by Julia Quinn
“I am,” she said. “It was a heady thing. And it’s lovely to know that when I have to attend such functions that I can do it well and have a good time. But it’s not what I love. I would rather be home.”
“In breeches?” he teased.
“Only if I’m out in the fields.” She looked over at Lady Manston. “A future countess must behave with some propriety.”
Lady Manston chuckled at that. “You will be an excellent countess, although not too soon, I hope.”
“Not for years and years,” Billie said warmly.
“And you,” Lady Manston said, looking at George with watery eyes, “my son. You look happier than I have seen you in a very long time.”
“I am,” he said. “I only wish . . .”
“You can say his name,” his mother said softly.
“I know.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Edward is going to have to resign himself to missing the wedding, because I’m not waiting for him to get home.”
“No, I expect you ought not,” Lady Manston said, in just the right tone to make Billie blush ferociously.
“We will find him, though,” George said. He was still holding Billie’s hand, so he brought it to his lips and kissed his vow to her skin. “I promise.”
“I suppose we’re off to Kent, then,” his mother said. “We could even leave today if that is your wish.”
“Oh, that would be brilliant!” Billie exclaimed. “Do you think my mother will be surprised?”
“Not even a little bit.”
“What?” Billie’s mouth fell open. “But I hated him!”
“No, you didn’t,” George said.
She gave him a look. “You vexed me immensely.”
“You were like a boulder in my shoe.”
“Well, you—”
“Is this a competition?” Lady Manston asked in disbelief.
George looked at Billie, and when she smiled, it filled his soul. “No,” he said softly, drawing her into his arms, “we’re a team.”
Billie looked up at him with such love it nearly stole his breath. “Mother,” he said, never taking his eyes off his fiancée, “you might want to leave the room now.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m going to kiss her now.”
His mother let out a little shriek. “You can’t do that.”
“I’m fairly certain I can.”
“George, you’re not married yet!”
He studied Billie’s lips with the hot gaze of a connoisseur. “All the more reason to hurry things up,” he murmured.
“Billie,” his mother said firmly, transferring her attention to what she clearly considered to be the weaker link, “let’s go.”
But Billie just shook her head. “I’m sorry, but it’s as he says. We’re a team.”
And then, because she was Billie Bridgerton and she’d never minded taking charge, she sank her fingers into his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers.
And because he was George Rokesby, and he was going to love her for the rest of his days, he kissed her right back.
Epilogue
Several months later
Crake House
“The results are final,” Billie said, adding up the last column with a flourish. “I win.”
George glanced up at her from his position on their bed—a large, lovely, four-posted piece that Billie had redressed in green a few weeks into their marriage. He was reading a book; Billie hadn’t caught the title. He always read before they went to bed. She loved that about him. He was such a creature of habit. Another reason they were a perfect match.
“What is it this time?” he murmured.
She knew he was being indulgent, but she was so pleased by the numbers in front of her that she decided she didn’t care. “The barley harvest,” she said. “Aubrey Hall outdid Crake by a factor of . . . hold on one moment . . .” She chewed on her lower lip as she worked out another computation. “One point one!”
“Such a triumph.”
She pursed her lips, trying for an unamused expression.
“Did you factor in Aubrey’s greater barley acreage?”
“Of course!” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, George.”
His lips curved ever-so-slightly. “Might I remind you that you live at Crake?”
Billie felt herself smile in return.
“And that your name is Billie Rokesby now?”
“I’ll always be a Bridgerton at heart. Well,” she added, not liking George’s frown, “a Bridgerton and a Rokesby.”
He sighed. Just a little. “I don’t suppose you’ve any plans to turn your formidable skills to the running of Crake.”
Not for the first time Billie felt a rush of gratitude that George had not objected when she’d told him that she wanted to continue her work at Aubrey Hall. He was an uncommon man, her husband. He understood her. Sometimes she thought he might be the only person who did.
“My father still needs me,” she said. “At least until Edmund is ready to take over.”
George rose from the bed and walked over. “Your father’s steward would be thrilled to finally earn his wages.”
She glanced up. “I’m better than he is.”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
She batted him on the arm, then sighed when he leaned down and kissed her neck. “I should thank you,” she said.
His lips stilled, and she felt him smile against her skin. “For what?”
“Everything, really. But mostly for being you.”
“Then you’re most welcome, Lady Kennard.”
“I’ll try to cut back a little,” she said. George was right. She probably didn’t need to do quite so much at Aubrey Hall. And the way they were going, she’d be pregnant sooner rather than later. She was going to have to learn to let go of her life at Aubrey, or at least loosen her grip.
She pulled back so that she could look at his face. “You wouldn’t mind if I took a more active role here at Crake? With the lands, not just the house?”
“Of course not! We’d be lucky to—” He stopped, his words interrupted by a knock at the door. “Enter!”
The door opened to reveal a visibly agitated footman. “A messenger, my lord,” he said.
Billie blinked in surprise. “This time of night?”
The footman held out a folded missive. “It’s addressed to Lord Manston, but he’s—”
“In London,” George finished for him. “I’ll take it.”
“He said it was urgent,” the footman said. “Otherwise, I’d never give over your father’s private correspondence.”
“It’s all right, Thomas,” Billie said gently. “If it’s urgent, it’s more important that it is attended to quickly than it is to deliver it to Lord Manston.”
George slid a finger under the wax but did not break the seal. “Does the messenger wait for a reply?”
“No, sir. But I directed him belowstairs for a hot meal.”
“Very good, Thomas. That will be all.”
The footman left, and Billie fought the urge to go to her husband’s side to read over his shoulder. Whatever was in the missive, he’d tell her soon enough.
She watched as his eyes scanned left to right, quickly reading the words. About four lines down his lips parted and he looked up. Her heart stopped, and she knew what he was going to say even before the words left his lips.
“Edward’s alive . . .”
About the Author
JULIA QUINN started writing her first book one month after finishing college and has been tapping away at her keyboard ever since.
The #1 New York Times bestselling author of twenty-five novels for Avon Books, she is a graduate of Harvard and Radcliffe Colleges and is one of only sixteen authors ever to be inducted in the Romance Writers of America Hall of Fame. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family. Please visit her on the web at www.juliaquinn.com.
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By Julia Quinn
BECAUSE OF MISS BRIDGERTON
The Smythe-Smith Quartet
JUST LIKE HEAVEN • A NIGHT LIKE THIS
THE SUM OF ALL KISSES
THE SECRETS OF SIR RICHARD KENWORTHY
The Bridgerton Series
THE DUKE AND I • THE VISCOUNT WHO LOVED ME
AN OFFER FROM A GENTLEMAN
ROMANCING MISTER BRIDGERTON
TO SIR PHILLIP, WITH LOVE • WHEN HE WAS WICKED
IT’S IN HIS KISS • ON THE WAY TO THE WEDDING
THE BRIDGERTONS: HAPPILY EVER AFTER
The Bevelstoke Series
THE SECRET DIARIES OF MISS MIRANDA CHEEVER
WHAT HAPPENS IN LONDON
TEN THINGS I LOVE ABOUT YOU
The Two Dukes of Wyndham
THE LOST DUKE OF WYNDHAM
MR. CAVENDISH, I PRESUME
Agents of the Crown
TO CATCH AN HEIRESS • HOW TO MARRY A MARQUIS
The Lyndon Sisters
EVERYTHING AND THE MOON • BRIGHTER THAN THE SUN
The Splendid Trilogy
SPLENDID • DANCING AT MIDNIGHT • MINX
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
BECAUSE OF MISS BRIDGERTON. Copyright © 2016 by Julie Cotler Pottinger. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For more information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition APRIL 2016 ISBN: 9780062388155
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062388148
FIRST EDITION
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