“Watch out!” Andrew snapped.
She shot him a look of great irritation, not that he was paying attention to her, and bent forward.
Andrew turned slowly. “Are you examining my ears?”
“I’m just trying to see what the difference is. I told you, I didn’t even realize there was more than one type.”
He flicked his hand toward his brother. “Go look at George’s if you must. You’re too close to the table here.”
“I vow, Andrew,” she said, carefully edging herself sideways until she was out of the space between the sofa and the table, “this is like a disease with you.”
“Some men turn to drink,” he said archly.
George stood, having seen that Billie had come to her feet. “Or cards,” he said with a sly half-smile.
Billie snorted a laugh.
“How many levels do you think he’s laid down?” George asked.
Billie leaned to the right; Andrew was blocking her view. One, two, three, four . . .
“Six,” she told him.
“That’s remarkable.”
Billie quirked a smile. “Is this what it takes to impress you?”
“Quite possibly.”
“Stop talking,” Andrew snapped.
“We move the air with our breath,” Billie explained, giving the statement gravity it absolutely didn’t deserve.
“I see.”
“Yesterday I sneezed.”
George turned to her with full admiration. “Well done.”
“I need more cards,” Andrew said. He backed up from the table very slowly, scooting along the carpet like a crab until he was far enough away to rise without risking knocking into anything.
“I don’t have any,” Billie said. “I mean, I’m sure we do, but I wouldn’t know where to find them. I brought you the last two decks from the game room earlier.”
“This won’t do,” Andrew muttered.
“You could ask Thamesly,” she suggested. “If anyone would know, it would be he.”
Andrew nodded slowly, as if he were working it all out in his head. Then he turned and said, “You’ll have to move.”
She stared at him. “I beg your pardon.”
“You can’t stand there. You’re too close.”
“Andrew,” she said plainly, “you’ve gone mad.”
“You’re going to knock it down.”
“Just go,” Billie said.
“If you—”
“Go!” she and George yelled together.
Andrew threw an evil eye at them both and left the room.
Billie looked at George. He looked at her.
They burst into laughter.
“I don’t know about you,” Billie said, “but I’m moving to the other side of the room.”
“Ah, but then you are admitting defeat.”
She tossed him a glance over her shoulder as she walked away. “I prefer to think of it as self-preservation.”
George chuckled and followed her to the bank of windows. “The irony,” he said, “is that he’s terrible at cards.”
“He is?” She wrinkled her nose. It was odd, really, but she didn’t think she and Andrew had ever played cards.
“All games of chance, actually,” George went on. “If you ever need some money, he’s your man.”
“Alas, I don’t gamble.”
“With cards,” he countered.
She had a feeling he’d meant to sound droll, but to her ears it was patronizing in the extreme. She scowled. “What do you mean by that?”
He looked at her as if he were mildly surprised by her question. “Just that you gamble quite happily with your life all the time.”
She felt her chin draw back. “That’s absurd.”
“Billie, you fell out of a tree.”
“Onto a roof.”
He almost laughed. “This counters my argument how?”
“You would have done the exact same thing I did,” she insisted. “In fact, you did.”
“Oh, really.”
“I went up the tree to save a cat.” She jabbed him in the shoulder with her index finger. “You went up to save me.”
“First of all,” he shot back, “I did not go up the tree. And secondly, you’re comparing yourself to a cat?”
“Yes. No!” For the first time she was grateful she’d injured her foot. She might have stamped it, otherwise.
“What would you have done if I hadn’t come along?” he demanded, “Truly, Billie. What would you have done?”
“I’d have been fine.”
“I’m sure you would have. You’ve the devil’s own luck. But your family would have been frantic, and likely the entire village would have been called out to search for you.”
He was right, damn it, and that just made it worse. “Do you think I’m not aware of that?” she demanded, her voice dropping to a low hiss.
He regarded her for just long enough to make her uncomfortable. “No,” he said, “I don’t.”
She sucked in her breath. “Everything I do, I do for the people here. My whole life . . . everything. I’m reading a bloody encyclopedia of agriculture,” she said, her arm jerking back toward the book in question. “Volume Four. Who else do you know who—” Her words came to a choking halt, and several moments passed before she was able to continue. “Do you really believe me to be so uncaring?”
“No.” His voice was devastatingly low and even. “I believe you to be unthinking.”
She lurched back. “I can’t believe I thought we were starting to be friends.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You’re a terrible person, George Rokesby. You are impatient and intolerant and—”
He grabbed her arm. “Stop this.”
Billie yanked back, but his fingers were too firmly wrapped around her flesh. “Why did you even come here this morning? You only look at me to find fault.”
“Don’t be absurd,” he scoffed.
“It’s true,” she shot back. “You don’t see yourself when you’re near me. All you do is frown and scold and—and—everything about you. Your manner, your expressions. You are so disapproving.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
She shook her head. She felt almost revelatory. “You disapprove of everything about me.”
He stepped toward her, his hand tightening on her arm. “That is so far from the truth as to be laughable.”
Billie’s mouth fell open.
Then she realized that George looked as shocked by his words as she did.
And that he was standing very close.
Her chin tipped up, bringing her eyes to his.
She stopped breathing.
“Billie,” he whispered, and his hand rose, as if to touch her cheek.
Chapter 10
He almost kissed her.
Dear God, he almost kissed Billie Bridgerton.
He had to get out of here.
“It’s late,” George blurted.
“What?”
“It’s late. I need to go.”
“It’s not late,” she said, blinking rapidly. She looked confused. “What are you talking about?”
I don’t know, he almost said.
He’d almost kissed her. His eyes had dropped to her mouth and he heard the tiny rush of her breath across her lips, and he’d felt himself leaning, wanting . . .
Burning.
He prayed she hadn’t realized. Surely she’d never been kissed before. She wouldn’t have known what was happening.
But he’d wanted her. By God, he’d wanted her. It had hit him like a swell, sneaking up and then washing over him so fast and hard he’d barely been able to think straight.
He still wanted her.
“George?” she said. “Is something wrong?”
His lips parted. He needed to breathe.
She was watching him with an almost wary curiosity. “You were scolding me,” she reminded him.
He was fairly certain his brain had not re
sumed its normal workings. He blinked, trying to absorb her words. “Did you want me to continue?”
She shook her head slowly. “Not particularly.”
He raked a hand through his hair and tried to smile. It was the best he could do.
Billie’s brow knitted with concern. “Are you sure you’re well? You look very pale.”
Pale? He felt like he was on fire. “Forgive me,” he said. “I think I’m somewhat—” What? Somewhat what? Tired? Hungry? He cleared his throat and decided on: “Light-headed.”
She did not look as if she believed him. “Lightheaded?”
“It came on suddenly,” he said. That much was true.
She motioned toward the bellpull. “Shall I get you something to eat? Do you want to sit down?”
“No, no,” he said stupidly. “I’m fine.”
“You’re fine,” she repeated, her lack of belief in this statement practically radiating from her.
He gave a nod.
“No longer light-headed.”
“Not at all.”
She was staring at him as if he’d gone mad. Which was quite possible. He couldn’t think of any other explanation.
“I should go,” he said. He turned, striding to the door. He could not get out of there fast enough.
“George, wait!”
So close. But he stopped. He had to. He could no more leave the room when a gentlewoman was calling his name than spit in the face of the king. It had been bred into his bones.
When he turned around he saw that she’d moved several steps closer. “Don’t you think you should wait for Andrew?” she asked.
He exhaled. Andrew. Of course.
“He’ll need help, won’t he? With his mount?”
Bloody hell. George exhaled. “I will wait.”
Billie caught her lower lip between her teeth. The right side. She only ever worried the right side, he realized.
“I can’t imagine what is taking him so long,” she said, glancing at the door.
George shrugged.
“Maybe he couldn’t find Thamesly.”
He shrugged again.
“Or perhaps my mother waylaid him. She can be a nuisance that way.”
He started to shrug for a third time, realized how inane he looked and instead opted for a who-can-guess sort of smile.
“Well,” Billie said, apparently out of suggestions. “Hmmm.”
George clasped his hands behind his back. Looked at the window. At the wall. But not at Billie. Anywhere but Billie.
He still wanted to kiss her.
She coughed. He managed to look at her feet.
This was awkward.
Insane.
“Mary and Felix arrive in two days,” she said.
He gave a shove to the part of his brain that knew how to make conversation. “Doesn’t everyone arrive in two days?”
“Well, of course,” Billie replied, sounding somewhat relieved to have an actual question to answer, “but they’re the only ones I care about.”
George smiled despite himself. How like her to throw a party and hate every minute of it. Although in truth she hadn’t had much choice; they all knew that the house party had been Lady Bridgerton’s idea.
“Has the guest list been finalized?” he asked. He knew the answer, of course; the guest list had been drawn up for days, and the invitations had gone out with swift messengers with orders to wait for replies.
But this was a silence that needed filling. She was no longer on the sofa with her book and he in the chair with the newspaper. They had no props, nothing but themselves, and every time he looked at her, his eyes fell to her lips, and nothing—nothing could have been more wrong.
Billie wandered aimlessly toward a writing desk and tapped her hand on the table. “The Duchess of Westborough is coming,” she said. “Mother is very pleased that she has accepted our invitation. I’m told it’s a coup.”
“A duchess is always a coup,” he said wryly, “and usually also a great bother.”
She turned and looked back at him. “Do you know her?”
“We’ve been introduced.”
Her expression turned rueful. “I imagine you’ve been introduced to everyone.”
He thought about that. “Probably,” he said. “Everyone who comes to London, at least.” Like most men of his station, George spent several months each year in the capital. He generally enjoyed it. He saw friends, he kept himself up-to-date on affairs of the state. Lately he’d been eyeing prospective brides; it had been a far more tedious endeavor than he had anticipated.
Billie caught her lip between her teeth. “Is she very grand?”
“The duchess?”
She nodded.
“No grander than any other duchess.”
“George! You know that’s not what I’m asking.”
“Yes,” he said, taking pity on her, “she’s quite grand. But you will—” He stopped, looked at her. Really looked at her, and finally caught the way her eyes lacked their usual sparkle. “Are you nervous?”
She picked a piece of lint off her sleeve. “Don’t be silly.”
“Because—”
“Of course I’m nervous.”
That drew him up short. She was nervous? Billie?
“What?” she demanded, seeing the incredulity on his face.
He shook his head. For Billie to admit to nerves after all the things she’d done . . . all the things she’d done with a mad grin on her face . . . It was inconceivable.
“You jumped out of a tree,” he finally said.
“I fell out of a tree,” she returned pertly, “and what has that to do with the Duchess of Westborough?”
“Nothing,” he admitted, “except that it’s difficult to imagine you nervous about . . .” He felt his head shaking, slow, tiny movements, and a reluctant admiration rose within him. She was fearless. She had always been fearless. “About anything,” he finished.
Her lips pressed together. “Have you ever danced with me?”
He gaped at her. “What?”
“Have you ever danced with me?” she repeated, her voice edging toward impatience.
“Yes?” The word was drawn out, a question.
“No,” she said, “you haven’t.”
“That can’t be possible,” he said. Of course he’d danced with her. He’d known her all of her life.
She crossed her arms.
“You can’t dance?” he asked.
She shot him a look of pure irritation. “Of course I can dance.”
He was going to kill her.
“I’m not very good,” she continued, “but I’m good enough, I suppose. That’s not the point.”
George was fairly certain they had reached the point where there was no point.
“The point is,” Billie went on, “you have never danced with me because I don’t go to dances.”
“Perhaps you should.”
She scowled mightily. “I don’t glide when I walk, and I don’t know how to flirt, and the last time I tried to use a fan I poked someone in the eye.” She crossed her arms. “I certainly don’t know how to make a gentleman feel clever and strong and better than me.”
He chuckled. “I’m fairly certain the Duchess of Westborough is a lady.”
“George!”
He drew back, surprised. She was truly upset. “Forgive me,” he said, and he watched her carefully, warily even. She looked hesitant, picking nervously at the folds of her skirt. Her brow was knit not into a frown but into a rueful wrinkle. He had never seen her like this.
He did not know this girl.
“I don’t do well in polite company,” Billie said in a low voice. “I don’t—I’m not good at it.”
George knew better than to make another joke, but he did not know what sort of words she needed. How did one comfort a whirlwind? Reassure the girl who did everything well and then did it all backwards for fun? “You do perfectly well when you dine at Crake,” he said, even though he knew this wasn’t wh
at she was talking about.
“That doesn’t count,” she said impatiently.
“When you’re in the village . . .”
“Really? You’re going to compare the villagers to a duchess? Besides, I’ve known the villagers all my life. They know me.”
He cleared his throat. “Billie, you are the most confident, competent woman I know.”
“I drive you mad,” she said plainly.
“True,” he agreed, although that madness had been taking on a disturbingly different hue lately. “But,” he continued, trying to get his words in the proper order, “you are a Bridgerton. The daughter of a viscount. There is no reason why you cannot hold your head high in any room in the land.”
She let out a dismissive snort. “You don’t understand.”
“Then make me.” To his great surprise, he realized that he meant it.
She didn’t answer right away. She wasn’t even looking at him. She was still leaning on the table, and her eyes seemed locked on her hands. She glanced up, briefly, and it occurred to him that she was trying to determine if he was sincere.
He was outraged, and then he wasn’t. He wasn’t used to having his sincerity questioned, but then again, this was Billie. They had a long history of needling one another, of searching for the perfect weak spot, tiny and undefended.
But it was changing. It had changed, just over this past week. He didn’t know why; neither of them had changed.
His respect for her was no longer so grudging. Oh, he still thought she was beyond headstrong and reckless in the extreme, but underneath all that, her heart was true.
He supposed he’d always known that. He’d just been too busy being aggravated by her to notice.
“Billie?” He spoke softly, his voice a gentle prod.
She looked up, one corner of her mouth twisting forlornly. “It’s not a case of holding my head high.”
He made sure to keep any hint of impatience out of his voice when he asked, “Then what is the problem?”
She looked at him for a long moment, lips pressed together, before saying, “Did you know that I was presented at court?”
“I thought you didn’t have a Season.”
“I didn’t”—Billie cleared her throat—“after that.”
He winced. “What happened?”