Because of Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

“Dreadfully unfashionable, I know,” she said, touching the long lock of hair that had been left to drape over her shoulder, “but I managed to convince your mother that there was a good chance I would step too close to a sconce and set myself on fire.”

  George turned sharply.

  “Given my history being presented at court,” she said, “it was not as unreasonable as it sounds.”

  He tried not to laugh. He really did.

  “Oh, please do,” she said. “It has taken me this long to be able to make a joke of it. We might as well be amused.”

  “What did happen?” he asked. “Or don’t I want to know?”

  “Oh, you want to know,” she said with an impertinent sideways look. “Trust me. You definitely want to know.”

  He waited.

  “But you won’t find out now,” she declared. “A woman must have her secrets, or so your mother keeps telling me.”

  “Somehow I don’t think setting fire to the Court of St. James was the sort of secret she had in mind.”

  “Considering how fervently she wishes me to be seen as a young lady of grace and refinement, I think it might be exactly what she had in mind.” She glanced over at him with an arch expression. “Lady Alexandra Fortescue-Endicott would never accidentally set someone on fire.”

  “No, if she did it, I imagine it would be purposeful.”

  Billie snorted back a laugh. “George Rokesby, that’s a terrible thing to say. And probably not true.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Much as it pains me to admit it, no. She’s not that evil. Or clever.”

  He paused for a moment, then asked, “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

  She gave him a look.

  “Of course it was,” he said, but he didn’t sound nearly as certain as he ought.

  “Kennard!”

  At the sound of his name, George looked reluctantly away from Billie. Two university friends of his—Sir John Willingham and Freddie Coventry—were making their way through the crowd. They were both perfectly pleasant, utterly respectable, and exactly the sort of gentlemen his mother would wish him to introduce to Billie.

  George found that he rather wished to hit one of them. It didn’t matter which. Either would do, so long as he could aim for the face.

  “Kennard,” Sir John said, approaching with a grin. “It’s been an age. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be in town yet.”

  “Family business,” George said noncommittally.

  Sir John and Freddie both nodded and said something along the lines of just so, and then they both looked over at Billie with clear expectation.

  George forced a smile and turned to Billie. “May I present Sir John Willingham and Mr. Frederick Coventry.” There were murmurs all around, and then he said, “Gentlemen, this is Miss Sybilla Bridgerton of Aubrey Hall in Kent.”

  “Kent, you say,” Freddie exclaimed. “Are you neighbors, then?”

  “We are indeed,” Billie said prettily. “I have known Lord Kennard all of my life.”

  George fought a scowl. He knew she could not use his Christian name in such a milieu, but it still grated to be referred to so formally.

  “You are a lucky man indeed,” Freddie said, “to have such loveliness so close to home.”

  George stole a glance at Billie to see if she was as appalled by the sugary compliment as he was, but she was still smiling placidly, looking for all the world like a sweet-tempered, gentle debutante.

  He snorted. Sweet-tempered and gentle? Billie? If they only knew.

  “Did you say something?” she asked.

  He matched her smile with one of his own, equally bland. “Just that I am indeed lucky.”

  Her brows rose. “How odd that I might have missed a sentence of such length.”

  He gave her a sideways look.

  Which she returned with a secret smile.

  He felt something settle within himself. All was right with the world again. Or at least all was right with this moment. The world was a bloody mess, but right here, right now, Billie was smiling secretly . . .

  And he was content.

  “May I claim a dance, Miss Bridgerton?” Sir John asked Billie.

  “And me as well,” Freddie immediately put in.

  “Of course,” she said, again so prettily that George wanted to gag. She didn’t sound like herself.

  “She has already promised her first to me,” he cut in. “And the supper set.”

  Billie regarded him with some surprise, since she had not promised him the supper set, but she did not contradict.

  “Nevertheless,” Freddie said with smooth amusement, “there are more than two dances at a ball.”

  “I should be delighted to dance with both of you,” Billie said. She looked about the room as if in search of something. “I don’t believe there are dance cards this evening . . .”

  “We can survive well enough without them,” Freddie said. “All we must remember is that when you are done with Kennard here, you will dance with me.”

  Billie gave a friendly smile and a regal nod.

  “And then you’re on to Sir John,” Freddie noted. “But I’ll warn you, he’s an atrocious dancer. You’ll want to watch your toes.”

  Billie laughed at that, full and throaty, and once again she became so incandescently beautiful that George was half-tempted to throw a blanket over her, just to stop anyone else from wanting her.

  He should not begrudge her this moment in the sun. He knew that. She deserved to be adored and fêted, to have her much-deserved moment as the belle of the ball. But by God, when she smiled at Sir John or Freddie, it looked as if she actually meant it.

  Who smiled like that without actually meaning it? Did she have any idea what a smile like that could lead to? The two gentlemen were going to think she was interested. George had a sudden vision of bouquets filling the front hall of Manston House, of young gentlemen queuing up for the privilege of kissing her hand.

  “Is something wrong?” Billie asked quietly. Sir John and Freddie had been distracted by another acquaintance and had turned slightly away, so her words were for George alone.

  “Of course not,” he said, but his voice was somewhat more clipped than usual.

  Her brow pleated with concern. “Are you certain? You—”

  “I’m fine,” he snapped.

  Her brows rose. “Clearly.”

  He scowled.

  “If you don’t want to dance with me . . .” she began.

  “That’s what you think this is?”

  “So there is something!” Her expression was so triumphant; she really ought to have had a Pall Mall mallet in her hand to complete the look.

  “For the love of God, Billie,” he muttered, “it’s not a competition.”

  “I don’t even know what it is.”

  “You shouldn’t be smiling like that at other gentlemen,” he said in a hushed voice.

  “What?” She drew back, and he wasn’t sure if it was out of disbelief or outrage.

  “It will give them the wrong impression.”

  “I thought the whole purpose was for me to attract gentlemen,” she practically hissed.

  Outrage, then. And quite a lot of it.

  George had just enough presence of mind not to blurt out the spectacularly inane, “Yes, but not too much attention.” Instead he warned, “Do not be surprised if they come calling tomorrow.”

  “Again, isn’t that the point?”

  George had no answer, because there was no answer. He was being an idiot, that much was clear to both of them.

  Good God, how had the conversation deteriorated to this?

  “Billie, look,” he said, “I simply—”

  He frowned. Arbuthnot was making his way over.

  “You simply . . .” Billie prompted.

  He shook his head, and she was smart enough to know that the motion had nothing to do with her. She followed his gaze over toward Arbuthnot, but the older gentleman had stopped to talk with so
meone else.

  “Who are you looking at?” she asked.

  He turned back and fixed his full attention on her. “No one.”

  She rolled her eyes at the obvious lie.

  “Kennard,” Freddie Coventry said, returning to their sides as Sir John wandered off, “I do believe the orchestra is retaking their positions. You had best lead Miss Bridgerton to the dance floor or I shall have to accuse you of shady dealings.” He leaned toward Billie and said with faux confidentiality, “It will not do for him to claim your first dance and then keep you here among the wallflowers.”

  She laughed, but only a little, and to George’s ears it did not sound quite true. “He would never do that,” she said, “if for no other reason than his mother would have his head.”

  “Oh-ho!” Freddie chortled. “So that’s how it is.”

  George smiled tightly. He wanted to throttle Billie for emasculating him so efficiently in front of his friends, but he was still very much aware of Arbuthnot, just a few feet away, presumably angling for a moment alone.

  Freddie’s voice dropped to a murmuring tease. “I don’t think he’s going to dance with you.”

  Billie looked over at George, and when his eyes met hers, he felt like he’d found his entire world. He bowed and held out his arm, because bloody hell, he’d been waiting for this moment for what felt like years.

  But of course that was when Arbuthnot finally arrived. “Kennard,” he said, his genial greeting exactly what one might expect from a man to the son of a friend. “Good to see you here. What brings you to town?”

  “A dance with Miss Bridgerton,” Freddie drawled, “but he doesn’t seem quite able to lead her to the floor.”

  Arbuthnot chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure he’s not as incapable as that.”

  George couldn’t decide which of them he wanted to kill first.

  “Perhaps I should dance with you,” Billie said to Freddie.

  Forget the gentlemen. He’d kill Billie first. What the hell was she thinking? This was forward, even for her. Ladies did not ask gentlemen to dance, especially when their acquaintance was of five minutes’ duration.

  “A lady who speaks her mind,” Freddie said. “How perfectly refreshing. I see why Lord Kennard speaks so highly of you.”

  “He speaks of me?”

  “Not to him,” George bit off.

  “Well, he should,” Freddie said with a flirtatious waggle of his brows. “You would certainly be a more interesting topic than our last conversation, which I believe was about oatmeal.”

  George was fairly certain this was not true, but there seemed no way to protest without seeming childish.

  “Ah, but I find oats fascinating,” Billie said, and George almost laughed, because he was the only one who knew that she wasn’t joking. Her father’s recent successes at harvest was a testament to that.

  “A truly singular female,” Freddie applauded.

  The orchestra began to make the groaning noises that always preceded the actual music, and Billie glanced over at George, waiting for him to repeat his bow and lead her into the dance.

  But before he could do so, he heard Lord Arbuthnot clear his throat. George knew what he had to do.

  “I give her over to you, Coventry,” he said with a bit of a bow. “Since you are so eager for her company.”

  He tried not to meet Billie’s eyes, but he couldn’t quite manage it, and when his gaze passed over her face, he saw that she was shocked. And angry.

  And hurt.

  “Her next shall be yours,” Freddie said with good cheer, and George’s heart twisted just a bit as he watched him lead her off to dance.

  “I am sorry to deprive you of the company of the lovely Miss Bridgerton,” Lord Arbuthnot said after a moment, “but I am sure there was more purpose to your time in town than a dance.”

  There was no one else in their small circle of conversation now that Billie had trotted off with Freddie Coventry, but Arbuthnot clearly wished for circumspection, so George said, “This and that. Family business.”

  “Isn’t that always the case?” He tilted his head toward George. “It’s damned exhausting, it is, being the head of the family.”

  George thought of his father. “I am most fortunate that this particular privilege is not yet mine.”

  “True, true.” Arbuthnot took a large swallow of the drink he was holding, a drink that looked considerably more substantial than the ridiculous punch George had been served earlier that evening. “But you will be soon enough, and we can’t pick our families, can we?”

  George wondered if Arbuthnot was employing double-speak. If so, it was another indication that he was not cut out for a life of mysterious messages and secret meetings. He decided to take Arbuthnot’s words at face value and said, “If we could, I daresay I would have picked my own.”

  “Well, that’s a lucky man for you.”

  “I think so.”

  “And how fares your evening? Successful?”

  “I suppose it depends on how one measures success.”

  “Is that so?” Arbuthnot said, sounding slightly irritated.

  George felt no sympathy. He was the one who had started this layered conversation. He could damn well let George have a little fun with it, too. He looked Arbuthnot in the eye and said, “Alas, we come to these events in search of something, do we not?”

  “You are rather philosophical for a Tuesday.”

  “Normally I save my great thinking for Monday nights and Thursday afternoons,” George snapped.

  Lord Arbuthnot looked at him with sharp surprise.

  “I haven’t found what I’m looking for,” George said. Good God, the double-speak was giving him vertigo.

  Arbuthnot’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain?”

  “As I can be. It’s rather a crush in here.”

  “That is most disappointing.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Perhaps you should dance with Lady Weatherby,” Lord Arbuthnot said softly.

  George turned sharply. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Have you been introduced? I assure you she is a woman without equal.”

  “We have met,” George confirmed. He’d known Sally Weatherby back when she was Sally Sandwick, the older sister of one of his friends. She had married and buried a husband in the intervening years and only recently had moved from full mourning to half. Luckily for her, she wore lavender quite well.

  “Weatherby was a good man,” Arbuthnot said.

  “I did not know him,” George said. He’d been quite a bit older, and Sally was his second wife.

  “I worked with him from time to time,” Arbuthnot said. “A good man. A very good man.”

  “It has been years since I spoke with Lady Weatherby,” George said. “I don’t know if I’ll have anything to say to her.”

  “Oh, I imagine you’ll think of something.”

  “I imagine I will.”

  “Ah, I see my wife over there,” Lord Arbuthnot said. “She’s doing that thing with her head that either means she needs my assistance or she’s about to die.”

  “You must go to her, then,” George said. “Clearly.”

  “I suppose she’ll need my assistance either way,” Arbuthnot said with a shrug. “Godspeed to you, son. I hope your evening proves fruitful.”

  George watched as Lord Arbuthnot made his way across the room, then turned to carry out his mission.

  It seemed it was time to dance with Sally Weatherby.

  Chapter 22

  Mr. Coventry was an accomplished dancer, but Billie could give him no more than a fraction of her attention as he led her through the intricate steps of a cotillion. George had finished talking with the older gentleman, and now he was bowing before a lady of such staggering beauty it was a wonder all the people around her didn’t need to shade their eyes from her miraculous glow.

  Something seething and green churned within her, and the evening, once so magical, soured.

  Billie knew that she shou
ldn’t have asked Mr. Coventry to dance. Lady Manston would have had an apoplexy if she’d been there. She probably still would, once the gossip reached her. And it would. Billie might have avoided London for years, but she knew enough to realize that this would be all over the ballroom within minutes.

  And all over town by the next morning.

  She would be branded as overly forward. They would say she was chasing Mr. Coventry, that she was desperate for reasons no one quite knew, but she must have a wicked secret because why else would she throw over centuries of convention and ask a gentleman to dance?

  And then someone would remember that unfortunate incident at court a few years earlier. Dreadful thing, really, they’d all cluck. Miss Philomena Wren’s dress had caught on fire of all things, and by the time anyone knew what was happening, there was a pile of young ladies moored helplessly on the floor, unable to move against the awkward weight of their wide-hipped skirts. Wasn’t Miss Bridgerton there? Hadn’t she been on top of Miss Wren?

  Billie had to clench her jaw just to keep from growling. If she had been on top of Philomena Wren, it had only been to put out the fire, but no one would ever mention that.

  That Billie had also been the cause of the fire was still a closely held secret, thank heavens. But honestly, how could a lady be expected to move in full court dress? Court protocol demanded gowns with panniers far wider than anything women wore in day-to-day life. Billie normally had a wonderful sense of where her body stood in space—she was the least clumsy person she knew. But who wouldn’t have had difficult maneuvering in a contraption that had her hips jutting out nearly three feet in either direction? And more to the point, what idiot had thought it a good idea to leave a lit candle in a room populated with misshapen ladies?

  The edge of her dress had been so far from her actual body that Billie hadn’t even felt it when she’d knocked into the candle. Miss Wren hadn’t felt it, either, when her dress began to smolder. And she never did, Billie thought with satisfaction, because she’d been sensible enough to leap atop the other girl, smothering the flame before it reached her skin.

  And yet when all was said and done, no one seemed to recall that Billie had saved Miss Wren from death and disfigurement. No, her mother was so horrified by the entire situation that they’d abandoned their plans for Billie’s London Season. Which, Billie had tried to remind herself, was what she’d wanted all along. She’d been fighting against a Season for years.