Billie tipped her head to the side. She knew which day he was talking about. It had been miserable. She had been planning to take her mare Argo out to inspect the fences at the southern end of her father's lands. And maybe stop at the wild strawberry patch. It was much too early in the season for fruit, but the blossoms would be starting to emerge, and she was curious as to their abundance.

"I stayed indoors, of course," George continued. "There was no reason to go out."

She wasn't quite sure where he was going with this, but obliged him by inquiring, "How did you occupy yourself?"

"I read a book." He sounded quite pleased with himself. "I sat in my study and read an entire book from start to finish, and it was quite the most pleasant day in recent memory."

"You need to get out more," she deadpanned.

He ignored that entirely. "All I'm saying is, I spent the day cooped up, as you call it, and it was delightful."

"Well. That just proves my point."

"We were making points?"

"We're always making points, George."

"And always keeping score?" he murmured.

Always. But she didn't say it out loud. It seemed childish. And petty. And worse, like she was trying too hard to be something she wasn't. Or rather, something she was but that society would never allow her to be. He was Lord Kennard, and she was Miss Sybilla Bridgerton, and while she'd gleefully stack her inner fortitude up against his any day of the week, she was no fool. She understood how the world worked. Here in her little corner of Kent, she was queen of her domain, but in any contest held outside the homey little circle drawn 'round Crake and Aubrey Hall...

George Rokesby would win. Always. Or if not, he'd give the appearance of having done so.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

"You look uncommonly serious all of a sudden," he said, stepping onto the polished parquet of the ground floor hall.

"Thinking about you," she said truthfully.

"A dare if ever I heard one." He reached the open door to the drawing room, and his lips moved closer to her ear. "And one I shall not take."

Her tongue touched the top of her mouth, readying a reply, but before she could make a sound, George had stepped through the entry to Crake House's formal drawing room.

"Good evening, everyone," he said grandly.

Any hope Billie might have had at making a subtle entrance were squashed immediately when she realized they were the last to arrive. Her mother was seated next to Lady Manston on the long sofa with Georgiana in a nearby chair looking vaguely bored. The men had congregated over by the window. Lords Bridgerton and Manston were chatting with Andrew, who was happily accepting a glass of brandy from his father.

"Billie!" her mother exclaimed, practically hopping to her feet. "In your message you wrote that it was just a sprain."

"It is just a sprain," Billie replied. "I'll be as good as new by the end of the week."

George snorted. She ignored him.

"It's nothing, Mama," Billie assured her. "I've certainly done worse."

Andrew snorted. She ignored him, too.

"With a cane, she might have made it down on her own," George said as he set her down on the settee, "but it would have taken her thrice as long, and neither of us has the patience for that."

Billie's father, who had been standing by the window with a glass of brandy, let out a hearty guffaw.

Billie gave him a bit of an evil eye, which only made him laugh with more vigor.

"Is that one of Mary's gowns?" Lady Bridgerton asked.

Billie nodded. "I was in breeches."

Her mother sighed but made no comment. It was an endless argument between them, and their truce was maintained only by Billie's promise to always dress properly for dinner. And among guests. And at church.

There was actually a rather long list of events for which she was required to attire herself to her mother's specifications. But in the matter of Billie wearing breeches while conducting business around the estate, Lady Bridgerton had acquiesced.

To Billie, it had felt like a victory. As she had explained to her mother repeatedly all she really needed was permission to dress sensibly when out and about. The tenants surely called her something more colorful than eccentric, but she knew she was well-liked. And respected.

The affection had come naturally; according to Billie's mother, she'd emerged from the womb smiling, and even as a child, she'd been the tenants' favorite.

The respect, however, had been earned, and for that reason it was all the more fiercely treasured.

Billie knew that her younger brother would one day inherit Aubrey Hall and all its lands, but Edmund was still a child, eight years her junior. Most of the time he was away at school. Their father wasn't getting any younger, and someone had to learn how to properly manage such a large estate. Besides, Billie was a natural at it; everyone said so.

She'd been an only child for so many years; there had been two babies between her and Edmund's births, but neither had lived past infancy. During those years of prayers and hopes and wishing for an heir, Billie had become something of a mascot to the tenants, a living, smiling symbol of Aubrey Hall's future.

Unlike most highborn daughters, Billie had always accompanied her parents on their duties around the estate. When her mother brought baskets of food to the needy, she was right there with apples for the children. When her father was out surveying the land, she could more often than not be found at his feet, digging up worms as she explained why she thought rye would be a much better choice than barley in such a sun-starved field.

At first she'd been a source of amusement the energetic little five-year-old who insisted upon measuring grain when the rents were collected. But eventually she became a fixture, and now it was expected that she would see to the needs of the estate. If a cottage roof was leaking, she was the one who made sure it was mended. If a harvest was lean, she went out and tried to figure out why.

She was, for all intents and purposes, her father's eldest son.

Other young ladies might read romantic poetry and Shakespearean tragedies. Billie read treatises on agricultural management. And she loved them. Honestly. They were ripping good reads.

It was difficult to imagine a life that might suit her better, but it had to be said: it was all much easier to conduct without a corset.

Much as it pained her mother.

"I was out seeing to the irrigation," Billie explained. "It would have been impractical in a frock."

"I didn't say anything," Lady Bridgerton said, even though they all knew she'd been thinking it.

"Not to mention difficult to climb that tree," Andrew put in.

That did get her mother's attention. "She was climbing a tree?"

"Saving a cat," Andrew confirmed.

"One might assume," George said, his voice purring with authority, "that had she been wearing a frock, she would not have attempted the tree."

"What happened to the cat?" Georgiana asked.

Billie looked to her sister. She'd almost forgotten she was there. And she had definitely forgotten the cat. "I don't know."

Georgiana leaned forward, her blue eyes impatient. "Well, did you save it?"

"If so," Billie said, "it was entirely against its wishes."

"It was a most ungrateful feline," George said.

Billie's father chuckled at the description and gave him a manly slap on the back. "George, m'boy, we must get you a drink. You'll need it after your trials."

Billie's mouth fell open. "His trials?"

George smirked, but no one else saw it, the bloody man.

"Mary's gown looks lovely on you," Lady Bridgerton said, steering the conversation back to more ladylike pursuits.

"Thank you," Billie replied. "I rather like this shade of green." Her fingers flitted to the lace along the round neckline. It was really most becoming.

Her mother stared at her in shock.

"I like pretty dresses," Billie insisted. "I just don't like wearing them when it's impractical to do so."

"The cat," Georgiana persisted.

Billie flicked her an impatient look. "I told you, I don't know. Honestly, it was a horrid little creature."

"Agreed," George said, raising his glass in salute.

"I can't believe you're toasting to the possible demise of a cat," Georgiana said.

"I'm not," Billie replied, glancing around to see if someone might bring her a drink. "But I'd like to."

"It's all right, darling," Lady Bridgerton murmured, giving her younger daughter a reassuring smile. "Don't fret so."

Billie looked back at Georgiana. If their mother used such a tone on her, she would likely go mad. But Georgiana had been sickly as a child, and Lady Bridgerton had never quite learned to treat her with anything less than solicitous concern.

"I'm sure the cat survived its ordeal," Billie told Georgiana. "He was quite a scrappy fellow. Had the look of a survivor in his eye."

Andrew loped over and leaned down near Georgiana's shoulder. "Always lands on its feet, that one."

"Oh, stop!" Georgiana batted him away, but it was clear she wasn't angry about the joke. No one was ever angry at Andrew. Not for long, at least.

"Is there any news of Edward?" Billie asked Lady Manston.

Lady Manston's eyes clouded as she shook her head. "None since the last letter. The one we received last month."

"I'm sure he's well," Billie said. "He is such a talented soldier."

"I'm not sure how much talent plays into it when someone is aiming a gun at your chest," George said darkly.

Billie turned to glare. "Don't listen to him," she said to Lady Manston. "He's never been a soldier."

Lady Manston smiled at her, an expression that was sad and sweet and loving, all at once. "I think he would like to have been," she said, peering up at her eldest. "Wouldn't you, George?"

Chapter 6.

G.

eorge forced his face into an impassive mask. His mother meant well; she always did. But she was a woman. She could never understand what it meant to fight for one's king and country. She could never understand what it meant not to do so.

"It doesn't matter what I wanted," he said gruffly. He took a large gulp of his brandy. Then he took another. "I was needed here."

"For which I am grateful," his mother declared. She turned back to the other ladies with a determined smile, but her eyes were overbright. "I don't need all of my sons going off to war. God willing, this nonsense will be over before Nicholas is of an age to take a commission."

At first no one spoke. Lady Manston's voice had been just a little too loud, her words just a little too shrill. It was one of those awkward moments that no one quite knew how to break. George finally took a small sip of his drink and said in a low voice, "There will always be nonsense among men."

That seemed to let some of the tension out of the air, and sure enough, Billie looked up at him with a defiant tilt to her chin. "Women would do a far better job if we were allowed to govern."

He returned her volley with a bland smile. She was trying to goad him. He refused to indulge her.

Billie's father, however, was hooked quite neatly on her bait. "I'm certain you would," he said, with enough placation in his voice for everyone to know he did not mean it.

"We would," Billie insisted. "Certainly there would be less war."

"I would have to agree with her there," Andrew said, lifting his glass in her direction.

"It's a moot point," Lord Manston said. "If God had wanted women to govern and fight, he would have made them strong enough to wield swords and muskets."

"I can shoot," Billie said.

Lord Manston looked at her and blinked. "Yes," he said, almost as if he were contemplating an odd scientific curiosity, "you probably can."

"Billie brought down a stag last winter," Lord Bridgerton said, shrugging as if this were a normal occurrence.

"Did you?" Andrew said admiringly. "Well done."

Billie smiled. "It was delicious."

"I can't believe you allow her to hunt," Lord Manston said to Lord Bridgerton.

"Do you really think I could stop her?"

"No one can stop Billie," George muttered. He turned abruptly and crossed the room to get another drink.

There was a long silence. An uncomfortable silence. George decided that this time he didn't care.

"How is Nicholas?" Lady Bridgerton asked. George smiled into his glass. She'd always known how to deflect a conversation from delicate topics. Sure enough, her perfect social smile was evident in her voice as she added, "Better behaved than Edmund and Hugo, I'm sure."

"I'm sure he isn't," Lady Manston returned with a laugh.

"Nicholas wouldn't -" Georgiana started to say.