"It does, doesn't it?" Mr. Berbrooke said, looking inordinately pleased with this development.

"And," Billie added with great flair, "look how you're blocking everyone else. Well done, you."

Lady Alexandra let out a loud huff. "Whose turn is it?"

"Mine, I believe," George said smoothly.

Billie smiled to herself. She loved the way he said so much with nothing but a polite murmur. Lady Alexandra would hear a gentleman making a casual comment, but Billie knew him better. She knew him better than that pompous duke's daughter ever would.

She heard his smile. He was amused by the entire exchange, even if he was too well-bred to show it.

She heard his salute. Billie had won this round; he was congratulating her.

And she heard his gentle scolding, a warning of sorts. He was cautioning her not to carry this too far.

Which she probably would. He knew her every bit as well as she knew him.

"Take your turn, George," Andrew said.

Billie watched as George stepped forward and set up his play. He squinted as he aimed. It was kind of adorable.

What a thought. George Rokesby, adorable? It was just the most ridiculous thing.

She let out a little chuckle, just as George hit his ball. It was a good shot, landing him directly in front of the wicket.

"Oh, my goodness," Georgiana said, blinking at the field. "Now we'll never get through."

She was right. The black and blue balls were mere inches apart, flanking both sides of the wicket. Anyone who attempted the wicket would just add to the jam.

George stepped back toward Billie, clearing the way for the next few players. He leaned toward her, his mouth drawing close to her ear. "Were you laughing at me?" he murmured.

"Just a little bit," she replied, watching Georgiana trying to figure out her shot.

"Why?"

Her lips parted before she realized she couldn't possibly give him an honest reply. She turned to look at him, and again he was closer than she'd expected, closer than he ought to have dared.

She was suddenly aware.

Of his breath, warm across her skin.

Of his eyes, so blue and so magnetically fastened upon her own.

Of his lips, fine, full, and carrying a hint of a smile.

Of him. Simply of him.

She whispered his name.

He cocked his head to the side in question, and she realized she had no idea why she'd beckoned, just that there was something so right about standing here with him, and when he looked at her like that, like he thought she was remarkable, she felt remarkable.

She felt beautiful.

She knew it couldn't be true, because he'd never thought of her that way. And she didn't want him to.

Or did she?

She gasped.

"Something wrong?" he murmured.

She shook her head. Everything was wrong.

"Billie?"

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss George. She'd reached the age of three-and-twenty without wanting to even so much as flirt with a gentleman and now she wanted George Rokesby?

Oh, this was wrong. This was very, very wrong. This was panic-inducing, world-flipping, heart-stopping wrong.

"Billie, is something wrong?"

She snapped to attention, then remembered to breathe. "Nothing," she said, rather too brightly. "Nothing at all."

But what would he do? How would he react if she marched up to him, grabbed him by the back of his head, and dragged his mouth down to hers?

He'd tell her she was raving mad, that's what he'd do. To say nothing of the four other Pall Mall players not twenty yards away.

But what if no one else were here? What if the rest of the world fell away, and there was no one to witness her insanity? Would she do it?

And would he kiss her back?

"Billie? Billie?"

She turned, dazed, toward the sound of his voice.

"Billie, what is wrong with you?"

She blinked, bringing his face into focus. He looked concerned. She almost laughed. He ought to be concerned.

"Billie..."

"I'm fine," she said quickly. "Really. It's... ah... are you warm?" She fanned herself with her hand. "I'm very warm."

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. It wasn't the least bit warm.

"I think it's my turn!" she blurted.

She had no idea if it was her turn.

"No," George said, "Andrew's still going. I daresay Lady Alexandra is in for trouble."

"Is she," she murmured, her thoughts still on her imaginary kiss.

"Damn it, Billie, now I know something is wrong." He scowled. "I thought you wanted to crush her."

"I do," she said, slowly regaining possession of her brain. Dear heavens, she could not let herself get so discomfited. George wasn't stupid. If she descended into idiocy every time he looked at her he was going to realize that something was amiss. And if he realized that she might possibly be just a little bit infatuated...

No. He could never know.

"Your turn, Billie!" Andrew bellowed.

"Right," she said. "Right, right, right." She looked over at George without actually looking at him. "Excuse me." She hurried over to her ball, gave the field a cursory examination, and whacked it toward the next wicket.

"I do believe you've overshot," Lady Alexandra said, sidling up next to her.

Billie forced a smile, trying to look enigmatic.

"Watch out!" someone yelled.

She jumped back just before the blue ball slammed into her toes. Lady Alexandra was equally nimble, and they both watched as Mr. Berbrooke's ball settled a few feet away from the wicket.

"I suppose it would serve us both right if that idiot won the game," Lady Alexandra said.

Billie stared at her in surprise. It was one thing to trade insults with her; she could certainly give as good as she got. But to disparage Mr. Berbrooke, who was quite possibly the most genial man she'd ever met...

Honestly, the woman was a monster.

Billie glanced back up the course. The purple ball was still firmly fixed behind the first wicket. "It's almost your turn," she said sweetly.

Lady Alexandra narrowed her eyes and made a surprisingly unpleasant sound before stalking off.

"What did you say to her?" George asked a moment later. He'd just taken his turn and was presently well-situated to take the second wicket.

"She is a terrible person," Billie muttered.

"Not what I asked," George said, glancing back at the lady in question, "but probably answer enough."

"She- Oh, never mind." Billie gave her head a shake. "She's not worth my breath."

"Certainly not," George agreed.

Billie's heart did a flip at the compliment, and she turned. "George, have you -" She frowned, cocking her head to the side. "Is that Felix coming toward us?"

George shaded his eyes as he peered in the direction she was pointing. "I believe so, yes."

"He's moving very quickly. I hope nothing is amiss."

They watched as Felix approached Andrew, who was closer than they were to the house. They spoke for a few moments and then Andrew took off at a full sprint.

"Something's wrong," George said. Mallet still in hand, he started walking toward Felix, picking up speed with every step.

Billie hurried after him as best she could, half-limping half-hopping, the rest of their Pall Mall equipment forgotten on the lawn. Frustrated with her lack of speed, she hiked up her skirts and just ran, pain be damned. She caught up with George moments after he reached Felix.

"There was a messenger," Felix was saying.

George's eyes searched his face. "Edward?"

Billie's hand flew to her mouth. Not Edward. Oh, please, not Edward.

Felix nodded grimly. "He's gone missing."

Chapter 16.

G.

eorge was already halfway to Aubrey Hall before he realized that Billie was scurrying alongside him, forced to run just to keep up with his long, swift stride.

Running. She was running.

On her ankle.

He stopped short. "What are you -"

But then it occurred to him, without even pausing for thought. This was Billie. Of course she was going to run on her injured ankle. She was headstrong. She was reckless.

She cared.

He did not say another word. He simply scooped her into his arms and continued on toward the house, his pace only fractionally slower than before.

"You didn't have to carry me," she said.

He heard the pain in her voice. "Yes," he said. "I did."

"Thank you," she whispered, her words melting into his shirt.

But he couldn't respond. He was beyond words now, at least beyond meaningless platitudes. He didn't need to say anything for Billie to know that he'd heard her. She would understand. She would know that his head was somewhere else, somewhere far beyond please and you're welcome.

"They're in the private drawing room," Felix said when they reached the house. George could only assume that they meant the rest of his family. And maybe the Bridgertons, as well.

They were family, too, he realized. They'd always been family.

When he reached the drawing room, the sight that awaited him was one to make any grown man blanch. His mother was on the sofa, sobbing in Lady Bridgerton's arms. Andrew looked to be in shock. And his father...

His father was crying.

Lord Manston stood removed from the rest of the group, not quite facing them but not turned entirely away. His arms were sticks at his sides, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, as if that might possibly halt the slow trickle of tears down his cheeks. As if maybe, if he could not see the world around him, then none of this would have happened.

George had never seen his father cry. He had not imagined it even possible. He tried not to stare, but the sight was so stunning, so soul-altering, that he could not quite look away.