That was good enough for him. Billie didn’t lie, and she didn’t break promises.
“Was Andrew in the village with you?” she asked, squinting off at the horizon.
George gave a nod. “We had business with the blacksmith. He stopped in to speak to the vicar afterward. I didn’t feel like waiting.”
“Of course not,” she murmured.
His head snapped around. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Her lips parted, then hovered for a moment in a delicate oval before she said, “I don’t know, actually.”
He scowled at her, then turned his attention back to the roof, not that there was a damned thing he could do at the moment. But it was not in his nature to sit and wait. At the very least he could examine the dilemma, reassess, and — “There’s nothing to be done,” Billie said blithely. “Not without the ladder.”
“I’m aware,” he bit off.
“You were looking about,” she said with a shrug, “as if —”
“I know what I was doing,” he snapped.
Her lips pressed together in perfect concert with her brows, which rose into that annoying Bridgerton arch, as if to say – Go ahead, think what you wish. I know better.
They were silent a moment, and then, in a smaller voice than he was used to hearing from her, she asked, “Are you quite certain that Andrew will come this way?”
He gave a nod. He and his brother had walked to the village from Crake House – not their usual mode of transport, but Andrew, who had recently been made a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, had broken his arm doing some damn fool stunt off the coast of Portugal and had been sent home to recuperate. Walking was currently easier for him than riding, and it was an uncommonly lovely day for March.
“He’s on foot,” George said. “How would he come if not by here?” There were many footpaths in the area, but none that wouldn’t add a mile to the journey home.
Billie tipped her head to the side, gazing out over the field. “Unless someone gave him a ride.”
He turned slowly toward her, dumbfounded by the utter lack of… anything in her tone. There was no one-upmanship, no argument, not even a hint of worry. Just a bizarre, matter-of-fact – Hmmm, here’s a disastrous thing that might have happened.
“Well, he could have done,” she said with a shrug. “Everyone likes Andrew.”
It was true, Andrew had the sort of devil-may-care, easy charm that endeared him to everyone, from the village vicar to the barmaids at the public house. If someone was heading his way, they’d offer a ride.
“He’ll walk,” George said firmly. “He needs the exercise.”
Billie’s face took on a decidedly dubious mien. “Andrew?”
George shrugged, not wanting to concede the point, even though Andrew had always been a superb athlete. “He’ll want the fresh air, at the very least. He’s been climbing the walls all week. Mother has been trying to put him on broth and bedrest.”
“For a broken arm?” Billie’s snort gave way to a giggle.
George glanced at her sideways. “Taking joy in the misery of others?”
“Always.”
He smiled despite himself. It was difficult to take offense, not when he’d spent the last week enjoying – nay, encouraging – his younger brother’s frustration.
Billie gingerly shifted her position, bending her legs so that she could rest her chin on her knees.
“Watch that foot,” George said, almost absently.
She nodded, and together they lapsed into silence. George stared straight ahead, but he could feel every motion Billie made at his side. She brushed an errant strand of hair from her eyes, then stretched one arm out in front of her, her elbow creaking like an old wooden chair. Then, with the tenacity she displayed in all aspects of her life, she circled back around to their previous conversation and said, “All the same, he could have got a ride.”
He almost smiled. “He could.”
She was quiet for a few more seconds, then said, “It doesn’t look like rain.”
He looked up. It was overcast, but not thickly so. The clouds were too pale to be holding much water.
“And surely we will be missed.”
He allowed himself a smirk. “I will, at least.”
She elbowed him. Hard. Hard enough to make him laugh.
“You’re a terrible person, George Rokesby.” But she was grinning when she said it.
He chuckled again, surprised by how much he enjoyed the light fizz of amusement in his chest. He wasn’t sure that he and Billie qualified as friends – they’d butted heads far too many times for that – but she was familiar. That wasn’t always a good thing, but right now…
It was.
“Well,” she announced, “I suppose there’s no one with whom I’d rather be stranded on a roof.”
He swung his head toward her. “Why, Miss Bridgerton, was that a compliment?”
“You can’t tell?”
“From you?” he parried.
She smiled in an endearingly lopsided manner. “I suppose I deserve that. But, you know, you’re very dependable.”
“Dependable,” he repeated.
She nodded. “Very much so.”
He felt himself scowl, although for all that was holy, he had no idea why.