by Julia Quinn
But this was no ordinary social call. Bright colors would not do. But she could not wear black. Or lavender or gray or anything that even hinted of mourning. Edward was not dead, she told herself fiercely.
In the end she settled on a comfortable day dress she’d got the year before. Her mother had picked out the pattern—a springlike floral with greens and pinks and oranges set against cream muslin—but Billie had loved it from the first. It made her think of a garden on a cloudy day, which somehow seemed exactly right for calling upon the Rokesbys.
Crake was quiet when she arrived. It felt wrong. It was an enormous house; like Aubrey Hall, one could theoretically go days without seeing another member of the family. But even so, it always seemed vibrant, alive. Some Rokesby or another was always about, ever happy, ever busy.
Crake House was huge, but it was a home.
Right now, however, it felt subdued. Even the servants, who normally worked with diligence and discretion, were quieter than usual. No one smiled, no one spoke.
It was almost heartbreaking.
Billie was directed to the sitting room, but before she exited the hall George appeared, obviously having been alerted to her arrival.
“Billie,” he said, bowing his head in greeting. “It is good to see you.”
Her first impulse was to ask if there had been any news, but of course there would not be. There would be no swift rider, down from London with a report. Edward was far too far away. It would likely be months before they learned his fate.
“How is your mother?” she asked.
He smiled sadly. “As well as can be expected.”
Billie nodded, following him into the sitting room. “And your father?”
George paused, but he did not turn to face her. “He sits in his study and stares out the window.”
Billie swallowed, her heart breaking at George’s bleak posture. She did not need to see his face to know his pain. He loved Edward, just as she did. Just as they all did.
“He is useless,” George said.
Billie’s lips parted in surprise at such harsh words, but then she realized that George had not meant them as scorn.
“He is incapacitated,” he clarified. “The grief . . .”
“I don’t think any of us knows how we will react to a crisis until we are forced into one.”
He turned, one corner of his mouth tipping up. “When did you grow so wise?”
“It isn’t wisdom to repeat platitudes.”
“It is wisdom to know which ones bear repeating.”
To her great surprise, Billie felt a bubble of humor rising within. “You are determined to compliment me.”
“It’s the only bloody bright spot in the day,” George muttered.
It was the sort of comment that would normally make her heart leap, but like the rest of them, she was too blunted by pain and worry. Edward was missing, and George was hurting—
She took a breath. This wasn’t about George. George was fine. He was here, right in front of her, healthy and hale.
No, this wasn’t about George.
It couldn’t be about George.
Except . . . lately it seemed as if everything was about George. She thought about him constantly, and heaven above, was it just the day before that they’d been playing Pall Mall and she’d practically kissed him?
She’d wanted to. Dear God, she’d wanted to, and if he’d shown any interest—and if there hadn’t been four other people milling about with Pall Mall mallets—she’d have done it. She’d never kissed anyone before, but when had that ever stopped her? She’d jumped her first fence when she was six. She’d never so much as jumped a shrub before that, but she’d taken one look at that five-foot fence and known that she had to take it. So she’d just hopped on her mare, and she’d done it. Because she’d wanted to.
And also because Edward had dared her. But she wouldn’t have tried it if she hadn’t thought she could do it.
And known she would love it.
She’d known even then that she wasn’t like other girls. She didn’t want to play the pianoforte or pick at her sewing. She wanted to be outside, to fly through the air on the back of her horse, sunlight dancing across her skin as her heart skipped and raced with the wind.
She wanted to soar.
She still did.
If she kissed George . . . if he kissed her . . . Would it feel the same way?
She trailed her fingers along the back of the sofa, trying to fill the moment with idle movement. But then she made the mistake of looking up . . .
He was staring at her, his eyes fierce and curious and something else, too, something she could not precisely name.
But whatever it was . . . she felt it. Her heart leapt, and her breath quickened, and she realized it was just like when she raced on her mare. Breathless and giddy and determined and wild . . . It was all there within her, bursting to get free.
All because he’d looked at her.
Dear God, if he actually kissed her she might fall apart.
She tapped nervous fingers on the edge of the sofa, then gestured stupidly to a chair. “I should sit.”
“If you wish.”
But her feet wouldn’t move. “I seem not to know what to do with myself,” she admitted.
“Join the club,” he muttered.
“Oh, George . . .”
“Do you want a drink?” he asked suddenly.
“Now?” It was barely past eleven.
His shrug bordered on insolence. Billie could only wonder at how much he’d already had.
But he didn’t head for the brandy decanter. Instead he stood by the window, staring out over the garden. It had started to rain; a light misty drizzle that made the air thick and gray.
She waited for several moments, but he did not turn around. His hands were clasped behind his back—the classic stance of a gentleman. But it wasn’t quite right. There was a certain harshness to his pose, a tension in his shoulders that she wasn’t used to seeing there.
He was brittle. Bleak.
“What will you do?” she finally forced herself to ask. She did not think she could bear the silence for another moment.
His posture changed, a slight movement in his neck maybe, and then he turned his head to the side. But not far enough to actually look at her. Instead she was treated to his profile as he said, “Go to London, I suppose.”
“To London?” she echoed.
He snorted. “There’s not much else I can do.”
“You don’t want to go to the Colonies to look for him?”
“Of course I want to go to the Colonies,” he snapped, whirling around to face her. “But that’s not what I do.”
Billie’s lips parted, but the only sound was her pulse, racing wildly through her veins. His outburst was unexpected. Unprecedented.
She had seen George lose his temper before. She could hardly have grown up alongside his younger brothers and not have done so. But she had never seen this.
There was no missing the contempt in his voice, nor the fact that it was directed entirely within.
“George,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable, “if you want to—”
He stepped forward, his eyes hard and furious. “Don’t tell me I can do what I want because if you believe that, you’re just as naïve as the rest of them.”
“I wasn’t going to—” But it was just as well that he cut her off with a mocking snort, because that was exactly what she had been about to say, and it was only now that she realized how ludicrous it would have been. He couldn’t take off and go to the Colonies; they all knew that.
He would never be as free as his brothers. The order of their birth had ensured that. George would inherit the title, the house, the land. Most of the money. But with privilege came responsibility. He was tied to this place. It was in his blood, the same way Aubrey Hall was in hers.
She wanted to ask him if he minded. If given the chance, would he trade places with Andrew or Edward?
“What will you do in London?” she said instead. Because she could never have asked him what she really wanted to know. Not while Edward’s fate was uncertain.
He shrugged, although not so much with his shoulders as his head and eyes. “Speak to people. Make inquiries.” He laughed bitterly. “I’m very good at speaking to people and making inquiries.”
“You know how to get things done,” she agreed.
“I know how to get other people to do things,” he said derisively.
She pressed her lips together before she could utter something inane like, “That’s an important skill.” But it was an important skill, even if she’d never demonstrated it herself. She never left anything to her father’s steward; he was surely the most overpaid clerk in the land. She acted first and thought later; she always had. And she could not bear to let someone else perform a task when she could do it better herself.
And she could almost always do it better herself.
“I need a drink,” George suddenly muttered. Billie didn’t dare point out again that it was still rather early for spirits.
He walked over to the side table and poured himself a brandy from the decanter. He took a sip. A long one. “Do you want one?”
Billie shook her head.
“Surprising,” George muttered.
There was something hard in his voice. Something almost nasty. She felt her spine grow rigid. “I beg your pardon?”
But George only laughed, his brows arching into a mocking salute. “Oh, come now, Billie. You live to shock. I can hardly believe you wouldn’t take a brandy when offered.”
She grit her teeth, reminding herself that George was not himself at the moment. “It’s not even noon.”
He shrugged and kicked back the rest of his brandy.
“You shouldn’t be drinking.”
“You shouldn’t be telling me what to do.”
She held herself still, stiff even, allowing the long pause to express her disapproval. Finally, because she needed to be as brittle as he, she gave him a cool stare, and said, “Lady Alexandra sends her regards.”
He gave her a look of disbelief.
“She leaves today.”
“How kind of you to convey her salutations.”
She felt a cutting retort rising through her throat, but at the last minute she blurted, “No! This is ridiculous. I’m not going to stand here and speak in rhymes. I came to help.”
“You can’t help,” he bit off.
“Certainly not when you’re like this,” she retorted.
He slammed his glass down and stalked toward her. “What did you just say?” he demanded. His eyes were wild and furious, and she almost took a step back.
“How much have you had to drink?”
“I’m not drunk,” he said in a dangerous voice. “This . . . that,” he corrected, waving an arm back toward the glass he’d left on the sideboard, “was my first and only drink of the day.”
Billie had a feeling she was supposed to apologize, but she couldn’t make herself do it.
“I’d like to be drunk,” he said, moving closer with the silent grace of a large cat.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” He laughed stridently. “Drunk, I might not remember that my brother is lost in some godforsaken wilderness where the locals are not predisposed to favor anyone in a red coat.”
“George,” she tried to say, but he would not be deterred.
“Drunk,” he said again, the word punching harshly through the air, “I might not have noticed that my mother has spent the entire morning weeping in her bed. But best of all”—his hands came down heavily on a side table, and he looked at her with fury-laden despair—“if I were drunk, I might somehow forget that I am at the mercy of the rest of the goddamn world. If Edward is found—”
“When he’s found,” Billie cut in fiercely.
“Either way, it won’t be because of me.”
“What do you want to do?” she asked quietly. Because she had a feeling he didn’t know. He said he wanted to go to the Colonies, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. She didn’t think he’d even allowed himself to think about what he wanted to do. He was so stuck on his restrictions that he could not think clearly about what was truly in his heart.
“What do I want to do?” he echoed. He looked . . . not surprised, exactly, but maybe a little dumbfounded. “I want . . . I want . . .” He blinked, then brought his eyes to hers. “I want you.”
The breath left her body.
“I want you,” he repeated, and it was as if the entire room shifted. The dazed look left his eyes, replaced by something fierce.
Predatory.
Billie could not speak. She could only watch as he came ever closer, the air between them heating to a simmering pitch.
“You don’t want to do this,” she said.
“Oh, I do. I really do.”
But he didn’t. She knew that he didn’t, and she could feel her heart breaking because she did. She wanted him to kiss her like she was the only woman he could ever dream of kissing, like he’d die if he didn’t touch his lips to hers.
She wanted him to kiss her and mean it.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said, edging back a step.
“Is that what you think?” he murmured.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Just enough to make this perfect.”
She blinked. She didn’t have a clue what that meant.
“Come now, Billie,” he mocked. “Why so hesitant? That’s not like you.”
“This isn’t like you,” she countered.
“You have no idea.” He came even closer, his eyes glittering with something she was terrified to define. He reached out and touched her arm, just one finger to her flesh, but it was enough to make her tremble. “When have you ever backed down from a dare?”
Her stomach was flipping and her heart was pounding, but still her shoulders fell into a stiff, straight line. “Never,” she declared, staring him straight in the eye.
He smiled, and his gaze grew hot. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.
“I’m not—”
“You will be,” he growled, and before she could utter another word, his mouth captured hers in a searing kiss.
Chapter 17
He was kissing her.
It was the very definition of madness.
He was kissing Billie Bridgerton, the last woman in the world he should ever dream of wanting, but by God, when she’d glared up at him, and her chin had trembled and jutted out, all he could see were her lips and all he could smell was her scent.
And all he could feel was the heat of her skin beneath his fingers, and he wanted more. More of that.
More of her.
His other hand came around her with stunning speed, and he wasn’t thinking, he couldn’t be thinking. He just pulled her up against him, hard, and then he was kissing her.
He wanted to devour her.
He wanted to own her.
He wanted to fold her into his arms and hold her tight and kiss her until she finally saw sense, until she stopped doing crazy things and stopped taking crazy risks, and started behaving the way a woman ought while still being her and—
He couldn’t think. His thoughts were jumbled, torn to bits by the sheer heat of the moment.
More . . . his mind was begging. More was the only thing that made any sense to him. More of this. More of Billie.
He captured her face in his hands, holding her still. But she wasn’t still. Her lips were moving beneath his, kissing him back with the sort of fervor that was exactly Billie. She rode hard and she played hard and by God she kissed the same way, like he was her triumph and she was going to glory in it.
It was all so mad, so completely wrong and yet so deliciously perfect. It was every sensation in the world, wrapped into one woman, and he could not get enough. In that moment, in that room, he could never get enough.
His palm moved
to her shoulder, then to her back, pulling her closer until his hips pressed hard against her belly. She was small, and she was strong, but she curved in all the best places.
George was no monk. He had kissed women before, women who knew how to kiss him back. But he had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted Billie. He had never wanted anything as much as this kiss.
This kiss . . . and all that could come after.
“Billie,” he groaned. “Billie.”
She made a sound. It might have been his name. And somehow that was what it took.
Good God. Reason came slamming back into him. His brain woke and his sanity returned, and he stumbled back, the electricity that had sparked so hot between them now jolting him away.
What the hell had just happened?
He breathed. No, he tried to breathe. It was an entirely different thing.
She had asked him what he wanted.
And he’d answered. He wanted her. He hadn’t even had to think about it.
Clearly, he hadn’t thought about it, because if he had, he wouldn’t have done it.
He raked a hand through his hair. Then another. Then he just gave up and squeezed both, pulling on his scalp until he let out a growl of pain.
“You kissed me,” she said, and he had just enough presence of mind not to say that she’d kissed him back. Because he’d started it. He had started it, and they both knew that she never would have done so.
He shook his head, tiny unthinking movements that did nothing to clear his mind. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly. “That wasn’t—I mean—”
He swore. This was apparently the extent of his coherency.
“You kissed me,” she said again, and this time she sounded suspicious. “Why did—”
“I don’t know,” he bit off. He swore again, raking his hand through his hair as he turned away from her. Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody—
He swallowed. “That was a mistake,” he said.
“What?”
It was just one word. Not nearly enough for him to decipher her tone. Which was probably for the best. He turned around, forcing himself to look at her while at the same time not allowing himself to see.
He didn’t want to see her reaction. He didn’t want to know what she thought of him. “That was a mistake,” he said, because it was what he had to say. “Do you understand me?”