Well, now he felt like an ass.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and this time it was more than an ingrained bit of polite manners.
Billie let out a breath, and she caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth. She was thinking again, George realized. How remarkable it was to see another person think. Was everyone this expressive as they pondered their ideas?
“It’s how you were brought up,” she finally said. “You’re no more to blame than…” She exhaled again, but George was patient. She would find the right words.
And after a few moments, she did. “You’ve been raised —” But this time she stopped herself quite suddenly.
“To be conceited?” he said softly.
“To be confident,” she corrected, but he had a feeling that his statement was a lot closer to what she had been about to say. “It’s not your fault,” she added.
“Now who’s being patronizing?”
She gave him a wry smile. “Me, I’m sure. But it’s true. You can’t help it any more than I can help being a…” She waved her hands again, which was apparently her all-purpose gesture for things that were too awkward to say aloud.
“What I am,” she finally finished.
“What you are.” He said it softly. He said it because he had to say it, even if he didn’t know why.
She looked up at him, but only with her eyes. Her face remained tipped slightly down, and he had the oddest notion that if he did not meet her gaze, if he did not hold it with his own, she would return hers to her tightly clutched hands, and the moment would be lost forever.
“What are you?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “I have no idea.”
“Is anyone hungry?” Andrew suddenly asked.
George blinked, trying to snap himself out of whatever spell had been cast over him.
“Because I am,” Andrew continued. “Famished. Utterly. I ate only one breakfast this morning.”
“One breakfast?” Billie started to say, but Andrew was already on his feet, bounding over to her side.
He set his hands on the table, leaning down to murmur, “I was hoping I’d be invited to tea.”
“Of course you’re invited to tea,” Billie said, but she sounded just as off-balance as George felt. She frowned. “It’s a little early, though.”
“It’s never too early for tea,” Andrew declared. “Not if your cook has been making shortbread.” He turned to George. “I don’t know what she puts in it, but it’s divine.”
“Butter,” Billie said absently. “Quite a lot of it.”
Andrew cocked his head to the side. “Well, that makes sense. Everything tastes better with quite a lot of butter.”
“We should ask Georgiana to join us,” Billie said, reaching for her crutches. “I’m meant to be helping her plan the entertainments for the house party.” She rolled her eyes. “My mother’s orders.”
Andrew let out a bark of laughter. “Does your mother even know you?”
Billie threw an irritated look at him over her shoulder.
“Seriously, Billie-goat, what will you have us do? Head out to the south lawn to plant barley?”
“Stop,” George said.
Andrew swung around. “What was that?”
“Leave her alone.”
Andrew stared at him for so long George could not help but wonder if he’d been speaking in tongues.
“It’s Billie,” Andrew finally said.
“I know. And you should leave her alone.”
“I can fight my own battles, George,” Billie said.
He glanced over at her. “Of course you can.”
Her lips parted, but she seemed not to know how to respond to that.
Andrew looked back and forth between the two of them before offering Billie a small bow. “My apologies.”
Billie nodded awkwardly.
“Perhaps I might help in the planning,” Andrew suggested.
“You’ll certainly be better at it than I am,” Billie said.
“Well, that goes without saying.”
She poked him in the leg with one of her crutches.
And just like that, George realized, all was back to normal.
Except it wasn’t. Not for him.
Chapter 9
Four days later
I
t was remarkable – no, inspirational – Billie decided, how quickly she’d weaned herself from her crutches. Clearly, it was all in the mind.
Strength. Fortitude.
Determination.
Also, the ability to ignore pain was helpful.
It didn’t hurt that much, she reasoned. Just a twinge. Or maybe something closer to a nail being hammered into her ankle at intervals corresponding to the speed at which she took her steps.
But not a very big nail. Just a little one. A pin, really.
She was made of stern stuff. Everybody said so.
At any rate, the pain in her ankle wasn’t nearly as bad as the chafing under her arms from the crutches. And she wasn’t planning to go for a five-mile hike. She just wanted to be able to get about the house on her own two feet.
Nevertheless, her pace was considerably slower than her usual stride as she headed toward the drawing room a few hours after breakfast. Andrew was waiting for her, Thamesly had informed her. This was not terribly surprising; Andrew had called upon her every day since her injury.