Because of Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  George raised his eyebrows in question.

  “Is that a yes?” Lord Arbuthnot said in a dry voice.

  George tipped his head in affirmation.

  “Tell him . . . pease porridge pudding.”

  “Pease porridge pudding,” George repeated dubiously.

  Arbuthnot broke off a piece of his toast and dipped it into his egg yolk. “He’ll understand.”

  “What does it mean?”

  “Do you need to know?” Arbuthnot countered.

  George sat back, regarding Arbuthnot with a level stare. “I do, rather.”

  Lord Arbuthnot let out a bark of laughter. “And that, my dear boy, is why you would make a terrible soldier. You’ve got to follow orders without question.”

  “Not if one is in command.”

  “Too true,” Arbuthnot said with a smile. But he still did not explain the message. Instead he regarded George with a level stare and asked, “Can we rely on you?”

  It was the War Office, George thought. If he was passing along messages, at least he’d know he was doing it for the right people.

  At least he’d know he was doing something.

  He looked Arbuthnot in the eye and said, “You may.”

  Chapter 19

  Manston House was quiet when George returned later that evening. The hall was lit with two candelabras, but the rest of the rooms seemed to have been shut down for the night. He frowned. It wasn’t that late; surely someone ought to be about.

  “Ah, Temperley,” George said when the butler stepped forward to take his hat and coat, “has my mother gone out for the evening?”

  “Lady Manston had her dinner sent up to her room on a tray, my lord,” Temperley said.

  “And Miss Bridgerton?”

  “I believe she did the same.”

  “Oh.” George shouldn’t have been disappointed. After all, he’d spent the better part of the past few days avoiding both of the aforementioned ladies. Now they seem to have done his work for him.

  “Shall I have your dinner sent up as well, my lord?”

  George thought for a moment, then said, “Why not?” It seemed he wasn’t to have company that night regardless, and he hadn’t eaten much of Lord Arbuthnot’s repast.

  It had to have been the kippers. Honestly, the smell had put him off the entire meal.

  “Will you have a brandy in the drawing room first?” Temperley inquired.

  “No, I’ll go straight up, I think. It’s been a long day.”

  Temperley nodded in that butlerish way of his. “For us all, my lord.”

  George regarded him with a wry expression. “Has my mother been working you to the bone, Temperley?”

  “Not at all,” the butler replied, the barest hint of a smile cracking through his somber mien. “I speak of the ladies. If I may be so bold as to offer my observation, they seemed rather tired when they returned this afternoon. Miss Bridgerton especially.”

  “I’m afraid my mother has been working her to the bone,” George said with a half-smile.

  “Just so, my lord. Lady Manston is never as happy as when she has a young lady to marry off.”

  George froze, then covered his lapse by devoting an inordinate amount of attention to the removal of his gloves. “That would seem somewhat ambitious, given that Miss Bridgerton does not plan to remain in town for the Season.”

  Temperley cleared his throat. “A great many parcels have arrived.”

  Which was his way of saying that every item required for a young lady to successfully navigate the London marriage mart had been purchased and delivered.

  “I’m sure Miss Bridgerton will meet with every success,” George said evenly.

  “She is a very lively young lady,” Temperley agreed.

  George smiled tightly as he took his leave. It was difficult to imagine how Temperley had come to the conclusion that Billie was lively. The few times George had crossed her path at Manston House she had been uncharacteristically subdued.

  He supposed he should have made more of an effort, taken her out for an ice or some such, but he’d been too busy hunting down information at the War Office. It felt so bloody good to do something for a change, even if the results were disappointing.

  He took a step toward the stairs, then paused and turned back. Temperley had not moved.

  “I always thought my mother hoped for a match between Miss Bridgerton and Edward,” George said casually.

  “She has not seen fit to confide in me,” Temperley said.

  “No, of course not,” George said. He gave his head a little shake. How the mighty had fallen. He’d been reduced to dangling for gossip from the butler. “Good night, Temperley.”

  He made it to the stairs, his foot perched on the first step, when the butler called out, “They do speak of him.”

  George turned around.

  Temperley cleared his throat. “I do not think it a breach of confidence to tell you that they speak of him at breakfast.”

  “No,” George said. “Not at all.”

  There was a long beat of silence.

  “We are keeping Master Edward in our prayers,” Temperley finally said. “We all miss him.”

  It was true. Although what did it say about George that he missed Edward more now that he was missing than he ever had when he’d merely been an ocean away?

  He walked slowly up the stairs. Manston House was much smaller than Crake, with all eight bedchambers clustered on one floor. Billie had been put in the second-best guest bedroom, which George thought was ludicrous, but his mother always insisted upon keeping the best guest bedroom free. You never know who might unexpectedly visit, she always said.

  Has the King dropped by, he always parried. This generally earned him a scowl. And a smile. His mother was a good sport that way, even if the best room had gone empty these past twenty years.

  He paused in the middle of the hall, not quite in front of Billie’s door but closer to it than any other room. There was just enough of a crack under the door to show a faint flicker of candlelight. He wondered what she was doing in there. It really was much too early to go to sleep.

  He missed her.

  It came to him in a startling flash. He missed her. He was here, in the same house, sleeping just three doors down, and he missed her.

  It was his own fault. He knew he’d been avoiding her. But what was he to do? He had kissed Billie, kissed her until he was nearly past the edge of reason, and now he was expected to make polite conversation with her at the breakfast table? In front of his mother?

  George would never be as sophisticated as that.

  He ought to marry her. He rather thought he’d like to, as mad as that might have seemed just a month earlier. He’d been quite warming to the idea back at Crake. Billie had said “you don’t have to marry me,” and all he could think was—

  But I could.

  He’d had just a moment with the idea. No time to think or analyze, only time to feel.

  And it had felt lovely. Warm.

  Like springtime.

  But then his mother had arrived on the scene and started going on about how adorable Billie and Edward were together and what a perfect match they made and he couldn’t remember what else but it was nauseatingly sweet and according to Temperley went very well over breakfast with toast and orange marmalade.

  Toast and marmalade. He shook his head. He was an idiot.

  And he had fallen in love with Billie Bridgerton.

  There it was. Plain as day. He almost laughed. He would have laughed, if the joke weren’t on him.

  If he’d fallen in love with someone else—someone new, whose presence did not fill such a wealth of his memories—would it have been so clear? With Billie the emotion was such an about-face, such a complete departure from a lifetime of comparing her to a pebble in his shoe. He couldn’t help but see it, shining in his mind like bright starry promise.

  Was she in love with Edward? Maybe. His mother seemed to think so. She had not said as much,
of course, but his mother had a remarkable talent for making sure her opinions were precisely known without ever actually stating them explicitly.

  Still, it had been enough to render him insanely jealous.

  In love with Billie. It was just the maddest thing.

  He let out a long, pent-up breath and started walking again toward his room. He had to pass by her door, past that tantalizing flicker of light. He slowed, because he couldn’t not.

  And then the door opened.

  “George?” Billie’s face peered out. She was still in her day clothes but her hair was down, draped over her shoulder in a long, thick braid. “I thought I heard someone,” she explained.

  He managed a close-lipped smile as he bowed. “As you see.”

  “I was having supper,” she said, motioning back into the room. “Your mother was tired.” She gave a sheepish smile. “I was tired. I’m not very good at shopping. I had no idea it would involve quite so much standing still.”

  “Standing still is always more tiring than walking.”

  “Yes!” she said, quite animatedly. “I’ve always said that.”

  George started to speak, but then a memory sparked through his mind. It was when he’d been carrying her, after that debacle with the cat on the roof. He’d been trying to describe that odd feeling of when one’s leg goes weak and bends for no reason.

  Billie had understood perfectly.

  The irony was that his leg hadn’t gone weak. He’d been making it up to cover for something. He didn’t even remember what.

  But he remembered the moment. He remembered that she’d understood.

  Mostly he’d remembered how she’d looked at him, with a little smile that said that she was happy to be understood.

  He looked up. She was watching him with an expression of faint expectation. It was his turn to speak, he remembered. And since he couldn’t very well say what he was thinking, he went for the obvious.

  “You’re still dressed,” he said.

  She glanced down briefly at her frock. It was the one she’d been wearing when he kissed her. Flowers. It suited her. She should always be in flowers.

  “I thought I might go back down after I finish eating,” she said. “Perhaps find something to read in the library.”

  He nodded.

  “My mother always says that once you’re in your dressing gown, you’re in your room for the night.”

  He smiled. “Does she?”

  “She says a great many things, actually. I’m sure I’ve forgotten whatever it is that I didn’t ignore.”

  George stood like a statue, knowing he should bid her goodnight, but somehow unable to form the words. The moment was too intimate, too perfectly candlelit and lovely.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked.

  “Yes. Well, no.” He thought of the kippers. “Not exactly.”

  Her brows rose. “That sounds intriguing.”

  “Hardly. I’m having a tray sent to my room, actually. I’ve always hated dining alone downstairs.”

  “I’m the same,” she agreed. She stood for a moment, then said. “It’s ham pie. Very good.”

  “Excellent.” He cleared his throat. “Well, I . . . ought to go. Good night, Billie.”

  He turned. He didn’t want to turn.

  “George, wait!”

  He hated that he was holding his breath.

  “George, this is madness.”

  He turned back. She was still standing in the entrance to her room, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the door. Her face was so expressive. Had it always been so?

  Yes, he thought. She’d never been one to hide her feelings beneath a mask of indifference. It was one of the things he’d found so annoying about her when they were growing up. She simply refused to be ignored.

  But that was then. And this was . . .

  Something else entirely.

  “Madness?” he echoed. He wasn’t sure what she meant. He didn’t want to make assumptions.

  Her lips trembled into a tentative smile. “Surely we can be friends.”

  Friends?

  “I mean, I know . . .”

  “That I kissed you?” he supplied.

  She gasped, then practically hissed, “I wasn’t going to say it quite so bluntly. For heaven’s sake, George, your mother is still awake.” And while she was frantically peering down the hall, George threw over a lifetime of gentlemanly behavior and stepped into her bedroom.

  “George!”

  “Apparently one can whisper and scream at the same time,” he mused.

  “You can’t be in here,” she said.

  He grinned as she closed the door. “I didn’t think you wished to conduct this sort of conversation in the hall.”

  The look she gave him was sarcasm in its purest form. “I believe there are two drawing rooms and a library downstairs.”

  “And look what happened last time we were in a drawing room together.”

  Her face flushed instantly. But Billie was a trouper, and after a moment of what appeared to be gnashing her teeth and telling herself to calm down, she asked, “Have you learned anything of Edward?”

  Like that, his jaunty mood deflated. “Nothing of substance.”

  “But something?” she asked hopefully.

  He didn’t want to talk about Edward. For so many reasons. But Billie deserved a reply, so he said, “Just the suppositions of a retired general.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be terribly frustrating. I wish there was something I could do to help.” She leaned on the edge of her bed and looked over at him with an earnest frown. “It’s so hard to do nothing. I hate it.”

  He closed his eyes. Breathed out through his nose. Once again, they were in perfect agreement.

  “Sometimes I think I should have been born a boy.”

  “No.” His response was immediate and emphatic.

  She let out a little laugh. “That’s very kind of you. I suppose you have to say that after, well, you know . . .”

  He knew. But not nearly enough.

  “I would love to own Aubrey,” she said wistfully. “I know every corner. I can name every crop in every field, and every name of every tenant, and half of their birthdays, too.”

  He looked at her in wonderment. She was so much more than he’d ever allowed himself to see.

  “I would have been an excellent Viscount Bridgerton.”

  “Your brother will learn his way,” George said gently. He sat down in the chair by the desk. She wasn’t sitting down, but she wasn’t exactly standing, either, and as he was alone with her behind a closed door, he rather thought this would not be the critical breach of propriety.

  “Oh, I know he will,” Billie said. “Edmund is very clever, actually, when he’s not being annoying.”

  “He’s fifteen. He can’t help being annoying.”

  She gave him a look. “If I recall correctly, you were already a god among men by the time you were his age.”

  He lifted a lazy brow. There were so many droll rejoinders to such a statement, but he decided to let them all pass and simply enjoy the easy camaraderie of the moment.

  “How do you bear it?” she asked.

  “Bear what?”

  “This.” She raised her hands in a gesture of defeat. “The helplessness.”

  He sat up a little straighter, blinking her into focus.

  “You do feel it, don’t you?”

  “I’m not sure I catch your meaning,” he murmured. But he had a feeling he did.

  “I know you wish you could have taken a commission. I see it in your face every time your brothers talk about it.”

  Was he that obvious? He’d hoped not. But at the same time . . .

  “George?”

  He looked up.

  “You’d gone very silent,” she said.

  “I was just thinking . . .”

  She smiled indulgently, allowing him to think aloud.

  “I don’t wish I’d taken a commission.”

  She dr
ew back, her surprise evident in the way her chin tucked into her neck.

  “My place is here,” he said.

  Her eyes lit with something that might have been pride. “You sound as if you’re only just realizing it.”

  “No,” he mused. “I’ve always known that.”

  “You hadn’t accepted it?” she prodded.

  He chuckled wryly. “No, I had definitely accepted it. I just think I hadn’t let myself . . .” He looked up, straight into her lovely brown eyes and paused for a moment as he realized what he wanted to say. “I hadn’t let myself like it.”

  “And now you do?”

  His nod was quick and firm. “I do. If I don’t—” He stopped, corrected himself. “If we don’t care for the land and its people, what are Edward and Andrew even fighting for?”

  “If they are going to risk their lives for King and Country,” she said softly, “we should make it a good King and Country.”

  Their eyes met, and Billie smiled. Just a little. And they didn’t speak. Because they didn’t need to. Until finally she said, “They’re going to be up with your food soon,” she said.

  He quirked a brow. “Are you trying to be rid of me?”

  “I’m trying to protect my reputation,” she retorted. “And yours.”

  “If you recall, I did ask you to marry me.”

  “No, you didn’t,” she scoffed. “You said, ‘of course I’ll marry you’,”—this she said in a remarkable impression of a distempered crone—“which is not the same thing at all.”

  He eyed her thoughtfully. “I could get down on one knee.”

  “Stop teasing me, George. It’s very unkind of you.” Her voice wobbled, and he felt something tight, squeezing in his chest. His lips parted, but she pushed herself off the edge of her bed and walked over to her window, crossing her arms as she stared out into the night.

  “It’s not something you joke about,” she said, but her words were oddly formed, round and wide, almost as if they were coming from somewhere deep in her throat.

  He came quickly to his feet. “Billie, I’m sorry. You must know I would never—”

  “You should go.”

  He paused.

  “You should go,” she said, more forcefully this time. “They’ll be here with your dinner at any moment.”