"I will..." The word trailed off, lost in his turbulent thoughts, and all he could do was watch her. Watch her watching him as he tried to remember how to speak his mother tongue, as he tried to figure out which words were right, which words were reassuring. Because she looked sad. And she looked anxious. And he hated that.

"If you wish," he said, slowly enough to allow him to pick over his thoughts as he spoke, "I will watch out for you."

She eyed him cautiously. "What do you mean?"

"Make sure you..." He made an air motion with his hands, not that either one of them knew what it meant. "That you're... well."

"That I'm well?" she echoed.

"I don't know," he said, frustrated with his inability to put together a complete thought, much less translate it into actual sentences. "Just that if you need a friend, I will be there."

Her lips parted, and he saw movement in her throat, all her words trapped there, all her emotions in check.

"Thank you," she said. "That's..."

"Don't say it's kind of me," he ordered.

"Why not?"

"Because it's not kindness. It's... I don't know what it is," he said helplessly. "But it's not kindness."

Her lips quivered into a smile. A mischievous smile. "Very well," she said. "You're not kind."

"Never."

"May I call you selfish?"

"That would be going too far."

"Conceited?"

He took a step in her direction. "You're pushing your luck, Billie."

"Arrogant." She ran around the table, laughing as she put it between them. "Come now, George. You cannot deny arrogant."

Something devilish rose up within him. Something devilish and hot. "What do I get to call you?"

"Brilliant?"

He moved closer. "How about maddening?"

"Ah, but that's in the eye of the beholder."

"Reckless," he said.

She feinted left when he feinted right. "It's not recklessness if you know what you're doing."

"You fell onto a roof," he reminded her.

She grinned wickedly. "I thought you said I jumped."

He growled her name and lunged, chasing her as she shrieked, "I was trying to save the cat! I was being noble!"

"I'll show you noble..."

She yelped and jumped back.

Straight into the house of cards.

It did not fall gracefully.

Neither did Billie, to tell the truth. When the dust had settled, she was sitting squarely on the table, the wreckage of Andrew's masterpiece scattered around like a Chinese firecracker had been lit beneath it.

She looked up and said in a very small voice, "I don't suppose the two of us can put it back together."

Mutely, he shook his head.

She swallowed. "I think I might have reinjured my ankle."

"Badly?"

"No."

"In that case," he told her, "I'd advise you to lead with that when Andrew returns."

And of course that was when he walked through the door.

"I hurt my ankle," Billie all but yelled. "It really hurts."

George had to turn away. It was the only way to keep from laughing.

Andrew just stared. "Again," he finally said. "You did it again."

"It was a very nice house," she said weakly.

"I suppose it's a talent," Andrew said.

"Oh, indeed," Billie said brightly. "You're brilliant at it."

"No, I meant you."

"Oh." She swallowed her pride, most likely and stretched out a smile. "Well, yes. There's no point in doing something if you're not going to do it well, wouldn't you agree?"

Andrew said nothing. George had the urge to clap his hands in front of his face. Just to make sure he wasn't sleepwalking.

"I'm truly sorry," Billie said. "I'll make it up to you." She pushed herself off the table and limped her way upright. "Although I don't really know how."

"It was my fault," George said suddenly.

She turned to him. "You don't need to take the blame."

He held up his hands in supplication. "I was chasing you."

That snapped Andrew out of his daze. "You were chasing her?"

Damn. He had not thought that one through. "Not in so many words," George said.

Andrew turned to Billie. "He was chasing you?"

She didn't blush, but her expression turned most sheepish. "I might have been somewhat provoking..."

"Provoking?" George said with a snort. "You?"

"It's really the cat's fault," she returned. "I would never have fallen if my ankle wasn't so weak." She frowned thoughtfully. "I may blame everything on that mangy beast from now on."

"What is happening here?" Andrew asked, his face turning slowly from Billie to George and back again. "Why aren't you killing each other?"

"The small matter of the gallows," George murmured.

"Not to mention your mother would be very displeased," Billie added.

Andrew just stared at them, his mouth slack. "I'm going home," he finally said.

Billie giggled.

And George... his breath caught. Because he'd heard Billie giggle before. A thousand times he'd heard her giggle. But this time was different. It sounded exactly the same, but when the light laugh reached his ears...

It was the loveliest sound he'd ever heard.

And quite possibly the most terrifying. Because he had a feeling he knew what it meant. And if there was one person in this world he was not going to fall in love with, it was Billie Bridgerton.

Chapter 11.

B.

illie wasn't exactly certain what she'd done to her ankle when she crashed into Andrew's house of cards, but it felt only a little bit worse than before, so on the last day before the house party she decided that she was well enough to ride, as long as she did so sidesaddle.

She really didn't have any choice. Honestly, if she didn't get out to the west fields to monitor the progress of the barley crops, she had no idea who would. But dismounting was difficult, which meant she'd had to take a groom with her. Which neither of them enjoyed. The last thing the groom wanted was to inspect barley, and the last thing Billie wanted was to be watched by a groom while she inspected barley.

Her mare was in bad spirits as well, just to round out the cranky triumvirate. It had been a long time since Billie had sat in a sidesaddle, and Argo didn't like it one bit.

Neither did Billie. She had not forgotten how much she hated riding sidesaddle, but she had forgotten how much it hurt the next day when one was out of practice. With every step her right hip and thigh groaned with pain. Factor in her ankle, which was still twinging like mad, and it was a wonder she wasn't lurching around the house like a drunken sailor.

Or maybe she was. The servants gave her very odd looks when she made her way down the next morning to break her fast.

She supposed it was for the best that she was too sore to get back in the saddle. Her mother had made it explicitly clear that Billie was to remain at Aubrey Hall throughout the day. There were four Bridgertons currently in residence, she said, and there would be four Bridgertons standing in the drive to greet each and every guest.

And so Billie stood between her mother and Georgiana at one o'clock, when the Duchess of Westborough arrived in her grand coach and four, accompanied by her daughters (one engaged, one not) and niece.

Billie stood between her mother and Georgiana at half two, when Henry Maynard drove up in his racy little curricle with his good friend Sir Reginald McVie.

And she stood between her mother and Georgiana at twenty minutes past three, when Felix and Mary arrived with their neighbors Edward and Niall Berbrooke, who were both of good family and, it just so happened, of marriageable age.

"Finally," Lord Bridgerton grumbled, stretching a crick from his neck as they waited in their neat little row for Felix and Mary's carriage to come to a halt, "someone I know."

"You know the Berbrookes?" Georgiana asked, leaning forward to speak to him past her sister and mother.

"I know Felix and Mary," he replied. He looked at his wife. "When do the Rokesbys arrive?"

"An hour before supper," she said without turning her head. The carriage had come to a stop, and, consummate hostess that she was, her eyes were on the door, awaiting her guests.

"Remind me why they're sleeping over?" he asked.

"Because it will be infinitely more festive."

Lord Bridgerton frowned, but he very wisely chose not to question her further.

Billie, however, showed no such restraint. "If it were me," she said, tugging on the sleeve of her printed cotton dress, "I would want to sleep in my own bed."

"It's not you," her mother replied tartly, "and stop fidgeting."

"I can't help it. It's itchy."

"I think it looks lovely on you," Georgiana said.

"Thank you," Billie said, momentarily nonplussed. "I'm not so sure about the front." She looked down. The bodice draped in a crisscross fashion, rather like a shawl. She'd never worn anything quite like it, although her mother assured her it had been in style for several years.

Was she revealing too much decolletage? She reached for the pin that secured the linen near her waist. It looked like she could adjust it with a little - "Stop it," her mother hissed.

Billie sighed.

The carriage finally came to a complete stop, and Felix alighted first, holding out his hand to assist his wife. Mary Maynard (nee Rokesby) wore a chintz traveling jacket and shawl that even Billie could tell was the height of fashion. It looked absolutely perfect on her, Billie realized. Mary looked happy and jaunty from her light brown curls right down to the tips of her elegantly shod feet.

"Mary!" Lady Bridgerton gushed, striding forward with outstretched arms. "You are blooming!"

Georgiana elbowed Billie. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

Billie gave her a lopsided grimace and a shrug code universal for I-haven't-a-clue. Was Mary pregnant? And if so, why on earth did her mother know this before she did?

Georgiana leaned slightly in, whispering out the corner of her mouth. "She doesn't look -"

"Well, if she is," Billie cut in, whispering out the corner of her mouth, "she can't be very far along."

"Billie!" Mary exclaimed, hurrying over to greet her good friend with a hug.

Billie leaned forward, speaking in a low voice. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

Mary didn't even pretend to misunderstand. "I don't know how your mother knows," she said.