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.