Because of Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  And they were certainly more stylish than anything she possessed in her own closet.

  Billie rather thought that the bigger problem was the length, or rather, the excess of it. Mary was taller than she was, by at least three inches. It had always irked Billie (and amused Mary) to no end; it had always seemed like she should be the taller of the two. But as Billie couldn’t even walk, this was less of an issue than it might have been.

  Mary’s gowns were also a bit too large in the chest. But beggars could never be choosers, and so Billie tucked two extra fichus into the bodice and decided instead to be grateful that Mary’s wardrobe had contained a relatively simple round gown in a shade of forest green that Billie liked to think flattered her complexion.

  The maid was tucking a few final pins into Billie’s hair when a knock sounded on the door to Mary’s old room, where Billie had taken up residence.

  “George,” she said with surprise when she saw his strong form filling the doorway. He was elegantly dressed in a midnight blue coat that she suspected would complement his eyes if he wore it in the full light of day. Gold buttons twinkled in the candlelight, adding to his already regal mien.

  “My lady,” he murmured, executing a small bow. “I’ve come to help you down to the drawing room.”

  “Oh.” Billie wasn’t sure why she was surprised. Andrew couldn’t very well do it, and her father, who was surely already downstairs, wasn’t as strong as he used to be.

  “If you prefer,” George said, “we could summon a footman.”

  “No, no, of course not,” Billie replied. A footman seemed most awkward. At least she knew George. And he had already carried her once.

  He came into the room, clasping his hands behind his back when he reached her side. “How is your ankle?”

  “Still quite painful,” she admitted, “but I bound it with some wide ribbon, and that seems to be helping.”

  His lips curved, and his eyes took on an azure sparkle of amusement. “Ribbon?”

  To her maid’s horror, Billie hiked up her overlong skirt and stuck out her foot, revealing an ankle bound in a length of festive pink ribbon.

  “Very stylish,” George commented.

  “I could not justify tearing up a bedsheet when this would do just as well.”

  “Ever practical.”

  “I like to think so,” Billie said, her jaunty voice giving way to a slight frown when it occurred to her that this might not have been a compliment. “Well,” she said, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her arm, “they’re your sheets, at any rate. You should thank me.”

  “I’m sure I do.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m mocking you. But only a little.”

  Billie felt her chin rise an inch or so. “So long as it’s only a little.”

  “I wouldn’t dare otherwise,” he replied. He leaned in, just a bit. “At least not in your presence.”

  Billie stole a glance at the maid. She appeared thoroughly scandalized by the exchange.

  “In all seriousness, though, Billie,” George said, proving that a sympathetic heart did beat somewhere in his chest, “are you certain you’re well enough to dine?”

  She fastened an earring. Again, Mary’s. “I have to eat. I might as well do it in good company.”

  He smiled at that. “It has been too long since we have had everyone—well, at least as many as we have tonight—together.”

  Billie nodded, feeling wistful. When she was a child, the Rokesbys and Bridgertons had dined together several times each month. With nine children between the two families, suppers—or luncheons, or whatever odd holiday they’d elected to celebrate—could not be anything but loud and boisterous affairs.

  But one by one, the boys left for Eton, first George, then Edward, and then Andrew. Billie’s two younger brothers, Edmund and Hugo, were boarding there now, along with the youngest Rokesby, Nicholas. Mary had found love and moved to Sussex, and now the only ones left in regular residence were Billie and her younger sister Georgiana, who at fourteen was perfectly pleasant but no bosom bow for a grown woman of three and twenty.

  And George of course, but—eligible unmarried gentleman that he was—he split his time between Kent and London.

  “Penny for them,” George said, crossing the room to where Billie sat at the vanity.

  She shook her head. “Not worth even that, I’m afraid. It’s all quite maudlin, really.”

  “Maudlin? You? I must learn more.”

  She gave him a look, then said, “We are so diminished in number now. There used to be so many of us.”

  “There still are,” he pointed out.

  “I know, but we’re so rarely together. It makes me sad.” She could hardly believe she was speaking so frankly with George, but it had been such an odd, trying day. Perhaps it was making her less guarded.

  “We shall all be together again,” he said gamely. “I’m quite sure of it.”

  Billie lifted a brow. “Have you been assigned to cheer me up?”

  “Your mother offered me three quid.”

  “What?”

  “I jest.”

  She scowled, but with no real feeling behind it.

  “Here, come now. I’ll carry you down.” He bent down to take her into his arms, but when he moved to the right, she moved to the left, and their heads bumped.

  “Ooof, sorry,” he muttered.

  “No, it was my fault.”

  “Here, I’ll . . .” He made to put his arms behind her back and under her legs, but there was something inescapably awkward about it, which was the oddest thing, since he had carried her for over a mile just a few hours earlier.

  He lifted her into the air, and the maid, who had been standing at quiet attention throughout the conversation, jolted out of the way as Billie’s legs swung around in an arc.

  “A little less pressure on my neck, if you would,” George said.

  “Oh, so sorry.” Billie adjusted her position. “It was just the same as this afternoon.”

  He moved out into the hall. “No, it wasn’t.”

  Maybe not, Billie conceded to herself. She’d felt so at ease when he had carried her through the woods. Far more at ease than she’d had any right to in the arms of a man who was not her relation. Now it was just plain uncomfortable. She was excruciatingly aware of his nearness, of the bold heat of his body, seeping through his clothing. His coat collar was properly high, but when her finger grazed the very top of it, a little lock of his light brown hair curled down over her skin.

  “Is aught amiss?” he asked as they reached the top of the staircase.

  “No,” she said quickly, then cleared her throat. “Why would you think so?”

  “You haven’t stopped fidgeting since I picked you up.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t really think of anything to say to that. “It’s just that my foot hurts.” No, apparently she could think of something. Pity it was completely irrelevant.

  He paused, gazing down at her with concern. “Are you sure you want to come to dinner?”

  “I’m sure.” She let out an exasperated snuff of air. “For heaven’s sake, I’m already here. It would be ridiculous to quarantine myself in Mary’s room.”

  “It’s hardly a quarantine.”

  “It would feel like quarantine,” she muttered.

  He regarded her with a curious expression. “You don’t like being by yourself, do you?”

  “Not when the rest of the world is making merry without me,” she retorted.

  He was quiet for a moment, his head cocking just far enough to the side to indicate that he found her words curious. “What about the rest of the time?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “When the world isn’t gathering without you,” he said with a vaguely condescending tone. “Do you mind being on your own?”

  She felt her brows come together as she gazed up at him. What on earth could be prompting such probing?

  “It’s not a diffic
ult query,” he said, something slightly provocative bringing his voice down to a murmur.

  “No, of course I don’t mind being alone.” She pressed her lips together, feeling rather peeved. And peevish. But he was asking her questions she never even asked herself. But then, before she realized she was planning to speak, she heard herself say, “I don’t like—”

  “What?”

  She gave her head a shake. “Never mind.”

  “No, tell me.”

  She let out a sigh. He wasn’t going to let up. “I don’t like being cooped up. I can spend all day in my own company if I’m out of doors. Or even down in the drawing room, where the windows are tall and let in so much light.”

  He nodded slowly, as if he agreed with her.

  “Are you much the same way, then?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” he said.

  Well, then, so much for her being able to interpret his gestures.

  “I quite enjoy my own company,” he continued.

  “I’m sure you do.”

  His mouth managed half a smile. “I thought we weren’t insulting each other tonight.”

  “We weren’t?”

  “I am carrying you down a flight of stairs. You’d do well to speak kindly to me.”

  “Point taken,” she acceded.

  George rounded the landing, and she thought they were done with the conversation when he said, “The other day it rained . . . all day long, unremittingly.”

  Billie tipped her head to the side. She knew which day he was talking about. It had been miserable. She had been planning to take her mare Argo out to inspect the fences at the southern end of her father’s lands. And maybe stop at the wild strawberry patch. It was much too early in the season for fruit, but the blossoms would be starting to emerge, and she was curious as to their abundance.

  “I stayed indoors, of course,” George continued. “There was no reason to go out.”

  She wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this, but obliged him by inquiring, “How did you occupy yourself?”

  “I read a book.” He sounded quite pleased with himself. “I sat in my study and read an entire book from start to finish, and it was quite the most pleasant day in recent memory.”

  “You need to get out more,” she deadpanned.

  He ignored that entirely. “All I’m saying is, I spent the day cooped up, as you call it, and it was delightful.”

  “Well. That just proves my point.”

  “We were making points?”

  “We’re always making points, George.”

  “And always keeping score?” he murmured.

  Always. But she didn’t say it out loud. It seemed childish. And petty. And worse, like she was trying too hard to be something she wasn’t. Or rather, something she was but that society would never allow her to be. He was Lord Kennard, and she was Miss Sybilla Bridgerton, and while she’d gleefully stack her inner fortitude up against his any day of the week, she was no fool. She understood how the world worked. Here in her little corner of Kent, she was queen of her domain, but in any contest held outside the homey little circle drawn ’round Crake and Aubrey Hall . . .

  George Rokesby would win. Always. Or if not, he’d give the appearance of having done so.

  And there was nothing she could do about it.

  “You look uncommonly serious all of a sudden,” he said, stepping onto the polished parquet of the ground floor hall.

  “Thinking about you,” she said truthfully.

  “A dare if ever I heard one.” He reached the open door to the drawing room, and his lips moved closer to her ear. “And one I shall not take.”

  Her tongue touched the top of her mouth, readying a reply, but before she could make a sound, George had stepped through the entry to Crake House’s formal drawing room.

  “Good evening, everyone,” he said grandly.

  Any hope Billie might have had at making a subtle entrance were squashed immediately when she realized they were the last to arrive. Her mother was seated next to Lady Manston on the long sofa with Georgiana in a nearby chair looking vaguely bored. The men had congregated over by the window. Lords Bridgerton and Manston were chatting with Andrew, who was happily accepting a glass of brandy from his father.

  “Billie!” her mother exclaimed, practically hopping to her feet. “In your message you wrote that it was just a sprain.”

  “It is just a sprain,” Billie replied. “I’ll be as good as new by the end of the week.”

  George snorted. She ignored him.

  “It’s nothing, Mama,” Billie assured her. “I’ve certainly done worse.”

  Andrew snorted. She ignored him, too.

  “With a cane, she might have made it down on her own,” George said as he set her down on the settee, “but it would have taken her thrice as long, and neither of us has the patience for that.”

  Billie’s father, who had been standing by the window with a glass of brandy, let out a hearty guffaw.

  Billie gave him a bit of an evil eye, which only made him laugh with more vigor.

  “Is that one of Mary’s gowns?” Lady Bridgerton asked.

  Billie nodded. “I was in breeches.”

  Her mother sighed but made no comment. It was an endless argument between them, and their truce was maintained only by Billie’s promise to always dress properly for dinner. And among guests. And at church.

  There was actually a rather long list of events for which she was required to attire herself to her mother’s specifications. But in the matter of Billie wearing breeches while conducting business around the estate, Lady Bridgerton had acquiesced.

  To Billie, it had felt like a victory. As she had explained to her mother—repeatedly—all she really needed was permission to dress sensibly when out and about. The tenants surely called her something more colorful than eccentric, but she knew she was well-liked. And respected.

  The affection had come naturally; according to Billie’s mother, she’d emerged from the womb smiling, and even as a child, she’d been the tenants’ favorite.

  The respect, however, had been earned, and for that reason it was all the more fiercely treasured.

  Billie knew that her younger brother would one day inherit Aubrey Hall and all its lands, but Edmund was still a child, eight years her junior. Most of the time he was away at school. Their father wasn’t getting any younger, and someone had to learn how to properly manage such a large estate. Besides, Billie was a natural at it; everyone said so.

  She’d been an only child for so many years; there had been two babies between her and Edmund’s births, but neither had lived past infancy. During those years of prayers and hopes and wishing for an heir, Billie had become something of a mascot to the tenants, a living, smiling symbol of Aubrey Hall’s future.

  Unlike most highborn daughters, Billie had always accompanied her parents on their duties around the estate. When her mother brought baskets of food to the needy, she was right there with apples for the children. When her father was out surveying the land, she could more often than not be found at his feet, digging up worms as she explained why she thought rye would be a much better choice than barley in such a sun-starved field.

  At first she’d been a source of amusement—the energetic little five-year-old who insisted upon measuring grain when the rents were collected. But eventually she became a fixture, and now it was expected that she would see to the needs of the estate. If a cottage roof was leaking, she was the one who made sure it was mended. If a harvest was lean, she went out and tried to figure out why.

  She was, for all intents and purposes, her father’s eldest son.

  Other young ladies might read romantic poetry and Shakespearean tragedies. Billie read treatises on agricultural management. And she loved them. Honestly. They were ripping good reads.

  It was difficult to imagine a life that might suit her better, but it had to be said: it was all much easier to conduct without a corset.

  Much as it pained her mother.


  “I was out seeing to the irrigation,” Billie explained. “It would have been impractical in a frock.”

  “I didn’t say anything,” Lady Bridgerton said, even though they all knew she’d been thinking it.

  “Not to mention difficult to climb that tree,” Andrew put in.

  That did get her mother’s attention. “She was climbing a tree?”

  “Saving a cat,” Andrew confirmed.

  “One might assume,” George said, his voice purring with authority, “that had she been wearing a frock, she would not have attempted the tree.”

  “What happened to the cat?” Georgiana asked.

  Billie looked to her sister. She’d almost forgotten she was there. And she had definitely forgotten the cat. “I don’t know.”

  Georgiana leaned forward, her blue eyes impatient. “Well, did you save it?”

  “If so,” Billie said, “it was entirely against its wishes.”

  “It was a most ungrateful feline,” George said.

  Billie’s father chuckled at the description and gave him a manly slap on the back. “George, m’boy, we must get you a drink. You’ll need it after your trials.”

  Billie’s mouth fell open. “His trials?”

  George smirked, but no one else saw it, the bloody man.

  “Mary’s gown looks lovely on you,” Lady Bridgerton said, steering the conversation back to more ladylike pursuits.

  “Thank you,” Billie replied. “I rather like this shade of green.” Her fingers flitted to the lace along the round neckline. It was really most becoming.

  Her mother stared at her in shock.

  “I like pretty dresses,” Billie insisted. “I just don’t like wearing them when it’s impractical to do so.”

  “The cat,” Georgiana persisted.

  Billie flicked her an impatient look. “I told you, I don’t know. Honestly, it was a horrid little creature.”