“I know how to get other people to do things,” he said derisively.
She pressed her lips together before she could utter something inane like, “That’s an important skill.” But it was an important skill, even if she’d never demonstrated it herself. She never left anything to her father’s steward; he was surely the most overpaid clerk in the land. She acted first and thought later; she always had. And she could not bear to let someone else perform a task when she could do it better herself.
And she could almost always do it better herself.
“I need a drink,” George suddenly muttered. Billie didn’t dare point out again that it was still rather early for spirits.
He walked over to the side table and poured himself a brandy from the decanter. He took a sip. A long one. “Do you want one?”
Billie shook her head.
“Surprising,” George muttered.
There was something hard in his voice. Something almost nasty. She felt her spine grow rigid. “I beg your pardon?”
But George only laughed, his brows arching into a mocking salute. “Oh, come now, Billie. You live to shock. I can hardly believe you wouldn’t take a brandy when offered.”
She grit her teeth, reminding herself that George was not himself at the moment. “It’s not even noon.”
He shrugged and kicked back the rest of his brandy.
“You shouldn’t be drinking.”
“You shouldn’t be telling me what to do.”
She held herself still, stiff even, allowing the long pause to express her disapproval. Finally, because she needed to be as brittle as he, she gave him a cool stare, and said, “Lady Alexandra sends her regards.”
He gave her a look of disbelief.
“She leaves today.”
“How kind of you to convey her salutations.”
She felt a cutting retort rising through her throat, but at the last minute she blurted, “No! This is ridiculous. I’m not going to stand here and speak in rhymes. I came to help.”
“You can’t help,” he bit off.
“Certainly not when you’re like this,” she retorted.
He slammed his glass down and stalked toward her. “What did you just say?” he demanded. His eyes were wild and furious, and she almost took a step back.
“How much have you had to drink?”
“I’m not drunk,” he said in a dangerous voice. “This… that,” he corrected, waving an arm back toward the glass he’d left on the sideboard, “was my first and only drink of the day.”
Billie had a feeling she was supposed to apologize, but she couldn’t make herself do it.
“I’d like to be drunk,” he said, moving closer with the silent grace of a large cat.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” He laughed stridently. “Drunk, I might not remember that my brother is lost in some godforsaken wilderness where the locals are not predisposed to favor anyone in a red coat.”
“George,” she tried to say, but he would not be deterred.
“Drunk,” he said again, the word punching harshly through the air, “I might not have noticed that my mother has spent the entire morning weeping in her bed. But best of all” – his hands came down heavily on a side table, and he looked at her with fury-laden despair – “if I were drunk, I might somehow forget that I am at the mercy of the rest of the goddamn world. If Edward is found —”
“When he’s found,” Billie cut in fiercely.
“Either way, it won’t be because of me.”
“What do you want to do?” she asked quietly. Because she had a feeling he didn’t know. He said he wanted to go to the Colonies, but she wasn’t sure she believed him. She didn’t think he’d even allowed himself to think about what he wanted to do. He was so stuck on his restrictions that he could not think clearly about what was truly in his heart.
“What do I want to do?” he echoed. He looked… not surprised, exactly, but maybe a little dumbfounded. “I want… I want…” He blinked, then brought his eyes to hers. “I want you.”
The breath left her body.
“I want you,” he repeated, and it was as if the entire room shifted. The dazed look left his eyes, replaced by something fierce.
Predatory.
Billie could not speak. She could only watch as he came ever closer, the air between them heating to a simmering pitch.
“You don’t want to do this,” she said.
“Oh, I do. I really do.”
But he didn’t. She knew that he didn’t, and she could feel her heart breaking because she did. She wanted him to kiss her like she was the only woman he could ever dream of kissing, like he’d die if he didn’t touch his lips to hers.
She wanted him to kiss her and mean it.
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said, edging back a step.
“Is that what you think?” he murmured.
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Just enough to make this perfect.”
She blinked. She didn’t have a clue what that meant.
“Come now, Billie,” he mocked. “Why so hesitant? That’s not like you.”