by Julia Quinn
But she hadn’t wanted to win her point because her parents were ashamed of her.
With a sigh, she forced her attention back to the cotillion she was apparently dancing with Mr. Coventry. She couldn’t recall doing so, but she seemed to have taken the correct steps and not trod on any toes. Luckily she had not had to make too much conversation; it was the sort of dance that separated a lady from her partner as often as it brought them together.
“Lady Weatherby,” Mr. Coventry said when he was near enough to speak.
Billie looked up with sharp surprise; she was quite certain Mr. Coventry knew her name. “I beg your pardon?”
They stepped apart, and then back together. “The woman Lord Kennard is dancing with,” Mr. Coventry said. “Weatherby’s widow.”
“She’s a widow?”
“Recently so,” Mr. Coventry confirmed. “Just out of blacks.”
Billie clenched her teeth, trying to keep her expression pleasant. The beautiful widow was very young, probably not more than five years Billie’s senior. She was exquisitely dressed in what Billie now knew was the latest style, and her complexion was that perfect alabaster Billie could never achieve without arsenic cream.
If the sun had ever touched Lady Weatherby’s perfect cheeks, Billie would eat her hat.
“She’ll need to remarry,” Mr. Coventry said. “Didn’t give old Weatherby an heir, so she’s living off the largesse of the new Lord Weatherby. Or more to the point . . .”
Again, the cotillion pulled them apart, and Billie nearly screamed with frustration. Why did people think it was a good idea to conduct important conversations while dancing? Did no one care about the timely impartation of information?
She stepped forward, back into Mr. Coventry’s conversational sphere, and said, “More to the point . . . ?”
He smiled knowingly. “She must rely on the good graces of the new Lord Weatherby’s wife.”
“I am sure she will enjoy Lord Kennard’s company,” Billie said diplomatically. It wasn’t going to fool Mr. Coventry; he knew perfectly well that Billie was jealous to the teeth. But she had to at least try to put on a show of indifference.
“I shouldn’t worry,” Mr. Coventry said.
“Worry?”
Once again, Billie had to wait for her answer. She stepped daintily around another lady, all the while cursing the cotillion. Wasn’t there a new dance on the Continent that kept a lady and gentleman together for the entire song? It was being decried as scandalous, but honestly, could no one else see how very sensible it was?
“Kennard was not pleased to relinquish you to my care,” Mr. Coventry said when he could. “If he has asked Lady Weatherby to dance, it is nothing more than tit for tat.”
But that was not George’s way. His humor might be sly, but his behavior never was. He would not ask one lady to dance for no purpose other than to make another jealous. He might have felt some pique, he might be furious with Billie for embarrassing him in front of his friends, but if he was dancing with Lady Weatherby, it was because he wanted to.
Billie felt suddenly sick. She shouldn’t have tried to manipulate the situation earlier by saucily saying that she ought to dance with Mr. Coventry. But she had been so frustrated. The evening had all been going so well. When she had first seen George, resplendent in his evening clothes, she’d almost stopped breathing. She’d tried to tell herself that he was the same man she knew in Kent, wearing the same coat and shoes, but here in London, among the people who ran the country and quite possibly the world, he looked different.
He belonged.
There was an air of gravity around him, of quiet confidence and utter assurance of his place. He had this entire life that she knew nothing about, one with parties and balls and meetings at White’s. Eventually he would take his seat in parliament, and she would still be the reckless Billie Bridgerton. Except that in a few years reckless would give way to eccentric. And after that it was all downhill to crazy.
No, she thought firmly. That was not what was going to happen. George liked her. He might even love her a little. She’d seen it in his eyes, and she’d felt it in his kiss. Lady Weatherby could never—
Billie’s eyes widened. Where was Lady Weatherby?
And more to the point, where was George?
FIVE HOURS LATER George finally tiptoed through the front door of Manston House, tired, frustrated, and above all, ready to throttle Lord Arbuthnot.
When the general had asked him to deliver a message, George had thought—How simple this will be. He was already planning to attend the Wintour Ball, and Robert Tallywhite was precisely the sort of person with whom he might have an idle conversation. All in all, it would be ten minutes from his day, and he would be able to lay his head down that night knowing that he had done something for King and Country.
He had not anticipated that his evening would involve following Sally Weatherby to The Swan With No Neck, a somewhat unsavory pub halfway across town. It was there that he had finally found Robert Tallywhite, who appeared to be amusing himself by tossing darts at a tricorn hat pinned rather gruesomely to a wall.
Blindfolded.
George had delivered his message, the contents of which had not seemed to surprise Tallywhite in the least, but when he had attempted to take his leave, he had been compelled to stay for a pint of ale. And by compelled he actually meant compelled, as in shoved into a chair by two exceedingly large men, one of whom sported the most vivid black eye George had ever seen.
Such a bruise indicated a remarkable tolerance for pain, and George feared that this might correspond with a remarkable ability to deliver pain. So when old Violet Eye told him to sit down and drink up, George did as he was told.
He then spent the next two hours having a breathtakingly convoluted and inane conversation with Tallywhite and his henchmen. (Sally had disappeared immediately upon delivering him to the unfortunate neckless Swan.) They discussed the weather and the rules of cricket and relative merits of Trinity College versus Trinity Hall at Cambridge. They had then moved on to the health benefits of salt water, the difficulty of obtaining proper ice in summer, and whether the high cost of pineapples would affect the popularity of oranges and lemons.
By one in the morning, George suspected that Robert Tallywhite was not entirely sane, and by two he was certain of it. At three, he finally managed to take his leave, but not before “accidentally” taking an elbow to the ribs from one of Tallywhite’s large friends. There was also a scrape on his left cheekbone, the provenance of which George could not quite recall.
Worst of all, he thought as he trudged up the stairs at Manston House, he had abandoned Billie. He knew this night had been important to her. Hell, it had been important to him. God only knew what she thought of his behavior.
“George.”
He stumbled in surprise as he entered his room. Billie was standing dead center in her dressing gown.
Her dressing gown.
It was only loosely belted, and he could see the fine peach silk of her nightdress peeking out from underneath. It looked very thin, almost sheer. A man could run his hands over such silk and feel the heat of skin burning through. A man might think he had the right to do so, with her standing a mere six feet from his bed.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
Her lips tightened at the corners. She was angry. In fact, he might go so far as to say she was breathtakingly furious. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.
“That much I’d surmised,” he said, tugging at his cravat. If it bothered her that he was disrobing in front of her, that was her own problem, he decided. She was the one who had taken up residence in his bedroom.
“What happened to you?” she demanded. “One moment you were foisting me off on poor Mr. Coventry—”
“I wouldn’t pity him too much,” George griped. “He did get my dance.”
“You gave him your dance.”
George kept working at his neckcloth, finally freeing it with one fina
l yank. “I did not see that I had much choice,” he said, tossing the now limp strip of linen on a chair.
“What do you mean by that?”
He paused, glad that he happened to be facing away from her. He had been thinking of Lord Arbuthnot, but of course Billie did not know—and could not know—of their dealings. “I could hardly do otherwise,” he said, his eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall, “given that you’d asked him to dance.”
“I did not precisely ask him.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Splitting hairs, Billie.”
“Very well,” she said, crossing her arms, “but I don’t see that I had much choice, either. The music was starting and you were just standing there.”
There was nothing to be gained by pointing out that he had been about to lead her to the dance floor when Lord Arbuthnot had arrived, so he held his tongue. They stared at each other for a long, heavy moment.
“You should not be here,” George finally said. He sat down to pull off his boots.
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
He watched her intently, fiercely. What did she mean by that?
“I was worried about you,” she said.
“I can take care of myself.”
“So can I,” she countered.
He nodded his touché, then turned his attention to his cuffs, pushing back the fine Belgian lace so that his fingers could work the buttons through their loops.
“What happened tonight?” he heard her say.
He closed his eyes, well aware that she could not see his expression. It was the only reason he allowed himself a weary sigh. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“The beginning will do.”
He looked over at her, unable to stop the wry smile that flitted across his lips. How very like her that statement was. But he just shook his head and said in a tired voice, “Not tonight.”
She crossed her arms.
“For the love of God, Billie, I’m exhausted.”
“I don’t care.”
That took him off guard, and for a moment he could only stare, blinking like some idiot owl.
“Where were you?” she demanded.
And because the truth was always best when possible, he told her, “At a pub.”
Her head jerked back with surprise, but her voice was cool when she said, “You smell like it.”
That earned her a grim chuckle. “I do, don’t I?”
“Why were you at a pub? What could you possibly have been doing that was more important than—” She stopped herself with a horrified gasp, clasping her hand to her mouth.
He could not answer her, so he said nothing. There was nothing in the world that was more important than she was. But there were things more important than dancing with her, no matter how much he wished it were otherwise.
His brother was missing. Maybe tonight’s absurd errand had nothing to do with Edward. Hell, George was certain it did not. How could it? Edward was lost in the wilds of Connecticut, and he was here in London, reciting nursery rhymes with a madman.
But he had been asked by his government to carry out this task, and more importantly, he had given his word that it would be done.
George would feel no compunction in refusing Lord Arbuthnot should he come with another fool’s errand. He had not the temperament to follow orders blindly. But he had agreed this time, and he had followed through.
The silence in the room grew thick, and then Billie, who had turned away from him, hugging her arms to her body, said in a very small voice, “I should go to bed.”
“Are you crying?” he asked, coming quickly to his feet.
“No,” came her too-quick reply.
He could not bear it. He took a step forward without even realizing it. “Don’t cry,” he said.
“I’m not crying!” she choked out.
“No,” he said gently. “Of course you’re not.”
She dragged the back of her hand inelegantly across her nose. “I don’t cry,” she protested, “and I certainly don’t cry because of you.”
“Billie,” he said, and before he knew it, she was in his arms. He held her against his heart, and he stroked her back while her tears dropped one by one from her eyes.
She cried delicately, which seemed somehow unexpected. Billie had never done anything by half measure, and if she were going to cry, he would have thought she’d have done so with great big sobs.
And that was when he realized—she had been speaking true. She didn’t cry. He had known her for twenty-three years, and he had never seen her shed a tear. Even when she’d hurt her ankle and had had to climb down that ladder on her own, she had not cried. For a moment she’d looked as if she might, but then she had steeled her shoulders, and swallowed her pain, and got on with it.
But she was crying now.
He had made her cry.
“I am so sorry,” he murmured into her hair. He didn’t know what he could have done differently, but that didn’t seem to matter. She was crying, and every sniffle held the sound of his own heart breaking.
“Please don’t cry,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “It will be all right. I promise, everything will be all right.”
He felt her nod against his chest, a tiny little movement, but one that somehow was enough to tell him that she had turned a corner. “You see,” he said, touching her chin and smiling when she finally raised her eyes to his, “I told you, it’s all right.”
She took a shaky breath. “I was worried about you.”
“You were worried?” He hadn’t meant to sound pleased, but he couldn’t help it.
“And angry,” she continued.
“I know.”
“You left,” she said baldly.
“I know.” He wasn’t going to make excuses. She deserved better.
“Why?” she asked him. And when he did not reply she stepped out of his embrace and said it again. “Why did you leave?”
“I can’t tell you,” he said regretfully.
“Were you with her?”
He did not pretend to misunderstand. “Only briefly.”
There was but one three-pronged candelabra in the room, but there was light enough for George to see the pain flash across Billie’s face. She swallowed, the motion trembling through her throat.
But the way she was standing, with her arms wrapped protectively around her waist . . . She might as well have donned a suit of armor.
“I will not lie to you,” he said quietly. “I may not be able to answer your questions, but I will tell you no falsehoods.” He stepped forward, his eyes boring into hers as he made his vow. “Do you understand? I will never lie to you.”
She nodded, and he saw something change in her face. Her eyes grew softer, more concerned. “You’re hurt,” she said.
“Not very much.”
“But still . . .” She reached toward his face, her hand stopping an inch short of its destination. “Did someone hit you?”
He shook his head. He’d probably acquired the abrasion when he’d been persuaded to have a pint with Tallywhite. “I don’t remember, honestly,” he told her. “It was a very strange evening.”
Her lips parted, and he could tell she wanted to question him further, but instead she said, very softly, “You never danced with me.”
His eyes met hers. “I regret that.”
“I’d wanted . . . I’d hoped . . .” Her lips pressed together as she swallowed, and he realized he was holding his breath, waiting for her to continue. “I don’t think . . .”
Whatever it was, she could not bring herself to say it, and he realized that he needed to be as brave as she was.
“It was agony,” he whispered.
She looked up, startled.
He took her hand and kissed her palm. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to tell Freddie Coventry to go ahead and dance with you? What it felt like to watch him take your hand and whisper in your ear like he had a right to be near you?”
<
br /> “Yes,” she said softly. “I know it exactly.”
And then, in that moment, it all became clear. There was only one thing he could do.
He did the only thing he could do.
He kissed her.
Chapter 23
Billie wasn’t stupid. She had known, when she decided to wait for George in his bedroom, that this might happen. But it wasn’t why she had done it. It wasn’t why she had crept so silently into his room, turning the door handle with practiced ease so it slipped through the locking mechanism without a click. It wasn’t why she’d sat in his chair, listening for sounds of his return, and it wasn’t why she had stared at his bed the whole time, achingly aware that this was where he slept, where his body lay at his most vulnerable, where, should he take a wife, they would make love.
No, she told herself, she had come to his room because she needed to know where he’d gone, why he’d left her at Wintour House. And she was worried. She knew she would not sleep until he was home.
But she’d known this might happen.
And now that it was happening . . .
She could finally admit that she’d wanted it all along.
He pulled her against him, and she made no show of surprise, no feigned outrage. They were too honest with each other; they always had been, and she threw her arms around him, kissing him back with every fevered breath.
It was like the first time he’d kissed her, but it was so much more. His hands were everywhere, and her dressing gown was thin, the material far more silky and fine than her day dress. When he cupped her bottom, she felt every finger, squeezing her with a desperation that made her heart sing.
He wasn’t treating her like a china doll. He was treating her like a woman, and she loved it.
His body pressed against hers, length to length, she felt his arousal, hard and insistent. She had done this to him. Her. Billie Bridgerton. She was driving George Rokesby wild with desire, and it was thrilling. And it made her bold.
She wanted to nibble at his ear, lick the salt from his skin. She wanted to listen to the way his breath quickened when she arched her body against his, and wanted to know the exact shape of his mouth, not by sight but by feel.