First Comes Scandal (Rokesbys #4)(24)

She sighed contentedly. “Have they killed each other?”

Nicholas turned back to watch the boys, which was what he was supposed to be doing. “Not yet.”

“Good. It got quiet there for a moment.” Her expression turned suspicious, even as she lay there with her eyes closed. “Too quiet.”

“They’re just running back and forth,” Nicholas said. “I’m trying to figure out if it’s a game, and if so, if it has rules.”

“There are definitely rules,” Georgie said. “Benedict tried to explain it, but I’m not sure he was speaking English.”

“I bet I could figure it out.”

She opened one eye to give him a dubious look.

“I was a seven-year-old boy once, you know.”

“Obviously.”

“Get up,” he said, nudging her again. “Watch Anthony. See how he’s picking up a rock?”

Georgie sat up instantly. “Anthony Bridgerton, do not throw that at your brother!” she yelled.

Anthony ground to a halt, planting indignant hands on his hips. “I wasn’t going to!”

“Oh, he was going to,” Georgie said.

“I don’t think he was,” Nicholas said thoughtfully. “See, look. He’s making a pile over there.”

Georgie frowned as she craned her neck. “So he is. What’s he building, a cairn?”

“Nothing so organized, I assure you. But … Watch Benedict now. He’s trying to get the rocks from Anthony’s pile—”

“Oh, that’s not going to happen,” Georgie cut in. “Anthony has six inches on him. And that boy is strong.”

“He’ll have to be sneaky,” Nicholas agreed.

They watched as Benedict charged his older brother with all the finesse of a wild boar.

Georgie chuckled. “Although brute force is always an option.”

“Always an option,” Nicholas agreed.

Anthony charged back.

“But not a wise one,” Georgie said.

“No.”

She frowned as they watched the boys go down in a tangle of limbs. “Are we concerned?”

“It does look as if it might end badly.”

“But will there be blood? That’s really all I need to know.”

Nicholas took a more assessing look. The boys were making an astonishing amount of noise, but mostly they were rolling around like wet puppies. “Not above the skin.”

She shot him a look. “What does that mean?”

“That’s all a bruise is, you know. Bleeding under the skin.”

“Huh.” She sounded vaguely intrigued. “I suppose that’s right. I hadn’t really thought about it.”

“Well, there you go. We call it an ecchymosis.”

“You can’t just call it a bruise?”

“Of course not. Then anyone would think they can be a doctor.”

He grinned when she batted him on the shoulder, then said, “But to answer your question the way you intended it, I don’t think there will be blood, but they may yet surprise me.”

Benedict made a sound that was not quite a shriek. But it was close. Very close.

“Would blood really be that surprising?” Georgie asked.

Anthony growled, and Nicholas began to reassess. “In what quantities?”

“Quantities that would either worry their parents or reveal me to be a bad monitor of small children.”

“Is this an either/or?”

She shoved him with her elbow.

He grinned. “Sorry, no. I don’t think so. Based upon my copious experience as a former seven-year-old boy.”

“It’s odd how you say that,” she mused, turning away from him to open the hamper.

“What do you mean?”

“‘My copious experience as a seven-year-old boy,’” she mimicked. “Such a dry tone you used there. As if you didn’t have copious experience.”

“Well, it was a long time ago.”

She shook her head and pulled out a wedge of cheese. “Frankly, I’m amazed any of you reached adulthood.”

“So am I,” he said with all honesty. “So am I. Although it must be said, it was your sister who broke two arms.”

She laughed at that, and they sat in companionable silence, taking turns breaking off chunks of cheese. “I have bread, too,” Georgie told him. She peered into the hamper. “And jam.”

“Strawberry?”

“Raspberry.”

He sniffed disdainfully. “Then I’m not interested.”

She gave him a look, then sputtered with laughter. “What does that mean?”

He grinned again, rather enjoying the feel of it on his face. “I have no idea.”

He was comfortable with her. He could make the sort of stupid comments that were only a little bit funny and made no sense. The kind one made when one didn’t have to weigh every word and worry about judgment or scorn.

That’s how it had always been with Georgie—well, except for the night before. And even that had turned out fine in the end.

There were worse fates than marrying one’s friend.

He propped himself into a more upright position, pushing slightly past her to peer into the hamper. “I’d love some jam. Whatever the flavor.”