He looked at her. At Billie Bridgerton, the bane of his existence since her birth twenty-three years earlier. She was glaring at him as if he’d committed some unspeakable affront, her cheeks high with color, her lips pursed like a furious rose.
With great and icy enunciation he said, “One minute has passed between the time the ladder hit the ground and this moment, right now, as these words are leaving my lips. Pray, tell me, when, during your enlightening analysis of the motion by which my foot connected with the ladder was I meant to offer this information?”
The corners of her mouth moved, but it wasn’t quite a smirk. It was nothing that indicated sarcasm. If she were anyone else, he would have thought her embarrassed, or maybe even sheepish. But this was Billie Bridgerton, and she didn’t do embarrassment. She just did as she pleased and damn the consequences. She had done her entire life, generally dragging half the Rokesby clan down with her.
And somehow everyone always forgave her. She had that way about her – it wasn’t charm exactly – it was that crazy, reckless confidence that made people flock to her side. Her family, his family, the entire bloody village – they all adored her. Her smile was wide, and her laugh was infectious, and God in heaven but how was it possible he was the only person in England who seemed to realize what a danger she was to humanity?
That twisted ankle of hers? It wasn’t the first. She’d broken her arm, too, in typically spectacular fashion. She’d been eight, and she had taken a tumble from a horse. A barely trained gelding she’d had no business riding, much less trying to jump a hedge on. The bone had healed perfectly – of course it did, Billie had always had the devil’s own luck – and within months she was back to her old ways, and no one thought to scold her. Not when she rode astride. In breeches. On that same damned gelding over that same damned hedge. And when one of his younger brothers followed her lead and knocked his shoulder out of joint…
Everyone had laughed. His parents – and hers – had shaken their heads and laughed, and not a one of them thought it prudent to take Billie off the horse, shove her into a dress, or better yet, pack her off to one of those girls’ schools that taught needlework and deportment.
Edward’s arm had been hanging from its socket. Its socket!! And the sound it had made when their stablemaster had shoved it back in…
George shuddered. It had been the sort of sound one felt rather than heard.
“Are you cold?” Billie asked.
He shook his head. Although she probably was. His coat was considerably thicker than hers. “Are you?”
“No.”
He looked at her closely. She was just the sort to try to tough it out and refuse to allow him to behave as a gentleman ought. “You would tell me if you were?”
She held up a hand as if to make a pledge. “I promise.”
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?”