“Nice,” he said again. He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe her gall. “Nice.”
“I’m nice,” she said. Then she regretted that, because she wasn’t nice. At least not all the time, and she had a feeling she wasn’t being particularly nice right now. But surely she could be excused, because this was George Rokesby, and she couldn’t help herself.
And neither, it seemed, could he.
“Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, in a voice that was positively bathed with a lack of niceness, “that I am nice to everyone but you?”
It hurt. It shouldn’t have, because they’d never liked each other, and damn it, it shouldn’t have hurt because she didn’t want it to.
But she would never let it show.
“I think you were trying to insult me,” she said, picking disdainfully through her words.
He stared at her, waiting for further comment.
She shrugged.
“But…?” he prodded.
She shrugged again, pretending to look at her fingernails. Which of course meant that she did look at her fingernails, which were revoltingly filthy.
One more thing she didn’t have in common with the future Lady Kennard.
She counted silently to five, waiting for him to demand an explanation in that cutting way he’d perfected before he’d been old enough to shave. But he didn’t say a word, and finally she was the one to lose whatever asinine contest was simmering between them, and she lifted her head.
He wasn’t even looking at her.
Damn him.
And damn her, because she just couldn’t help herself. She knew that anyone with an ounce of restraint would have known when to hold her tongue, but no, she had to open her stupid, stupid mouth and say, “If you can’t muster the —”
“Don’t say it,” he warned.
“— generosity of spirit to —”
“I’m warning you, Billie.”
“Are you?” she shot back, “I rather think you’re threatening me.”
“I will do,” he nearly spat, “if you don’t shut —” He cut himself off with a muffled curse, snapping his head in the other direction.
Billie picked at a loose thread on her stocking, her mouth pressed into an angry, trembling pout. She shouldn’t have said anything. She’d known that even as she spoke, because as pompous and annoying as George Rokesby was, it was entirely her fault that he was stuck up on the roof, and she’d had no call to be so provoking.
But there was something about him – some special talent that only he possessed – that stripped her of years of experience and maturity and made her act like a bloody six-year-old. If he were anyone else – anyone else – she’d be lauded as the most reasonable and helpful female in the history of Christendom. Tales would be spread – once they’d got off the roof – of her bravery and wit. Billie Bridgerton… so resourceful, so reasonable… It’s what everyone said. It’s what everyone had reason to say, because she was resourceful, and she was reasonable.
Just not with George Rokesby.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.
His head turned slowly, as if even his muscles could not believe what they’d heard.
“I said I’m sorry,” she repeated, louder this time. It felt like an antidote, but it was the right thing to do. But God help him if he made her say it again, because there was only so much of her pride she could swallow before she choked on it. And he ought to know that.
Because he was just the same.
His eyes met hers, and then they both looked down, and then after a few moments George said, “We are neither of us at our best just now.”
Billie swallowed. She thought maybe she ought to say something more, but her judgment had not done her any favors thus far, so instead she nodded, vowing that she was going to keep her mouth shut until —
“Andrew?” George whispered.
Billie snapped to attention.
“Andrew!” George all but bellowed.
Billie’s eyes did a frantic scan of the trees at the far end of the field, and sure enough… “Andrew!” she screamed, reflexively starting to rise before remembering her ankle.
“Ow!” she yelped, plunking back down on her bottom.
George did not spare her so much as a glance. He was too busy over by the edge of the roof, waving his arms through the air in wide, vigorous swoops.
There was no way Andrew could miss them, hollering like a pair of deranged banshees, but if he picked up his pace, Billie couldn’t see it. But that was Andrew. She should probably be glad he hadn’t fallen over with laughter at their predicament.
This was not something he was going to let either of them forget.
“Ahoy there!” Andrew called out, once he’d halved the distance between them.
Billie glanced over at George. She could only see him in profile, but he looked visibly relieved at his brother’s appearance. Also, oddly grim. No not odd at all, she realized. Whatever ribbing she was going to get from Andrew, George would suffer it a hundredfold.