Because of Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  She was suddenly aware.

  Of his breath, warm across her skin.

  Of his eyes, so blue and so magnetically fastened upon her own.

  Of his lips, fine, full, and carrying a hint of a smile.

  Of him. Simply of him.

  She whispered his name.

  He cocked his head to the side in question, and she realized she had no idea why she’d beckoned, just that there was something so right about standing here with him, and when he looked at her like that, like he thought she was remarkable, she felt remarkable.

  She felt beautiful.

  She knew it couldn’t be true, because he’d never thought of her that way. And she didn’t want him to.

  Or did she?

  She gasped.

  “Something wrong?” he murmured.

  She shook her head. Everything was wrong.

  “Billie?”

  She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss George. She’d reached the age of three-and-twenty without wanting to even so much as flirt with a gentleman and now she wanted George Rokesby?

  Oh, this was wrong. This was very, very wrong. This was panic-inducing, world-flipping, heart-stopping wrong.

  “Billie, is something wrong?”

  She snapped to attention, then remembered to breathe. “Nothing,” she said, rather too brightly. “Nothing at all.”

  But what would he do? How would he react if she marched up to him, grabbed him by the back of his head, and dragged his mouth down to hers?

  He’d tell her she was raving mad, that’s what he’d do. To say nothing of the four other Pall Mall players not twenty yards away.

  But what if no one else were here? What if the rest of the world fell away, and there was no one to witness her insanity? Would she do it?

  And would he kiss her back?

  “Billie? Billie?”

  She turned, dazed, toward the sound of his voice.

  “Billie, what is wrong with you?”

  She blinked, bringing his face into focus. He looked concerned. She almost laughed. He ought to be concerned.

  “Billie . . .”

  “I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Really. It’s . . . ah . . . are you warm?” She fanned herself with her hand. “I’m very warm.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t the least bit warm.

  “I think it’s my turn!” she blurted.

  She had no idea if it was her turn.

  “No,” George said, “Andrew’s still going. I daresay Lady Alexandra is in for trouble.”

  “Is she,” she murmured, her thoughts still on her imaginary kiss.

  “Damn it, Billie, now I know something is wrong.” He scowled. “I thought you wanted to crush her.”

  “I do,” she said, slowly regaining possession of her brain. Dear heavens, she could not let herself get so discomfited. George wasn’t stupid. If she descended into idiocy every time he looked at her he was going to realize that something was amiss. And if he realized that she might possibly be just a little bit infatuated . . .

  No. He could never know.

  “Your turn, Billie!” Andrew bellowed.

  “Right,” she said. “Right, right, right.” She looked over at George without actually looking at him. “Excuse me.” She hurried over to her ball, gave the field a cursory examination, and whacked it toward the next wicket.

  “I do believe you’ve overshot,” Lady Alexandra said, sidling up next to her.

  Billie forced a smile, trying to look enigmatic.

  “Watch out!” someone yelled.

  She jumped back just before the blue ball slammed into her toes. Lady Alexandra was equally nimble, and they both watched as Mr. Berbrooke’s ball settled a few feet away from the wicket.

  “I suppose it would serve us both right if that idiot won the game,” Lady Alexandra said.

  Billie stared at her in surprise. It was one thing to trade insults with her; she could certainly give as good as she got. But to disparage Mr. Berbrooke, who was quite possibly the most genial man she’d ever met . . .

  Honestly, the woman was a monster.

  Billie glanced back up the course. The purple ball was still firmly fixed behind the first wicket. “It’s almost your turn,” she said sweetly.

  Lady Alexandra narrowed her eyes and made a surprisingly unpleasant sound before stalking off.

  “What did you say to her?” George asked a moment later. He’d just taken his turn and was presently well-situated to take the second wicket.

  “She is a terrible person,” Billie muttered.

  “Not what I asked,” George said, glancing back at the lady in question, “but probably answer enough.”

  “She—Oh, never mind.” Billie gave her head a shake. “She’s not worth my breath.”

  “Certainly not,” George agreed.

  Billie’s heart did a flip at the compliment, and she turned. “George, have you—” She frowned, cocking her head to the side. “Is that Felix coming toward us?”

  George shaded his eyes as he peered in the direction she was pointing. “I believe so, yes.”

  “He’s moving very quickly. I hope nothing is amiss.”

  They watched as Felix approached Andrew, who was closer than they were to the house. They spoke for a few moments and then Andrew took off at a full sprint.

  “Something’s wrong,” George said. Mallet still in hand, he started walking toward Felix, picking up speed with every step.

  Billie hurried after him as best she could, half-limping half-hopping, the rest of their Pall Mall equipment forgotten on the lawn. Frustrated with her lack of speed, she hiked up her skirts and just ran, pain be damned. She caught up with George moments after he reached Felix.

  “There was a messenger,” Felix was saying.

  George’s eyes searched his face. “Edward?”

  Billie’s hand flew to her mouth. Not Edward. Oh, please, not Edward.

  Felix nodded grimly. “He’s gone missing.”

  Chapter 16

  George was already halfway to Aubrey Hall before he realized that Billie was scurrying alongside him, forced to run just to keep up with his long, swift stride.

  Running. She was running.

  On her ankle.

  He stopped short. “What are you—”

  But then it occurred to him, without even pausing for thought. This was Billie. Of course she was going to run on her injured ankle. She was headstrong. She was reckless.

  She cared.

  He did not say another word. He simply scooped her into his arms and continued on toward the house, his pace only fractionally slower than before.

  “You didn’t have to carry me,” she said.

  He heard the pain in her voice. “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her words melting into his shirt.

  But he couldn’t respond. He was beyond words now, at least beyond meaningless platitudes. He didn’t need to say anything for Billie to know that he’d heard her. She would understand. She would know that his head was somewhere else, somewhere far beyond please and you’re welcome.

  “They’re in the private drawing room,” Felix said when they reached the house. George could only assume that they meant the rest of his family. And maybe the Bridgertons, as well.

  They were family, too, he realized. They’d always been family.

  When he reached the drawing room, the sight that awaited him was one to make any grown man blanch. His mother was on the sofa, sobbing in Lady Bridgerton’s arms. Andrew looked to be in shock. And his father . . .

  His father was crying.

  Lord Manston stood removed from the rest of the group, not quite facing them but not turned entirely away. His arms were sticks at his sides, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, as if that might possibly halt the slow trickle of tears down his cheeks. As if maybe, if he could not see the world around him, then none of this would have happened.

  George had never seen his fathe
r cry. He had not imagined it even possible. He tried not to stare, but the sight was so stunning, so soul-altering, that he could not quite look away.

  His father was The Earl of Manston, solid and stern. Since George was a child he had led the Rokesby family with a firm but fair hand. He was a pillar; he was strength. He was unquestionably in charge. He treated his children with scrupulous fairness, which occasionally meant that no one was satisfied with his judgments, but he was always obeyed.

  In his father George saw what it meant to lead a family. And in his father’s tears, he saw his own future.

  Soon, it would be time for George to lead.

  “Dear heavens,” Lady Bridgerton exclaimed, finally noticing them in the doorway. “What happened to Billie?”

  George just stared for a moment. He’d forgotten he was holding her. “Here,” he said, setting Billie down near her mother. He looked around the room. He didn’t know to whom he should apply for information. Where was the messenger? Was he even still here?

  “George,” he heard Felix say. He looked up and saw his friend holding out a sheet of paper. Wordlessly, he took it.

  To the Earl of Manston,

  I regret to inform you that Captain the Hon. Edward Rokesby went missing on 22 March 1779 in Connecticut Colony. We are making every effort to recover him safely.

  God bless and Godspeed,

  Brigadier General Geo. Garth

  “Missing,” George said, looking helplessly around the room. “What does that even mean?”

  No one had an answer.

  George stared down at the paper in his hands, his eyes taking in every last loop of the script. The message was spectacular in its lack of information. Why was Edward in Connecticut Colony? The last they’d heard he was in New York Town, boarded at a loyalist tavern while keeping an eye on General Washington’s troops across the Hudson River.

  “If he’s missing . . .” he said, thinking out loud. “They have to know.”

  “Know what?” Billie asked. She was looking up at him from her position on the sofa, probably the only person close enough to hear his words.

  He shook his head, still trying to make sense of it. From the (admittedly sparse) wording of the missive, it seemed that the army was certain that Edward was still alive. Which meant that the general had at least some idea where he was.

  If that were the case, why didn’t he just say so?

  George raked his fingers through his hair, the ball of his hand rubbing hard against his forehead. “How can a decorated soldier go missing?” he asked, turning back to the rest of the room. “Was he kidnapped? Is that what they are trying to tell us?”

  “I’m not sure they know,” Felix said quietly.

  “Oh, they bloody well know,” George nearly spat. “They just don’t want—”

  But Andrew cut him off. “It’s not like here,” he said, his voice hollow and dull.

  George shot him an irritated glance. “I know, but what—”

  “It’s not like here,” Andrew said again, this time with rising anger. “The villages are far apart. The farms don’t even border each other. There are giant swaths of land that nobody owns.”

  Everyone stared at him.

  “And there are savages,” Andrew said.

  George stepped closer, trying to block his mother’s view of Andrew’s tortured face. “This is not the time,” he said in a harsh whisper. His brother might be in shock, but so were they all. It was time for Andrew to grow up and bloody well take hold of his emotions before he shattered what little composure remained in the room.

  But Andrew’s tongue remained loose and indiscreet. “It would be easy to go missing there.”

  “You haven’t been there,” George snapped.

  “I’ve heard.”

  “You’ve heard.”

  “Stop,” someone said. “Stop it now.”

  The two men were now nearly nose to nose.

  “There are men on my ship who fought in the colonies,” Andrew bit off.

  “Oh, and that’s going to help us recover Edward,” George practically spat.

  “I know more about it than you do.”

  George nearly flinched. He hated this. He hated this so much. The impotence. The worthlessness. He’d been outside playing bloody Pall Mall and his brother was missing in some godforsaken colonial wilderness.

  “I am still your older brother,” he hissed, “and I will be head of this family—”

  “Well, you’re not now.”

  He might as well have been. George cast a fleeting glance at his father, who had not said a word.

  “Oh, that was subtle,” Andrew jeered.

  “Shut up. Just shut—”

  “Stop!” Hands came between them and forcibly pushed them apart, and when George finally looked down he realized they belonged to Billie.

  “This isn’t helping,” she said, practically shoving Andrew into a chair.

  George blinked, trying to regain his equilibrium. He didn’t know why he was yelling at Andrew. He looked at Billie, still standing between them like a tiny warrior. “You shouldn’t be on that foot,” he said.

  Her mouth fell open. “That’s what you want to say?”

  “You’ve probably reinjured it.”

  She stared at him. George knew he sounded a fool, but her ankle was the one bloody thing he actually could do something about.

  “You should sit down,” she said softly.

  He shook his head. He didn’t want to sit down. He wanted to act, to do something, anything that might bring his brother safely home. But he was tied here, he’d always been tied here, to this land, to these people.

  “I can go,” Andrew choked out.

  They all turned to look at him. He was still in the chair that Billie had forced him into. He looked terrible. Thunderstruck. Andrew looked, George had a feeling, rather like he himself felt.

  But with one massive difference. Andrew at least believed that he could help.

  “Go where?” someone finally asked.

  “To the colonies.” Andrew looked up, the bleak desperation in his face slowly giving way to hard determination. “I will ask to be assigned to a different ship. There’s probably one leaving in the next month.”

  “No,” Lady Manston cried. She sounded like a wounded animal. She sounded like nothing George had ever heard.

  Andrew rose to his feet. “Mother—”

  “No,” she said again, this time with fortitude as she pulled herself from Lady Bridgerton’s comforting arms. “I will not permit it. I won’t lose another son.”

  Andrew stood stiffly, looking more like a soldier than George had ever seen him. “It’s no more dangerous than serving where I do now.”

  George closed his eyes. Wrong thing to say, Andrew.

  “You can’t,” Lady Manston said, struggling to her feet. “You can’t.”

  Her voice began to break again, and George silently cursed Andrew for his lack of tact. He stepped forward. “Mother . . .”

  “He can’t,” she choked out, her tortured eyes coming to rest on George’s face. “You must tell him . . . he can’t.”

  George pulled his mother into his arms, meeting Andrew’s eyes over her head before murmuring, “We can discuss it later.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  “I think you should lie down.”

  “We should go home,” Lord Manston said.

  They all turned. It was the first he had spoken since the terrible message had been delivered.

  “We need to be at home,” he said.

  It was Billie who sprang into action. “Of course,” she said, going quickly to his side. “You will be more comfortable there.” She looked over at George. “The last thing you need is this house party.”

  George nearly groaned. He’d forgot all about the other guests. The thought of having to actually converse with any of them was excruciating. There would be questions, and condolences, never mind that none of them knew the first thing about Edward.
<
br />   God, it was all so insignificant. This. The party. Everything but the people in this room.

  He looked at Billie. She was still watching him, concern evident in every line of her face. “Has anyone told Mary?” she asked.

  “I will do so now,” Felix said. “We will join you at Crake, if that suits. I’m sure she will wish to be with her family. We have no need to go back to Sussex immediately.”

  “What will we do?” Lady Manston said in a lost voice.

  George looked to his father. It was his right to decide.

  But the earl looked lost. He’d said they should go home; apparently that was all he could manage.

  George turned back to the rest of the room and took a breath. “We will take a moment,” he said firmly. “We will pause to collect ourselves and decide how best to proceed.”

  Andrew opened his mouth to speak, but George had had enough. With a hard stare, he added, “Time is of the essence, but we are too far removed from the military theater for one day to make a difference.”

  “He’s right,” Billie said.

  Several pairs of eyes turned to her in surprise, George’s included.

  “None of us is in a state to make a proper decision just now.” She turned to George. “Go home. Be with your family. I will call tomorrow to see how I may help.”

  “But what can you do?” Lady Bridgerton asked.

  Billie looked at her with quiet, steely grace. “Anything that is required.”

  George swallowed, surprised by the rush of emotion behind his eyes. His brother was missing; his father was shattered, and now he thought he might cry?

  He ought to tell her that they did not need help, that her offer was appreciated but unnecessary.

  That was the polite thing to do. It was what he would have said, to anyone else.

  But to Billie he said, “Thank you.”

  BILLIE DROVE HERSELF to Crake House the following day, taking a simple one-horse buggy. She wasn’t sure how her mother had managed it, but the house party had been cut short by several days, and everyone had either left or was planning to do so by the following morning.

  It had taken her a ridiculous amount of time to decide what to wear. Breeches were most certainly out. Despite what her mother thought, Billie did know how and when to dress appropriately, and she would never don her work clothes for a social call.