She smiled a sleepy, happy thing and said, "I never have trouble falling asleep."

"Never?"

She shook her head, and her hair, which had long since given up any attempt to remain confined with pins, crept up and tickled his chin. "I can sleep anywhere," she said with a yawn.

She dozed the rest of the way home, and George did not mind it at all.

Chapter 5.

B.

illie had been born just seventeen days after Mary Rokesby, and according to their parents, they had been the best of friends from the moment they'd been placed in the same cradle when Lady Bridgerton called upon Lady Manston for their regular Thursday morning visit.

Billie wasn't sure why her mother had brought along a two-month-old baby when there had been a perfectly able nanny back at Aubrey Hall, but she suspected it had something to do with her rolling over from front to back at the improbably early age of six weeks.

The Ladies Bridgerton and Manston were devoted and loyal friends, and Billie was quite sure that each would lay down her life for the other (or for the other's children), but it had to be said, there had always been a strong element of competition in their relationship.

Billie also suspected that her stunning prowess in the art of rolling over had less to do with innate genius and more to do with the tip of her mother's forefinger against her shoulder, but as her mother pointed out, there were no witnesses.

But what was witnessed by both their mothers and a housemaid was that when Billie had been placed in Mary's spacious cradle, she had reached out and grabbed the other baby's tiny hand. And when their mothers tried to pull them apart, they both started howling like banshees.

Billie's mother told her that she had been tempted to just leave her there at Crake House overnight; it was the only way to keep both babies calm.

That first morning was surely a portent of things to come. Billie and Mary were, as their nannies like to say, two peas in a pod. Two very different peas that happened to be quite fond of each other.

Where Billie was fearless, Mary was careful. Not timid, just careful. She always looked before she leapt. Billie looked, too; she just tended to do it in a somewhat more perfunctory manner.

And then she leapt high and far, often outdoing both Edward and Andrew, who had been more or less forced to befriend her after they realized that Billie would A) follow them to the ends of the earth except that B) she'd probably get there before they did.

With Mary after a careful consideration of the ambient danger right at her heels.

And so they became a foursome. Three wild children and one voice of reason.

They did listen to Mary occasionally. Truly, they did. It was probably the only reason all four had reached adulthood without permanent injury.

But like all good things, it came to an end, and a few years after both Edward and Andrew left home, Mary had fallen in love, got married, and moved away. She and Billie exchanged letters regularly, but it wasn't the same. Still, Billie would always call Mary her best friend, and thus, when she found herself at Crake House with a sprained ankle and nothing to wear but men's breeches and a rather dusty shirt and coat, she had no compunction raiding her friend's wardrobe for a garment suitable for a family dinner. Most of the dresses were a few years out of fashion, but that didn't bother Billie. In all truth, she likely wouldn't have even noticed if the maid who was helping her to dress for dinner hadn't apologized for it.

And they were certainly more stylish than anything she possessed in her own closet.

Billie rather thought that the bigger problem was the length, or rather, the excess of it. Mary was taller than she was, by at least three inches. It had always irked Billie (and amused Mary) to no end; it had always seemed like she should be the taller of the two. But as Billie couldn't even walk, this was less of an issue than it might have been.

Mary's gowns were also a bit too large in the chest. But beggars could never be choosers, and so Billie tucked two extra fichus into the bodice and decided instead to be grateful that Mary's wardrobe had contained a relatively simple round gown in a shade of forest green that Billie liked to think flattered her complexion.

The maid was tucking a few final pins into Billie's hair when a knock sounded on the door to Mary's old room, where Billie had taken up residence.

"George," she said with surprise when she saw his strong form filling the doorway. He was elegantly dressed in a midnight blue coat that she suspected would complement his eyes if he wore it in the full light of day. Gold buttons twinkled in the candlelight, adding to his already regal mien.

"My lady," he murmured, executing a small bow. "I've come to help you down to the drawing room."

"Oh." Billie wasn't sure why she was surprised. Andrew couldn't very well do it, and her father, who was surely already downstairs, wasn't as strong as he used to be.

"If you prefer," George said, "we could summon a footman."

"No, no, of course not," Billie replied. A footman seemed most awkward. At least she knew George. And he had already carried her once.

He came into the room, clasping his hands behind his back when he reached her side. "How is your ankle?"

"Still quite painful," she admitted, "but I bound it with some wide ribbon, and that seems to be helping."

His lips curved, and his eyes took on an azure sparkle of amusement. "Ribbon?"

To her maid's horror, Billie hiked up her overlong skirt and stuck out her foot, revealing an ankle bound in a length of festive pink ribbon.

"Very stylish," George commented.

"I could not justify tearing up a bedsheet when this would do just as well."

"Ever practical."

"I like to think so," Billie said, her jaunty voice giving way to a slight frown when it occurred to her that this might not have been a compliment. "Well," she said, brushing an invisible speck of dust off her arm, "they're your sheets, at any rate. You should thank me."

"I'm sure I do."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Yes," he said, "I'm mocking you. But only a little."

Billie felt her chin rise an inch or so. "So long as it's only a little."

"I wouldn't dare otherwise," he replied. He leaned in, just a bit. "At least not in your presence."

Billie stole a glance at the maid. She appeared thoroughly scandalized by the exchange.

"In all seriousness, though, Billie," George said, proving that a sympathetic heart did beat somewhere in his chest, "are you certain you're well enough to dine?"

She fastened an earring. Again, Mary's. "I have to eat. I might as well do it in good company."

He smiled at that. "It has been too long since we have had everyone well, at least as many as we have tonight together."

Billie nodded, feeling wistful. When she was a child, the Rokesbys and Bridgertons had dined together several times each month. With nine children between the two families, suppers or luncheons, or whatever odd holiday they'd elected to celebrate could not be anything but loud and boisterous affairs.

But one by one, the boys left for Eton, first George, then Edward, and then Andrew. Billie's two younger brothers, Edmund and Hugo, were boarding there now, along with the youngest Rokesby, Nicholas. Mary had found love and moved to Sussex, and now the only ones left in regular residence were Billie and her younger sister Georgiana, who at fourteen was perfectly pleasant but no bosom bow for a grown woman of three and twenty.

And George of course, but eligible unmarried gentleman that he was he split his time between Kent and London.

"Penny for them," George said, crossing the room to where Billie sat at the vanity.

She shook her head. "Not worth even that, I'm afraid. It's all quite maudlin, really."

"Maudlin? You? I must learn more."

She gave him a look, then said, "We are so diminished in number now. There used to be so many of us."

"There still are," he pointed out.

"I know, but we're so rarely together. It makes me sad." She could hardly believe she was speaking so frankly with George, but it had been such an odd, trying day. Perhaps it was making her less guarded.

"We shall all be together again," he said gamely. "I'm quite sure of it."

Billie lifted a brow. "Have you been assigned to cheer me up?"

"Your mother offered me three quid."

"What?"

"I jest."

She scowled, but with no real feeling behind it.

"Here, come now. I'll carry you down." He bent down to take her into his arms, but when he moved to the right, she moved to the left, and their heads bumped.

"Ooof, sorry," he muttered.

"No, it was my fault."

"Here, I'll..." He made to put his arms behind her back and under her legs, but there was something inescapably awkward about it, which was the oddest thing, since he had carried her for over a mile just a few hours earlier.

He lifted her into the air, and the maid, who had been standing at quiet attention throughout the conversation, jolted out of the way as Billie's legs swung around in an arc.

"A little less pressure on my neck, if you would," George said.

"Oh, so sorry." Billie adjusted her position. "It was just the same as this afternoon."

He moved out into the hall. "No, it wasn't."

Maybe not, Billie conceded to herself. She'd felt so at ease when he had carried her through the woods. Far more at ease than she'd had any right to in the arms of a man who was not her relation. Now it was just plain uncomfortable. She was excruciatingly aware of his nearness, of the bold heat of his body, seeping through his clothing. His coat collar was properly high, but when her finger grazed the very top of it, a little lock of his light brown hair curled down over her skin.

"Is aught amiss?" he asked as they reached the top of the staircase.

"No," she said quickly, then cleared her throat. "Why would you think so?"

"You haven't stopped fidgeting since I picked you up."

"Oh." She couldn't really think of anything to say to that. "It's just that my foot hurts." No, apparently she could think of something. Pity it was completely irrelevant.

He paused, gazing down at her with concern. "Are you sure you want to come to dinner?"

"I'm sure." She let out an exasperated snuff of air. "For heaven's sake, I'm already here. It would be ridiculous to quarantine myself in Mary's room."

"It's hardly a quarantine."

"It would feel like quarantine," she muttered.

He regarded her with a curious expression. "You don't like being by yourself, do you?"

"Not when the rest of the world is making merry without me," she retorted.

He was quiet for a moment, his head cocking just far enough to the side to indicate that he found her words curious. "What about the rest of the time?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"When the world isn't gathering without you," he said with a vaguely condescending tone. "Do you mind being on your own?"

She felt her brows come together as she gazed up at him. What on earth could be prompting such probing?

"It's not a difficult query," he said, something slightly provocative bringing his voice down to a murmur.

"No, of course I don't mind being alone." She pressed her lips together, feeling rather peeved. And peevish. But he was asking her questions she never even asked herself. But then, before she realized she was planning to speak, she heard herself say, "I don't like -"

"What?"

She gave her head a shake. "Never mind."

"No, tell me."

She let out a sigh. He wasn't going to let up. "I don't like being cooped up. I can spend all day in my own company if I'm out of doors. Or even down in the drawing room, where the windows are tall and let in so much light."

He nodded slowly, as if he agreed with her.

"Are you much the same way, then?" she asked.

"Not at all," he said.

Well, then, so much for her being able to interpret his gestures.

"I quite enjoy my own company," he continued.

"I'm sure you do."

His mouth managed half a smile. "I thought we weren't insulting each other tonight."

"We weren't?"

"I am carrying you down a flight of stairs. You'd do well to speak kindly to me."

"Point taken," she acceded.

George rounded the landing, and she thought they were done with the conversation when he said, "The other day it rained... all day long, unremittingly."