She glanced down at her foot as if she'd quite forgotten it was there. "Apparently not."

"If I might interrupt," Andrew said, bowing to Billie with a ridiculous sweep of his arm, "we are here to offer our assistance and succor in any way you deem necessary."

She gave Andrew the sort of look George normally reserved for small, recalcitrant children. "Are you sure you want to make such a sweeping promise?"

George leaned down until his lips were at the same latitude as her ear. "Pray remember that he uses 'we' as a grandiose gesture, not as a plural pronoun."

She grinned. "In other words, you want no part of it?"

"None whatsoever."

"You insult the lady," Andrew said without a hint of protest in his voice. He sprawled in one of the Bridgertons' fine wingback chairs, his long legs stretched out so that the heels of his boots rested against the carpet.

Billie gave him an exasperated glance before turning back to George. "Why are you here?"

George took a seat at the table across from her. "What he said, but without the hyperbole. We thought you might need company."

"Oh." She drew back a touch, clearly surprised by his frankness. "Thank you. That's very kind of you."

"Thank you, that's very kind of you?" Andrew echoed. "Who are you?"

She whipped her head to face him. "Was I supposed to curtsy?"

"It would have been nice," he demurred.

"Impossible on crutches."

"Well, if that's the case..."

Billie turned back to George. "He's an idiot."

He held up his hands. "You will find no argument here."

"The plight of the younger son," Andrew said with a sigh.

Billie rolled her eyes, tipping her head toward Andrew as she said to George, "Don't encourage him."

"To be ganged up upon," Andrew went on, "never respected..."

George craned his neck, trying to read the title of Billie's book. "What are you reading?"

"And," Andrew continued, "apparently ignored as well."

Billie rotated her book so that the gold leaf lettering faced George. "Prescott's Encyclopaedia of Agriculture."

"Volume Four," he said approvingly. He had volumes one through three in his own personal library.

"Yes, it was only recently published," Billie confirmed.

"It must have been very recently, or I would have purchased it when I was last in London."

"My father brought it back from his most recent trip. You can read it when I'm done if you wish."

"Oh, no, I'm sure I'll need a copy of my own."

"As a reference," she said with an approving nod.

"This might be the dullest conversation I have ever beheld," Andrew said from behind them.

They ignored him.

"Do you often read such tomes?" George asked, nodding at the Prescott book. He'd always thought ladies preferred slim volumes of poetry or plays by Shakespeare and Marlowe. It was what his sister and mother seemed to enjoy reading.

"Of course," she replied, scowling as if he'd insulted her with the very question.

"Billie helps her father with the land management," Andrew said, apparently bored of making fun of them. He pushed himself to his feet and wandered over to the wall of shelves, selecting a book seemingly at random. He leafed through a few pages, frowned, and put it back.

"Yes, you mentioned you'd been assisting him," George said. He looked at Billie. "Very singular of you."

Her eyes narrowed.

"That was not meant as an insult," he got in before she could open her rash little mouth, "just an observation."

She did not look convinced.

"You will concede," he said smoothly, "that most young ladies do not assist their fathers in such a manner. Hence, your singularity."

"I swear, George," Andrew said, glancing up from the book he was paging through, "you even give your compliments like a conceited ass."

"I'm going to kill him," George muttered.

"You'll have to form a line," Billie remarked. But then she lowered her voice. "It's a little bit true, though."

He drew back. "I beg your pardon?"

"You did sound a little..." She waved her hand in the air as a substitute for actually finishing her sentence.

"Like an ass?" George supplied.

"No!" She said this with enough speed and conviction for him to believe her. "Just a little bit..."

He waited.

"Are you talking about me?" Andrew asked, settling back in his chair with a book in his hand.

"No," they said in unison.

"I don't mind if it's complimentary," he murmured.

George ignored him, keeping his eyes on Billie. She was frowning. Two small lines formed between her brows, curving against each other like an hourglass, and her lips tightened into a curious pucker, almost as if she were anticipating a kiss.

He'd never watched her think, he realized.

Then he realized what a staggeringly odd observation that was.

"You did sound a little conceited," Billie finally said. Her voice was quiet, meant for their ears only. "But I think that's understandable?"

Understandable? He leaned forward. "Why are you saying that like it's a question?"

"I don't know."

He sat back and crossed his arms, quirking one brow to indicate that he was waiting for her to continue.

"Fine," she said, less than graciously. "You're the eldest, the heir. You're the brilliant, the handsome, oh, and we must not forget, the eligible Earl of Kennard."

George felt a slow smile spread across his face. "You think I'm handsome?"

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!"

"Brilliant, too," George murmured. "I had no idea."

"You're acting like Andrew," Billie muttered.

For some reason, this made him chuckle.

Billie's eyes narrowed into a glare.

George's smile stretched into a full-fledged grin. By God, it was fun to needle her.

She leaned forward, and in that moment he realized just how well people could speak through clenched teeth. "I was trying to be considerate," she ground out.

"I'm sorry," George said immediately.

Her lips pressed together. "You asked me a question. I was trying to give you an honest, thoughtful answer. I thought you deserved as much."

Well, now he felt like an ass.

"I'm sorry," he said again, and this time it was more than an ingrained bit of polite manners.

Billie let out a breath, and she caught the inside of her lower lip between her teeth. She was thinking again, George realized. How remarkable it was to see another person think. Was everyone this expressive as they pondered their ideas?

"It's how you were brought up," she finally said. "You're no more to blame than..." She exhaled again, but George was patient. She would find the right words.

And after a few moments, she did. "You've been raised -" But this time she stopped herself quite suddenly.

"To be conceited?" he said softly.

"To be confident," she corrected, but he had a feeling that his statement was a lot closer to what she had been about to say. "It's not your fault," she added.

"Now who's being patronizing?"

She gave him a wry smile. "Me, I'm sure. But it's true. You can't help it any more than I can help being a..." She waved her hands again, which was apparently her all-purpose gesture for things that were too awkward to say aloud.

"What I am," she finally finished.

"What you are." He said it softly. He said it because he had to say it, even if he didn't know why.

She looked up at him, but only with her eyes. Her face remained tipped slightly down, and he had the oddest notion that if he did not meet her gaze, if he did not hold it with his own, she would return hers to her tightly clutched hands, and the moment would be lost forever.

"What are you?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "I have no idea."

"Is anyone hungry?" Andrew suddenly asked.

George blinked, trying to snap himself out of whatever spell had been cast over him.

"Because I am," Andrew continued. "Famished. Utterly. I ate only one breakfast this morning."

"One breakfast?" Billie started to say, but Andrew was already on his feet, bounding over to her side.

He set his hands on the table, leaning down to murmur, "I was hoping I'd be invited to tea."

"Of course you're invited to tea," Billie said, but she sounded just as off-balance as George felt. She frowned. "It's a little early, though."

"It's never too early for tea," Andrew declared. "Not if your cook has been making shortbread." He turned to George. "I don't know what she puts in it, but it's divine."

"Butter," Billie said absently. "Quite a lot of it."

Andrew cocked his head to the side. "Well, that makes sense. Everything tastes better with quite a lot of butter."

"We should ask Georgiana to join us," Billie said, reaching for her crutches. "I'm meant to be helping her plan the entertainments for the house party." She rolled her eyes. "My mother's orders."

Andrew let out a bark of laughter. "Does your mother even know you?"

Billie threw an irritated look at him over her shoulder.

"Seriously, Billie-goat, what will you have us do? Head out to the south lawn to plant barley?"

"Stop," George said.

Andrew swung around. "What was that?"

"Leave her alone."

Andrew stared at him for so long George could not help but wonder if he'd been speaking in tongues.

"It's Billie," Andrew finally said.