Billie wouldn’t have been surprised if she had an entire tea service hiding down there.
And then. And then! She’d put her hand on George’s forearm like she owned it. Even Billie wouldn’t have dared such a familiar gesture in such a formal setting. She leaned in her chair, trying to get a look at George’s face. He could not be happy about this.
“Are you all right?”
She turned. Andrew was regarding her with an expression that hovered somewhere between suspicion and concern.
“I’m fine,” she said in a clipped voice. “Why?”
“You’re about to fall in my lap.”
She lurched upright. “Don’t be absurd.”
“Has Sir Reginald broken wind?” Andrew murmured.
“Andrew!”
He gave her an unrepentant smirk. “It was either that or you’ve developed a new fondness for me.”
She glared at him.
“I do love you, Billie,” he drawled, “but not that way.”
She rolled her eyes because… Well, because. Andrew was a wretch. He had always been a wretch. And she didn’t love him that way, either.
But he didn’t have to be quite so mean-spirited about it.
“What do you think of Lady Alexandra?” she whispered.
“Which one is she?”
“The one who is crawling over your brother,” she said impatiently.
“Oh, that one.” Andrew sounded like he was trying not to laugh.
“He looks very unhappy.”
Andrew tipped his head as he regarded his brother. Unlike Billie, he did not have a gargantuan fruit display to contend with. “I don’t know,” he mused. “He doesn’t look like he minds.”
“Are you blind?” Billie hissed.
“Not that I’m aware.”
“He— Oh, never mind. You’re of no use.”
Billie leaned again, this time toward Sir Reggie. He was talking with the woman on his left, so hopefully he wouldn’t notice.
Lady Alexandra’s hand was still on George’s arm.
Billie’s jaw clenched. He could not be happy about this. George was a very private person. She looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but he was saying something to Lady Alexandra, something perfectly pleasant and polite.
He didn’t look the least bit perturbed.
She fumed.
And then he looked up. He must have caught her looking at him because he leaned to his right just far enough to catch her eye.
His brows rose.
She flicked her gaze toward the ceiling and turned back to Sir Reggie, even though he was still speaking to the duchess’s niece.
She waited for a moment, but he seemed in no rush to return his attention to her, so she picked up her fork and knife and cut her meat into ever-tinier pieces.
Maybe George liked Lady Alexandra. Maybe he’d court her, and maybe they’d get married and have a flock of little Rokesby babies, all blue-eyed and plump-cheeked.
If that was what George wanted, that was what he should do.
But why did it seem so very wrong? And why did it hurt so much just to think about it?
Chapter 13
By one o’clock the following afternoon, George was remembering why he disliked house parties. Or rather, he was remembering that he disliked house parties.
Or maybe he just disliked this house party. Between the Northwick-besotted Fortescue-Endicott girls, Lord Reggie of the snow white teeth, and Ned Berbrooke, who had accidentally spilled port all over George’s boots the previous night, he was ready to crawl back to Crake House.
It was only three miles away. He could do it.
He’d skipped the midday meal – the only way to avoid Lady Alexandra, who seemed to have decided he was the next best thing to Northwick – and now he was in a very bad mood. He was hungry and he was tired, twin demons guaranteed to reduce a grown man’s disposition to that of a querulous three-year-old.
The previous night’s sleep had been…
Unsatisfying.
Yes, that seemed the most appropriate word. Desperately inadequate, but appropriate.
The Bridgertons had put all of the Rokesbys in the family wing, and George had sat in the cushioned chair by his fireplace, listening to the regular, ordinary sounds of a family ending the day – the maids attending the ladies, doors opening and closing…
It should have been of no consequence. They were all the same noises one heard at Crake. But somehow, here at Aubrey Hall it felt too intimate, almost as if he were eavesdropping.
With every soft and sleepy sound, his imagination took flight. He knew he couldn’t hear Billie moving about; her bedroom was across the hall and three doors down. But it felt like he heard her. In the silence of the night he sensed her feet lightly padding across her carpet. He felt the whisper of her breath as she blew out a candle. And when she settled into her bed, he was sure he could hear the rustling of her sheets.
She’d said she fell asleep immediately – but what then? Was she a restless sleeper? Did she wriggle about, kicking the covers, pushing the sheets to the bottom of the bed with her feet?
Or did she lie still, sweetly on her side with her hands tucked under her cheek?
He’d wager she was a squirmer; this was Billie, after all. She’d spent her entire childhood in constant motion. Why would she sleep any other way? And if she shared a bed with someone…
His brandy nightcap turned into three, but when he’d finally laid his head against his pillow, it had taken him hours to fall asleep. And then when he did, he’d dreamed of her.
And the dream… Oh, the dream.
He shuddered, the memory washing over him anew. If he’d ever thought of Billie as a sister…