“Maybe if I try it the other way…” she said, breathing hard through her pain.
“I wouldn’t,” he replied, keeping his voice purposefully even and humble. Billie had never taken well to being told what to do. He supposed he understood this better than anyone. “You don’t want your lower foot to be the weak one,” he said. “Your leg could buckle —”
“Of course,” she said tightly. Not angrily, just tightly. He knew that tone. It was the tone of one who had conceded a point and really didn’t want any further elucidation on the matter.
It was one he himself used quite often.
Well, as often as he deigned to concede points.
“You can do this,” he said. “I know it hurts.”
“It really does,” she admitted.
He smiled a little. He wasn’t sure why, but he was glad she couldn’t see his face. “I won’t let you fall.”
“Everything all right up there?” Andrew called out.
“Tell him to shut up,” Billie ground out.
George laughed despite himself. “Miss Bridgerton requests that you shut the hell up,” he called down.
Andrew let out a bark of laughter. “It’s all good, then.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Billie grumbled, gasping her way through another step.
“You’re almost halfway there,” George said encouragingly.
“You’re lying, but I do appreciate the show of support.”
He smiled, and this time he did know why. Billie might be a right pain in the ass most of the time, but she’d always had a good sense of humor. “You’re halfway to halfway, then,” he said.
“Such an optimist,” she muttered.
She made it down another rung without incident, and George realized that their conversation was proving an able distraction. “You can do this, Billie,” he said.
“You said that already.”
“It bears repeating.”
“I think —” She hissed, then sucked in her breath as she moved down another rung.
He waited while she collected herself, her body quivering as she balanced for a moment on her good foot.
“I think,” she said again, her voice more carefully modulated, as if she were determined to get the sentence out in an orderly manner, “that this might be the most amiable you have ever behaved in my presence.”
“I could say the same,” he commented.
She made it down to the halfway mark. “Touché.”
“There is nothing quite so invigorating as an able opponent,” he said, thinking of all the times they had crossed verbal swords. Billie had never been an easy person to best in conversation, which was why it was always so delicious when he did.
“I’m not sure that holds true on the battle – oh!”
George waited as she gritted her teeth and continued.
“— on the battlefield,” she said, after a rather angry-sounding inhalation. “My God, this hurts,” she muttered.
“I know,” he said encouragingly.
“No you don’t.”
He smiled yet again. “No, I don’t.”
She gave a terse nod and took another step. Then, because she was Billie Bridgerton and thus fundamentally unable to allow an unfinished point to lay dormant, she said, “On the battlefield, I think I might find an able opponent inspiring.”
“Inspiring?” he murmured, eager to keep her talking.
“But not invigorating.”
“One would lead to the other,” he said, not that he had any firsthand experience. His only battles had taken place in fencing salons and boxing rings, where the most serious risk was to one’s pride. He eased down another step, giving Billie room to maneuver, then peered over his shoulder at Andrew, who appeared to be whistling while he waited.
“Can I help?” Andrew asked, catching his glance.
George shook his head, then looked back up to Billie. “You’re almost to the bottom,” he told her.
“Please tell me you’re not lying this time.”
“I’m not lying.”
And he wasn’t. He hopped down, skipping the last two rungs, and waited for her to draw close enough for him to grab her. A moment later she was within reach, and he swept her into his arms.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, and he felt her collapse a little, for once in her life allowing someone else to take charge of her.
“Well done,” Andrew said cheerfully, poking his head in close. “Are you all right there, Billie-goat?”
Billie nodded, but she didn’t look all right. Her jaw was still clenched, and from the way her throat worked, it was clear she was trying her damnedest not to cry.
“You little fool,” George murmured, and then he knew she wasn’t all right, because she let that pass without a word of protest. In fact, she apologized, which was so wholly unlike her as to be almost alarming.
“Time to go home,” George said.
“Let’s take a look at that foot,” Andrew said, his voice still an obnoxiously bright note in the tableau. He peeled off her stocking, let out a low whistle, and said with some admiration, “Ech, Billie, what did you do to yourself? That looks brutal.”
“Shut up,” George said.
Andrew just shrugged. “It doesn’t look broken —”
“It’s not,” Billie cut in.