George looked at Billie, and when she smiled, it filled his soul. “No,” he said softly, drawing her into his arms, “we’re a team.”
Billie looked up at him with such love it nearly stole his breath. “Mother,” he said, never taking his eyes off his fiancée, “you might want to leave the room now.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m going to kiss her now.”
His mother let out a little shriek. “You can’t do that.”
“I’m fairly certain I can.”
“George, you’re not married yet!”
He studied Billie’s lips with the hot gaze of a connoisseur. “All the more reason to hurry things up,” he murmured.
“Billie,” his mother said firmly, transferring her attention to what she clearly considered to be the weaker link, “let’s go.”
But Billie just shook her head. “I’m sorry, but it’s as he says. We’re a team.”
And then, because she was Billie Bridgerton and she’d never minded taking charge, she sank her fingers into his hair and pulled his mouth down to hers.
And because he was George Rokesby, and he was going to love her for the rest of his days, he kissed her right back.
Epilogue
Several months later
Crake House
“The results are final,” Billie said, adding up the last column with a flourish. “I win.”
George glanced up at her from his position on their bed – a large, lovely, four-posted piece that Billie had redressed in green a few weeks into their marriage. He was reading a book; Billie hadn’t caught the title. He always read before they went to bed. She loved that about him. He was such a creature of habit. Another reason they were a perfect match.
“What is it this time?” he murmured.
She knew he was being indulgent, but she was so pleased by the numbers in front of her that she decided she didn’t care. “The barley harvest,” she said. “Aubrey Hall outdid Crake by a factor of… hold on one moment…” She chewed on her lower lip as she worked out another computation. “One point one!”
“Such a triumph.”
She pursed her lips, trying for an unamused expression.
“Did you factor in Aubrey’s greater barley acreage?”
“Of course!” She rolled her eyes. “Honestly, George.”
His lips curved ever-so-slightly. “Might I remind you that you live at Crake?”
Billie felt herself smile in return.
“And that your name is Billie Rokesby now?”
“I’ll always be a Bridgerton at heart. Well,” she added, not liking George’s frown, “a Bridgerton and a Rokesby.”
He sighed. Just a little. “I don’t suppose you’ve any plans to turn your formidable skills to the running of Crake.”
Not for the first time Billie felt a rush of gratitude that George had not objected when she’d told him that she wanted to continue her work at Aubrey Hall. He was an uncommon man, her husband. He understood her. Sometimes she thought he might be the only person who did.
“My father still needs me,” she said. “At least until Edmund is ready to take over.”
George rose from the bed and walked over. “Your father’s steward would be thrilled to finally earn his wages.”
She glanced up. “I’m better than he is.”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
She batted him on the arm, then sighed when he leaned down and kissed her neck. “I should thank you,” she said.
His lips stilled, and she felt him smile against her skin. “For what?”
“Everything, really. But mostly for being you.”
“Then you’re most welcome, Lady Kennard.”
“I’ll try to cut back a little,” she said. George was right. She probably didn’t need to do quite so much at Aubrey Hall. And the way they were going, she’d be pregnant sooner rather than later. She was going to have to learn to let go of her life at Aubrey, or at least loosen her grip.
She pulled back so that she could look at his face. “You wouldn’t mind if I took a more active role here at Crake? With the lands, not just the house?”
“Of course not! We’d be lucky to —” He stopped, his words interrupted by a knock at the door. “Enter!”
The door opened to reveal a visibly agitated footman. “A messenger, my lord,” he said.
Billie blinked in surprise. “This time of night?”
The footman held out a folded missive. “It’s addressed to Lord Manston, but he’s —”
“In London,” George finished for him. “I’ll take it.”
“He said it was urgent,” the footman said. “Otherwise, I’d never give over your father’s private correspondence.”
“It’s all right, Thomas,” Billie said gently. “If it’s urgent, it’s more important that it is attended to quickly than it is to deliver it to Lord Manston.”
George slid a finger under the wax but did not break the seal. “Does the messenger wait for a reply?”
“No, sir. But I directed him belowstairs for a hot meal.”
“Very good, Thomas. That will be all.”
The footman left, and Billie fought the urge to go to her husband’s side to read over his shoulder. Whatever was in the missive, he’d tell her soon enough.
She watched as his eyes scanned left to right, quickly reading the words. About four lines down his lips parted and he looked up. Her heart stopped, and she knew what he was going to say even before the words left his lips.
“Edward’s alive…”