Because of Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #1)(61)

Billie’s lips parted, but the only sound was her pulse, racing wildly through her veins. His outburst was unexpected. Unprecedented.

She had seen George lose his temper before. She could hardly have grown up alongside his younger brothers and not have done so. But she had never seen this.

There was no missing the contempt in his voice, nor the fact that it was directed entirely within.

“George,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable, “if you want to —”

He stepped forward, his eyes hard and furious. “Don’t tell me I can do what I want because if you believe that, you’re just as na?ve as the rest of them.”

“I wasn’t going to —” But it was just as well that he cut her off with a mocking snort, because that was exactly what she had been about to say, and it was only now that she realized how ludicrous it would have been. He couldn’t take off and go to the Colonies; they all knew that.

He would never be as free as his brothers. The order of their birth had ensured that. George would inherit the title, the house, the land. Most of the money. But with privilege came responsibility. He was tied to this place. It was in his blood, the same way Aubrey Hall was in hers.

She wanted to ask him if he minded. If given the chance, would he trade places with Andrew or Edward?

“What will you do in London?” she said instead. Because she could never have asked him what she really wanted to know. Not while Edward’s fate was uncertain.

He shrugged, although not so much with his shoulders as his head and eyes. “Speak to people. Make inquiries.” He laughed bitterly. “I’m very good at speaking to people and making inquiries.”

“You know how to get things done,” she agreed.

“I know how to get other people to do things,” he said derisively.

She pressed her lips together before she could utter something inane like, “That’s an important skill.” But it was an important skill, even if she’d never demonstrated it herself. She never left anything to her father’s steward; he was surely the most overpaid clerk in the land. She acted first and thought later; she always had. And she could not bear to let someone else perform a task when she could do it better herself.

And she could almost always do it better herself.

“I need a drink,” George suddenly muttered. Billie didn’t dare point out again that it was still rather early for spirits.

He walked over to the side table and poured himself a brandy from the decanter. He took a sip. A long one. “Do you want one?”

Billie shook her head.

“Surprising,” George muttered.

There was something hard in his voice. Something almost nasty. She felt her spine grow rigid. “I beg your pardon?”

But George only laughed, his brows arching into a mocking salute. “Oh, come now, Billie. You live to shock. I can hardly believe you wouldn’t take a brandy when offered.”

She grit her teeth, reminding herself that George was not himself at the moment. “It’s not even noon.”

He shrugged and kicked back the rest of his brandy.

“You shouldn’t be drinking.”

“You shouldn’t be telling me what to do.”

She held herself still, stiff even, allowing the long pause to express her disapproval. Finally, because she needed to be as brittle as he, she gave him a cool stare, and said, “Lady Alexandra sends her regards.”

He gave her a look of disbelief.

“She leaves today.”

“How kind of you to convey her salutations.”

She felt a cutting retort rising through her throat, but at the last minute she blurted, “No! This is ridiculous. I’m not going to stand here and speak in rhymes. I came to help.”

“You can’t help,” he bit off.

“Certainly not when you’re like this,” she retorted.

He slammed his glass down and stalked toward her. “What did you just say?” he demanded. His eyes were wild and furious, and she almost took a step back.

“How much have you had to drink?”

“I’m not drunk,” he said in a dangerous voice. “This… that,” he corrected, waving an arm back toward the glass he’d left on the sideboard, “was my first and only drink of the day.”

Billie had a feeling she was supposed to apologize, but she couldn’t make herself do it.

“I’d like to be drunk,” he said, moving closer with the silent grace of a large cat.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” He laughed stridently. “Drunk, I might not remember that my brother is lost in some godforsaken wilderness where the locals are not predisposed to favor anyone in a red coat.”

“George,” she tried to say, but he would not be deterred.

“Drunk,” he said again, the word punching harshly through the air, “I might not have noticed that my mother has spent the entire morning weeping in her bed. But best of all” – his hands came down heavily on a side table, and he looked at her with fury-laden despair – “if I were drunk, I might somehow forget that I am at the mercy of the rest of the goddamn world. If Edward is found —”

“When he’s found,” Billie cut in fiercely.

“Either way, it won’t be because of me.”