by Julia Quinn
“How did you break it?” Georgiana asked.
He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling like the sea. “Wrestled with a shark.”
Billie snorted.
“No,” Georgiana said, unimpressed, “what really happened?”
Andrew shrugged. “I slipped.”
There was a little beat of silence. No one had expected anything so mundane as that.
“The shark makes for a better story,” Georgiana finally said.
“It does, doesn’t it? The truth is rarely as glamorous as we’d like.”
“I thought at the very least you’d fallen from the mast,” Billie said.
“The deck was slippery,” Andrew said in a matter-of-fact manner. And while everyone was pondering the utter banality of this, he added, “It gets that way. Water, you know.”
The footman returned with a small tufted ottoman. It was not as tall as George would have liked, but he still thought it would be better for Billie than letting her foot dangle.
“I was surprised Admiral McClellan allowed you to recuperate at home,” Lady Manston said as the footman crawled under the table to set the ottoman into place. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s delightful to have you at Crake where you belong.”
Andrew gave his mother a lopsided smile. “Not much use for a one-armed sailor.”
“Even with all those peg-legged pirates?” Billie quipped as George set her down in her seat. “I thought it was practically a requirement to be missing a limb at sea.”
Andrew tipped his head thoughtfully to the side. “Our cook is missing an ear.”
“Andrew!” his mother exclaimed.
“How gruesome,” Billie said, eyes aglow with macabre delight. “Were you there when it happened?”
“Billie!” her mother exclaimed.
Billie whipped her head around to face her mother, protesting, “You can’t expect me to hear about an earless sailor and not ask.”
“Nevertheless, it is not appropriate conversation at a family supper.”
Gatherings between the Rokesby and Bridgerton clans were always classified as family, no matter that there wasn’t a drop of shared blood between them. At least not within the last hundred years.
“I can’t imagine where it would be more appropriate,” Andrew said, “unless we all head out to the public inn.”
“Alas,” Billie said, “I’m not allowed this time of night.”
Andrew flashed her a cheeky grin. “Reason seven hundred and thirty-eight why I’m glad I was not born a female.”
Billie rolled her eyes.
“Are you allowed during the day?” Georgiana asked her.
“Of course,” Billie said, but George noticed that her mother didn’t look happy about it.
Neither did Georgiana. Her lips were pursed into a frustrated frown, and she had one hand on the table, her index finger tapping impatiently against the cloth.
“Mrs. Bucket makes the most delicious pork pie,” Billie said. “Every Thursday.”
“I’d forgotten,” Andrew said, shuddering with delicious culinary memory.
“How on earth could you? It’s heaven in a crust.”
“Agreed. We shall have to sup together. Shall we say at noo—”
“Women are bloody,” Georgiana blurted out.
Lady Bridgerton dropped her fork.
Billie turned to her sister with an expression of cautious surprise. “I’m sorry?”
“Women can be bloody, too,” Georgiana said, her tone approaching truculence.
Billie seemed not to know what to make of that. Normally George would be enjoying her discomfiture, but the conversation had taken such a sharp turn into the bizarre that he could not bring himself to feel anything but sympathy.
And relief that he wasn’t the one questioning the young girl.
“What you said earlier,” Georgiana said. “About women, and how we would wage war less frequently than men. I don’t think that’s true.”
“Oh,” Billie said, looking mightily relieved. Truth was, George was relieved, too. Because the only other explanation for women being bloody was a conversation he did not want to have at the dining table.
Or anywhere for that matter.
“What about Queen Mary?” Georgiana continued. “No one could call her a pacifist.”
“They didn’t call her Bloody Mary for nothing,” Andrew said.
“Exactly!” Georgiana agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “And Queen Elizabeth sank an entire armada.”
“She had her men sink the armada,” Lord Bridgerton corrected.
“She gave the orders,” Georgiana shot back.
“Georgiana has a point,” George said, happy to give credit where it was due.
Georgiana gave him a grateful look.
“Indeed,” Billie said with a smile.
At that, Georgiana seemed ridiculously pleased.
“I did not mean to say that women couldn’t be violent,” Billie said, now that Georgiana was done with her argument. “Of course we can, given proper motivation.”
“I shudder to think,” Andrew murmured.
“If someone I loved was in danger,” Billie said with quiet intensity, “I’m quite certain I could be moved to violence.”
For years George would wonder about that moment. Something changed. Something shook and twisted. The air crackled electric, and everyone—every last Rokesby and Bridgerton at the table—sat almost suspended in time, as if waiting for something none of them understood.
Even Billie.
George studied her face. It was not difficult to imagine her as a warrior, fierce and protective of the people she loved. Was he counted among that number? He rather thought he was. Anyone with his surname would fall beneath her protection.
No one spoke. No one even breathed until his mother let out a laugh that was really nothing more than a breath, and then declared, “Such a depressing topic.”
“I disagree,” George said softly. He didn’t think she’d heard him. But Billie did. Her lips parted, and her dark eyes met his with curiosity and surprise. And maybe even a hint of gratitude.
“I do not understand why we are talking of such things,” his mother continued, thoroughly determined to steer the conversation back to sweetness and light.
Because it’s important, George thought. Because it means something. Because nothing had meant anything for years, not for those who had been left behind. He was sick of being useless, of pretending that he was more valuable than his brothers by virtue of his birth.
He looked down at his soup. He’d lost his appetite. And of course that was when Lady Bridgerton exclaimed, “We should have a party!”
Chapter 7
A party?
Billie carefully set down her napkin, a vague sense of alarm washing over her. ���Mother?”
“A house party,” her mother clarified, as if that had been what she’d been asking about.
“This time of year?” her father asked, his soupspoon pausing only briefly on its way to his mouth.
“Why not this time of year?”
“We usually have one in the autumn.”
Billie rolled her eyes. What typically male reasoning. Not that she disagreed. The last thing she wanted right now at Aubrey Hall was a house party. All those strangers tramping around her home. Not to mention the time it would take to play the part of the dutiful daughter of the hostess. She’d be stuck in her frocks all day, unable to tend to the very real responsibilities of running the estate.
She tried to catch her father’s eye. Surely he realized what a bad idea this was, no matter the season. But he was oblivious to anything but his wife. And his soup.
“Andrew won’t be home in the autumn,” Lady Bridgerton pointed out. “And we should celebrate now.”
“I do love a party,” Andrew said. It was true, but Billie had a feeling he’d said it more to smooth the tension at the table. Because it was quite tense. And it was oddly clear to her that no one knew why.
“It’s settled, then,” her mother said. “We shall have a house party. Just a small one.”
“Define small,” Billie said warily.
“Oh, I don’t know. A dozen guests, perhaps?” Lady Bridgerton turned to Lady Manston. “What do you think, Helen?”
Lady Manston surprised no one when she replied, “I think it sounds delightful. But we shall have to act quickly, before Andrew is sent back to sea. The admiral was quite explicit that his leave was for the duration of his convalescence and not a moment longer.”
“Of course,” Lady Bridgerton murmured. “Shall we say in one week’s time?”
“One week?” Billie exclaimed. “You can’t possibly ready the house in one week.”
“Oh, pish. Of course I can.” Her mother gave her a look of amused disdain. “I was born for this sort of thing.”
“That you were, my dear,” her father said affectionately.
He would be no help at all, Billie realized. If she was going to put a stop to this madness, she was going to have to do it herself. “Think of the guests, Mama?” she persisted. “Surely you must give them more notice. People lead busy lives. They will have plans.”
Her mother waved this away as if it were of no consequence. “I’m not planning to send invitations across the country. We’ve plenty of time to reach friends in the nearby counties. Or London.”
“Who will you invite?” Lady Manston asked.
“You, of course. Do say you’ll come and stay with us. It will be so much more fun to have everyone under one roof.”
“That hardly seems necessary,” George said.
“Indeed,” Billie agreed. For the love of God, they lived only three miles apart.
George gave her a look.
“Oh, please,” she said impatiently. “You can’t possibly take offense.”
“I can,” Andrew said with a grin. “In fact I think I will, just for the fun of it.”
“Mary and Felix,” Lady Bridgerton said. “We cannot possibly have a celebration without them.”
“It would be nice to see Mary,” Billie admitted.
“What about the Westboroughs?” Lady Manston asked.
George groaned. “Surely that ship has sailed, Mother. Didn’t you just tell me that Lady Frederica has become engaged?”
“Indeed.” His mother paused, delicately lifting her soupspoon to her lips. “But she has a younger sister.”
Billie let out a choked laugh, then quickly schooled her face into a frown when George threw her a furious scowl.
Lady Manston’s smile grew positively terrifying. “And a cousin.”
“Of course she does,” George said under his breath.
Billie would have expressed some sort of sympathy, but of course that was the moment her own mother chose to say, “We shall have to find some nice young men, too.”
Billie’s eyes widened in horror. She should have known that her turn was coming. “Mother, don’t,” she cautioned.
Cautioned? Ordered was more like it.
Not that this had any effect on her mother’s enthusiasm. “We’ll be uneven if we don’t,” she said briskly. “Besides, you’re not getting any younger.”
Billie closed her eyes and counted to five. It was either that or go for her mother’s throat.
“Doesn’t Felix have a brother?” Lady Manston asked.
Billie bit her tongue. Lady Manston knew perfectly well that Felix had a brother. Felix Maynard was married to her only daughter. Lady Manston had likely known the names and ages of his every first cousin before the ink was dry on the betrothal papers.
“George?” his mother prompted. “Doesn’t he?”
Billie stared at Lady Manston in fascinated amazement. Her single-minded determination would do an army general proud. Was it some kind of inborn trait? Did females spring from the womb with the urge to match men and women into neat little pairs? And if so, how was it possible that she’d been skipped?
Because Billie had no interest in matchmaking, for herself or anyone else. If that made her some kind of strange, unfeminine freak, so be it. She would much rather be out on her horse. Or fishing at the lake. Or climbing a tree.
Or anything, really.
Not for the first time Billie wondered what her Heavenly Father had been thinking when she’d been born a girl. She was clearly the least girlish girl in the history of England. Thank heavens her parents had not forced her to make her debut in London when Mary had done so. It would have been miserable. She would have been a disaster.
And no one would have wanted her.
“George?” Lady Manston said again, impatience sharpening the edge of her voice.
George started, and Billie realized he’d been looking at her. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he had seen on her face . . . what he’d thought he’d seen there.
“He does,” George confirmed, turning toward his mother. “Henry. He’s two years younger than Felix, but he’s—”
“Excellent!” Lady Manston exclaimed, clapping her hands together.
“But he’s what?” Billie asked. Or rather, pounced. Because this was her potential mortification they were talking about.
“Nearly engaged,” George told her. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“It doesn’t count until it’s official,” his mother said airily.
Billie stared at her in disbelief. This, from the woman who had been planning Mary’s wedding from the first time Felix had kissed her hand.
“Do we like Henry Maynard?” Lady Bridgerton asked.
“We do,” Lady Manston confirmed.
“I thought she wasn’t even sure he had a brother,” Billie said.
Beside her, George chuckled, and she felt his head draw close to hers. “Ten pounds says she knew every last detail of his current courtship before she even mentioned his name,” he murmured.
Billie’s lips flickered with a hint of a smile. “I would not take that bet.”
“Smart girl.”
“Always.”
George chuckled, then stopped. Billie followed his gaze across the table. Andrew was watching them with an odd expression, his head tilted at the slightest of angles and his brow pleated into a thoughtful frown.
“What?” she said, while the mothers continued their plans.
Andrew shook his head. “Nothing.”
Billie scowled. She could read Andrew like the back of her hand. He was up to something. “I don’t like his expression,” she murmured.
“I never like his expression,” George said.
She glanced at him. How odd this was, this silly little kinship with George. It was usually Andrew with whom she was sharing muttered quips. Or Edward. But not George.
Never George.
And while she supposed this was a good thing—there was no reason she and George had to be at constant loggerheads—it still made her feel strange. Off-balance.
Life was better when it puttered along without surprises. It really was.
Billie turned to her mother, determined to escape this growing sense of unease. “Do we really have to have a party? Surely Andrew can feel celebrated and adored without a twelve-course meal and archery on the lawn.”
“Don’t forget the fireworks and a parade,” Andrew said. “And I might want to be carried in on a litter.”
“You want to encourage this?” Billie asked, gesturing to him with an exasperated hand.
George snorted into his soup.
“Will I be permitted to attend?” Georgiana asked.
“Nothing in the evening,” her mother said, “but certainly some of the afternoon entertainments.”
Georgiana sat back with a cat-in-the-cream smile. “Then I think it’s an excellent idea.”
“Georgie,” Billie said.
“Billie,” Georgiana mocked.
Billie’s lips parted in surprise. Was the entire world tipping on its axis? Since when did her younger sister talk back to her like that?
“It’s settled, Billie,” her mother said in a to
ne that brooked no dissent. “We are having a party, and you will attend. In a dress.”
“Mother!” Billie cried out.
“I don’t think it’s an unreasonable demand,” her mother said, glancing about the table for confirmation.
“I know how to behave at a house party.” Good Lord, what did her mother think she would do? Come to dinner with riding boots under her gown? Race the hounds through the drawing room?
She knew the rules. She did. And she didn’t even mind them under the right circumstances. That her own mother thought her so inept . . . And that she would say so in front of all the people Billie cared most about . . .
It hurt more than she could ever have imagined.
But then the strangest thing happened. George’s hand found hers and squeezed. Under the table, where no one could see. Billie jerked her head to look at him—she couldn’t help it—but he’d already let go and was saying something to his father about the price of French brandy.
Billie stared at her soup.
What a day.
LATER THAT EVENING, after the men had gone off to have their port and the ladies were congregated in the drawing room, Billie stole away to the library, wanting nothing more than a spot of peace and quiet.
Although she wasn’t really sure if it counted as stealing away when she was required to beg a footman to carry her there.
Still, she’d always liked the library at Crake House. It was smaller than the one they had at Aubrey Hall, and it felt less imposing. Almost cozy. Lord Manston had a habit of falling asleep on the soft leather sofa, and as soon as Billie settled into the cushions she understood why. With a fire in the grate and a knitted blanket thrown over her legs, it was the perfect place to rest her eyes until her parents were ready to return home.
She wasn’t sleepy, though. Just weary. It had been a long day, and her entire body ached from her fall, and her mother had been spectacularly insensitive, and Andrew hadn’t even noticed that she wasn’t feeling well, and George had, and then Georgiana had gone and turned into someone she didn’t recognize, and—
And, and, and. It was all ands this evening, and the sum of it all was exhausting.
“Billie?”
She let out a softly startled shriek as she lurched into a more upright position. George was standing in the open doorway, his expression made unreadable by the dim, flickering candlelight.
