Because of Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #1)(32)

Andrew looked back and forth between the two of them before offering Billie a small bow. “My apologies.”

Billie nodded awkwardly.

“Perhaps I might help in the planning,” Andrew suggested.

“You’ll certainly be better at it than I am,” Billie said.

“Well, that goes without saying.”

She poked him in the leg with one of her crutches.

And just like that, George realized, all was back to normal.

Except it wasn’t. Not for him.


Chapter 9


Four days later

I
t was remarkable – no, inspirational – Billie decided, how quickly she’d weaned herself from her crutches. Clearly, it was all in the mind.

Strength. Fortitude.

Determination.

Also, the ability to ignore pain was helpful.

It didn’t hurt that much, she reasoned. Just a twinge. Or maybe something closer to a nail being hammered into her ankle at intervals corresponding to the speed at which she took her steps.

But not a very big nail. Just a little one. A pin, really.

She was made of stern stuff. Everybody said so.

At any rate, the pain in her ankle wasn’t nearly as bad as the chafing under her arms from the crutches. And she wasn’t planning to go for a five-mile hike. She just wanted to be able to get about the house on her own two feet.

Nevertheless, her pace was considerably slower than her usual stride as she headed toward the drawing room a few hours after breakfast. Andrew was waiting for her, Thamesly had informed her. This was not terribly surprising; Andrew had called upon her every day since her injury.

It was really quite sweet of him.

They’d been building card houses, a characteristically perverse choice for Andrew, whose dominant arm was still immobilized in a sling. He’d said that as long as he was coming over to keep her company, he might as well do something useful.

Billie didn’t bother pointing out that building a house of cards might very well be the definition of not useful.

As for his having only one working arm, he needed help getting the first few cards balanced, but after that, he could set up the rest just as well as she could.

Or better, really. She’d forgotten how freakishly good he was at building card houses – and how freakishly obsessed he became during the process. The day before had been the worst. As soon as they’d completed the first level he’d banned her from construction. Then he banned her from the entire area, claiming that she breathed too hard.

Which of course left her with no choice but to sneeze.

She might also have kicked the table.

There had been a fleeting moment of regret when it had all come down in a spectacular earthquake of destruction, but the look on Andrew’s face had been worth it, even if he had gone home immediately following the collapse.

But that was yesterday, and knowing Andrew, he’d want to start again, bigger and better the fifth time around. So Billie had collected another two decks on her way to the drawing room. It should be enough for him to add another story or two to his next architectural masterpiece.

“Good morning,” she said as she entered the drawing room. He was standing over by a plate of biscuits someone had left out on the table that ran behind the sofa. A maid, probably. One of the sillier ones. They were always giggling over him.

“You’ve jettisoned the crutches,” he said with an approving nod. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She glanced about the room. Still no George. He had not visited since that first morning in the library. Not that she had expected him to. She and George were not friends.

They weren’t enemies, of course. Just not friends. They never had been. Although maybe they were a little bit… now.

“What’s wrong?” Andrew asked.

Billie blinked. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re scowling.”

“I’m not scowling.”

His expression turned condescending. “You can see your own face?”

“And you’re here to cheer me up,” she drawled.

“Gad no, I’m here for the shortbread.” He reached out and took some of the playing cards from her. “And maybe to build a house.”

“At last, some honesty.”

Andrew laughed and flopped down on the sofa. “I have hardly been hiding my motives.”

Billie acknowledged this with a flick of her eyes. He had eaten a prodigious amount of shortbread in the past few days.

“You’d be kinder to me,” he continued, “if you knew how horrid the food is on a ship.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

“Twelve.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said with a grimace. She knew how Andrew liked his sweets.

“I knew what I was getting into.” He paused, frowning with thought. “No, actually I don’t think I did.”

“You wouldn’t have entered the navy if you’d realized there would be no biscuits?”

Andrew sighed dramatically. “Sometimes a man must make his own biscuits.”

Several playing cards slid from her grasp. “What?”

“I believe he’s substituting biscuits for destiny,” came a voice from the door.

“George!” Billie exclaimed. With surprise? With delight? What was that in her voice? And why couldn’t she, of all people, figure it out?