quite sure I mean George,” Billie snipped. Good God but that woman grated on her.
“I rather like playing with the black ball,” George said, smoothly changing the subject. But Billie had been watching him; she couldn’t be positive, but she thought she’d seen him hiding a smile.
Good.
“It’s a very manly color,” Lady Alexandra confirmed.
Billie nearly gagged.
“It’s the color of death,” Andrew said, rolling his eyes.
“The Mallet of Death,” George said thoughtfully. He swung it back and forth a few times, like a macabre pendulum. “It has quite a ring to it.”
Andrew snorted.
“You laugh,” George dared, “but you know you want it.”
Billie rang out with laughter that only grew in volume when Andrew leveled a peevish glare in her direction. “Oh, come now, Andrew, you know it’s the truth,” she said.
Georgiana looked up from her position at the starting pole. “Who would want the Mallet of Peonies and Petunias when one could have the Mallet of Death?” she put in, tipping her head toward Andrew’s pink equipment.
Billie smiled approvingly. When had her sister got so witty?
“My peonies and petunias shall triumph,” Andrew said with a wiggle of his brows. “Just you watch.”
“Your peonies and petunias are missing a vital petal,” Billie countered, motioning toward his injured arm.
“I don’t think I know what we’re talking about,” Mr. Berbrooke admitted.
“It’s just silly fun,” Georgiana told him as she readied for her first swing. “Billie and Andrew love to tease one another. They always have.” She gave her ball a whack, and it shot through the two starting wickets. It didn’t go much farther but she didn’t seem to mind.
Lady Alexandra stepped up, setting her ball into place. “Lieutenant Rokesby plays after me, yes?” she confirmed. She glanced up at Billie with a deceptively placid expression. “I did not realize that you were older than he is, Miss Bridgerton.”
“I am older than a great many people,” Billie said coolly.
Lady Alexandra sniffed and slammed her mallet against her ball, sending it hurtling across the lawn.
“Well done!” Mr. Berbrooke cheered. “I say, you have played this before.”
Lady Alexandra smiled modestly. “As I mentioned, Lord Northwick has a set.”
“And he plays in the shape of a holy cross,” Billie said under her breath.
George elbowed her.
“My turn,” Andrew announced.
“Petunias ahoy!” Billie said jauntily.
Beside her she heard George chuckle. It was ridiculously satisfying, making him laugh.
Andrew ignored her completely. He dropped the pink ball, then nudged it into place with his foot
.
“I still don’t understand how you’re going to play with a broken arm,” Georgiana said.
“Watch and learn, my dear girl,” he murmured. And then, after several practice swings—one of which included a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree rotation—he whacked his ball rather impressively through the starting wickets and across the lawn.
“Almost as far as Lady Alexandra,” Georgiana said admiringly.
“I do have a broken arm,” he demurred.
Billie walked to the starting spot and set down her ball. “How did that happen again?” she asked innocently.
“Shark attack,” he said without missing a beat.
“No!” Lady Alexandra gasped.
“A shark?” Mr. Berbrooke said. “Isn’t that one of those toothy fish things?”
“Extremely toothy,” Andrew confirmed.
“I shouldn’t like to come across one myself,” Mr. Berbrooke said.
“Has Lord Northwick ever been bitten by a shark?” Billie asked sweetly.
George made a choking sound.
Lady Alexandra’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t say that he has.”
“Pity.” Billie smacked her mallet against her ball with thundering force. It went flying across the lawn, well past the others.
“Well done!” Mr. Berbrooke again exclaimed. “Jolly good at this, you are, Miss Bridgerton.”
It was impossible to remain unmoved in the face of his relentless good cheer. Billie offered him a friendly smile as she said, “I’ve played quite a bit over the years.”
“She often cheats,” Andrew said in passing.
“Only with you.”
“I suppose I’d better have a go,” Mr. Berbrooke said, crouching down to set the blue ball next to the starting pole.
George took a cautionary step back.
Mr. Berbrooke frowned down at the ball, testing out his mallet a few times before finally swinging. The ball went flying, but unfortunately so did one of the wickets.
“Oh! Terribly sorry,” he said.
“It’s no trouble,” Georgiana said. “We can put it back into place.”
The course was reset, and George took his turn. His black ball ended up somewhere between Lady Alexandra and Billie.
“Mallet of Death indeed,” Andrew mocked.
“It’s a strategic sort of assassination,” George replied with an enigmatic smile. “I’m taking the longitudinal view.”
“My turn!” Georgiana called out. She didn’t have far to walk to reach her ball. This time she hit it much harder, and it went sailing across the field toward the next wicket, stopping about five yards short of its destination.
“Well done!” Mr. Berbrooke exclaimed.
Georgiana beamed. “Thank you. I do believe I might be getting the hang of this.”
“By the end of the game you shall be trouncing us all,” he pronounced.
Lady Alexandra was already in place near the purple ball. She took nearly a minute to adjust her aim, then gave it a careful tap. The ball rolled forward, stopping directly in front of the wicket.
Billie made a noise deep in her throat. Lady Alexandra was actually quite skilled.
“Did you just growl?” George asked.
She nearly jumped. She hadn’t realized he was so close. He was standing almost right behind her, and she could not see him unless she turned her head away from the play.
But she could feel him. He might not be touching her, but he was so close . . . Her skin tingled, and she could feel her heart beating, low and insistent in her chest.
“I have to ask,” he said, his voice intoxicatingly close to her ear, “how exactly are we meant to work as a team?”
“I’m not sure,” Billie admitted, watching Andrew take his turn. “I expect that it will become obvious as we go along.”
“Your turn, Billie!” Andrew yelled.
“Excuse me,” Billie said to George, suddenly eager to put some space between them. She felt almost light-headed when he was standing so close.
“What are you going to do, Billie?” Georgiana asked as she approached the ball.
Billie frowned. She wasn’t far from the wicket, but Lady Alexandra’s purple ball was squarely in her way.
“A difficult shot,” Andrew said.
“Shut up.”
“You could use blunt force.” He looked up at the crowd. “Her usual modus operandi.” His voice dropped to a confidential undertone. “In Pall Mall and in life.”
Billie briefly considered giving up the game right then and there and slamming the ball toward his feet.
“Wouldn’t that put Lady Alexandra through the wicket?” Georgiana asked.
Andrew shrugged as if to say—c’est la vie.
Billie focused on her ball.
“Or she could be patient,” Andrew continued, “and queue up for the wicket after Lady Alexandra. But we all know that’s not like her.”
Billie made a noise. This time it was definitely a growl.
“A third option—”
“Andrew!” she ground out.
He grinned.
Billie lined up her mallet. There was no way to get through the wicket without knocking Lady Alexandra through, but if she edged it on the side . . .
She let fly.
Billie’s yellow ball careened toward the wicket and smacked the purple one left of center. They all watched as Lady Alexandra’s ball rolled to the right, settling into position at such an angle that she couldn’t possibly hope to make it through the wicket on the next turn.
Billie’s ball now sat almost precisely where Lady Alexandra’s had been.
“You did that on purpose!” Lady Alexandra accused.
“Of course I did.” Billie looked at her disparagingly. Honestly, what had she expected? “That’s how one plays.”
“That’s not how I play.”
“Well, we’re not on a cross,” Billie snapped, losing patience. Gad, the woman was awful.
Someone made a choking sound.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Lady Alexandra demanded.
“I think,” Mr. Berbrooke said thoughtfully, “that she means that she would play more piously if the game were a religious endeavor. Which I don’t think it is.”
Billie gave him an approving glance. Maybe he was cleverer than he seemed.
“Lord Kennard,” Lady Alexandra said, turning to George. “Surely you do not approve of such underhanded tactics.”
George gave a shrug. “It’s how they play, I’m afraid.”
“But not how you play,” Lady Alexandra persisted.
Billie gave him a stare, waiting for his answer.
He did not disappoint. “It’s how I play when I play with them.”
Lady Alexandra drew back with a huff.
“Don’t worry,” Georgiana said, jumping into the breach. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
“It’s not in my nature,” Lady Alexandra sniffed.
“It’s in everyone’s nature,” Andrew barked. “Whose turn is it?”
Mr. Berbrooke gave a jump. “Oh, mine I think.” He walked back to his ball. “Am I allowed to aim for Miss Bridgerton?”
“Absolutely,” Andrew replied, “but you might want to—”
Mr. Berbrooke whacked his ball without waiting for the rest of Andrew’s instructions, which surely would have been not to hit her ball dead-on, which was exactly what he did.
The yellow ball went through the wicket and beyond, making it an additional three feet before coming to a stop. The blue ball also rolled through the wicket, but, having transferred its force to the yellow ball, it came to a stop only directly on the other side.
“Well done, Mr. Berbrooke!” Billie cheered.
He turned to her with a wide smile. “Thank you!”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Lady Alexandra snapped. “She doesn’t mean it. She’s only happy you knocked her through the wicket.”
“I take everything back,” Billie murmured to George. “Forget Andrew. I
t’s her we must crush.”
Mr. Berbrooke appealed to the rest of the crowd. “Miss Bridgerton would have gone through on the next turn, anyway, wouldn’t she?”
“I would,” Billie confirmed. “You really didn’t set me too far ahead, I promise.”
“And you got yourself through the wicket,” Georgiana added. “That puts you in second place.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Mr. Berbrooke said, looking inordinately pleased with this development.
“And,” Billie added with great flair, “look how you’re blocking everyone else. Well done, you.”
Lady Alexandra let out a loud huff. “Whose turn is it?”
“Mine, I believe,” George said smoothly.
Billie smiled to herself. She loved the way he said so much with nothing but a polite murmur. Lady Alexandra would hear a gentleman making a casual comment, but Billie knew him better. She knew him better than that pompous duke’s daughter ever would.
She heard his smile. He was amused by the entire exchange, even if he was too well-bred to show it.
She heard his salute. Billie had won this round; he was congratulating her.
And she heard his gentle scolding, a warning of sorts. He was cautioning her not to carry this too far.
Which she probably would. He knew her every bit as well as she knew him.
“Take your turn, George,” Andrew said.
Billie watched as George stepped forward and set up his play. He squinted as he aimed. It was kind of adorable.
What a thought. George Rokesby, adorable? It was just the most ridiculous thing.
She let out a little chuckle, just as George hit his ball. It was a good shot, landing him directly in front of the wicket.
“Oh, my goodness,” Georgiana said, blinking at the field. “Now we’ll never get through.”
She was right. The black and blue balls were mere inches apart, flanking both sides of the wicket. Anyone who attempted the wicket would just add to the jam.
George stepped back toward Billie, clearing the way for the next few players. He leaned toward her, his mouth drawing close to her ear. “Were you laughing at me?” he murmured.
“Just a little bit,” she replied, watching Georgiana trying to figure out her shot.
“Why?”
Her lips parted before she realized she couldn’t possibly give him an honest reply. She turned to look at him, and again he was closer than she’d expected, closer than he ought to have dared.