“What is that supposed to mean?” Lady Alexandra demanded.
“I think,” Mr. Berbrooke said thoughtfully, “that she means that she would play more piously if the game were a religious endeavor. Which I don’t think it is.”
Billie gave him an approving glance. Maybe he was cleverer than he seemed.
“Lord Kennard,” Lady Alexandra said, turning to George. “Surely you do not approve of such underhanded tactics.”
George gave a shrug. “It’s how they play, I’m afraid.”
“But not how you play,” Lady Alexandra persisted.
Billie gave him a stare, waiting for his answer.
He did not disappoint. “It’s how I play when I play with them.”
Lady Alexandra drew back with a huff.
“Don’t worry,” Georgiana said, jumping into the breach. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
“It’s not in my nature,” Lady Alexandra sniffed.
“It’s in everyone’s nature,” Andrew barked. “Whose turn is it?”
Mr. Berbrooke gave a jump. “Oh, mine I think.” He walked back to his ball. “Am I allowed to aim for Miss Bridgerton?”
“Absolutely,” Andrew replied, “but you might want to —”
Mr. Berbrooke whacked his ball without waiting for the rest of Andrew’s instructions, which surely would have been not to hit her ball dead-on, which was exactly what he did.
The yellow ball went through the wicket and beyond, making it an additional three feet before coming to a stop. The blue ball also rolled through the wicket, but, having transferred its force to the yellow ball, it came to a stop only directly on the other side.
“Well done, Mr. Berbrooke!” Billie cheered.
He turned to her with a wide smile. “Thank you!”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Lady Alexandra snapped. “She doesn’t mean it. She’s only happy you knocked her through the wicket.”
“I take everything back,” Billie murmured to George. “Forget Andrew. It’s her we must crush.”
Mr. Berbrooke appealed to the rest of the crowd. “Miss Bridgerton would have gone through on the next turn, anyway, wouldn’t she?”
“I would,” Billie confirmed. “You really didn’t set me too far ahead, I promise.”
“And you got yourself through the wicket,” Georgiana added. “That puts you in second place.”
“It does, doesn’t it?” Mr. Berbrooke said, looking inordinately pleased with this development.
“And,” Billie added with great flair, “look how you’re blocking everyone else. Well done, you.”
Lady Alexandra let out a loud huff. “Whose turn is it?”
“Mine, I believe,” George said smoothly.
Billie smiled to herself. She loved the way he said so much with nothing but a polite murmur. Lady Alexandra would hear a gentleman making a casual comment, but Billie knew him better. She knew him better than that pompous duke’s daughter ever would.
She heard his smile. He was amused by the entire exchange, even if he was too well-bred to show it.
She heard his salute. Billie had won this round; he was congratulating her.
And she heard his gentle scolding, a warning of sorts. He was cautioning her not to carry this too far.
Which she probably would. He knew her every bit as well as she knew him.
“Take your turn, George,” Andrew said.
Billie watched as George stepped forward and set up his play. He squinted as he aimed. It was kind of adorable.
What a thought. George Rokesby, adorable? It was just the most ridiculous thing.
She let out a little chuckle, just as George hit his ball. It was a good shot, landing him directly in front of the wicket.
“Oh, my goodness,” Georgiana said, blinking at the field. “Now we’ll never get through.”
She was right. The black and blue balls were mere inches apart, flanking both sides of the wicket. Anyone who attempted the wicket would just add to the jam.
George stepped back toward Billie, clearing the way for the next few players. He leaned toward her, his mouth drawing close to her ear. “Were you laughing at me?” he murmured.
“Just a little bit,” she replied, watching Georgiana trying to figure out her shot.
“Why?”
Her lips parted before she realized she couldn’t possibly give him an honest reply. She turned to look at him, and again he was closer than she’d expected, closer than he ought to have dared.
She was suddenly aware.
Of his breath, warm across her skin.
Of his eyes, so blue and so magnetically fastened upon her own.
Of his lips, fine, full, and carrying a hint of a smile.
Of him. Simply of him.
She whispered his name.
He cocked his head to the side in question, and she realized she had no idea why she’d beckoned, just that there was something so right about standing here with him, and when he looked at her like that, like he thought she was remarkable, she felt remarkable.
She felt beautiful.
She knew it couldn’t be true, because he’d never thought of her that way. And she didn’t want him to.
Or did she?
She gasped.
“Something wrong?” he murmured.
She shook her head. Everything was wrong.