Because of Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #1)(71)

“No,” George said. “Not at all.”

There was a long beat of silence.

“We are keeping Master Edward in our prayers,” Temperley finally said. “We all miss him.”

It was true. Although what did it say about George that he missed Edward more now that he was missing than he ever had when he’d merely been an ocean away?

He walked slowly up the stairs. Manston House was much smaller than Crake, with all eight bedchambers clustered on one floor. Billie had been put in the second-best guest bedroom, which George thought was ludicrous, but his mother always insisted upon keeping the best guest bedroom free. You never know who might unexpectedly visit, she always said.

Has the King dropped by, he always parried. This generally earned him a scowl. And a smile. His mother was a good sport that way, even if the best room had gone empty these past twenty years.

He paused in the middle of the hall, not quite in front of Billie’s door but closer to it than any other room. There was just enough of a crack under the door to show a faint flicker of candlelight. He wondered what she was doing in there. It really was much too early to go to sleep.

He missed her.

It came to him in a startling flash. He missed her. He was here, in the same house, sleeping just three doors down, and he missed her.

It was his own fault. He knew he’d been avoiding her. But what was he to do? He had kissed Billie, kissed her until he was nearly past the edge of reason, and now he was expected to make polite conversation with her at the breakfast table? In front of his mother?

George would never be as sophisticated as that.

He ought to marry her. He rather thought he’d like to, as mad as that might have seemed just a month earlier. He’d been quite warming to the idea back at Crake. Billie had said “you don’t have to marry me,” and all he could think was — But I could.

He’d had just a moment with the idea. No time to think or analyze, only time to feel.

And it had felt lovely. Warm.

Like springtime.

But then his mother had arrived on the scene and started going on about how adorable Billie and Edward were together and what a perfect match they made and he couldn’t remember what else but it was nauseatingly sweet and according to Temperley went very well over breakfast with toast and orange marmalade.

Toast and marmalade. He shook his head. He was an idiot.

And he had fallen in love with Billie Bridgerton.

There it was. Plain as day. He almost laughed. He would have laughed, if the joke weren’t on him.

If he’d fallen in love with someone else – someone new, whose presence did not fill such a wealth of his memories – would it have been so clear? With Billie the emotion was such an about-face, such a complete departure from a lifetime of comparing her to a pebble in his shoe. He couldn’t help but see it, shining in his mind like bright starry promise.

Was she in love with Edward? Maybe. His mother seemed to think so. She had not said as much, of course, but his mother had a remarkable talent for making sure her opinions were precisely known without ever actually stating them explicitly.

Still, it had been enough to render him insanely jealous.

In love with Billie. It was just the maddest thing.

He let out a long, pent-up breath and started walking again toward his room. He had to pass by her door, past that tantalizing flicker of light. He slowed, because he couldn’t not.

And then the door opened.

“George?” Billie’s face peered out. She was still in her day clothes but her hair was down, draped over her shoulder in a long, thick braid. “I thought I heard someone,” she explained.

He managed a close-lipped smile as he bowed. “As you see.”

“I was having supper,” she said, motioning back into the room. “Your mother was tired.” She gave a sheepish smile. “I was tired. I’m not very good at shopping. I had no idea it would involve quite so much standing still.”

“Standing still is always more tiring than walking.”

“Yes!” she said, quite animatedly. “I’ve always said that.”

George started to speak, but then a memory sparked through his mind. It was when he’d been carrying her, after that debacle with the cat on the roof. He’d been trying to describe that odd feeling of when one’s leg goes weak and bends for no reason.

Billie had understood perfectly.

The irony was that his leg hadn’t gone weak. He’d been making it up to cover for something. He didn’t even remember what.

But he remembered the moment. He remembered that she’d understood.

Mostly he’d remembered how she’d looked at him, with a little smile that said that she was happy to be understood.

He looked up. She was watching him with an expression of faint expectation. It was his turn to speak, he remembered. And since he couldn’t very well say what he was thinking, he went for the obvious.

“You’re still dressed,” he said.

She glanced down briefly at her frock. It was the one she’d been wearing when he kissed her. Flowers. It suited her. She should always be in flowers.

“I thought I might go back down after I finish eating,” she said. “Perhaps find something to read in the library.”

He nodded.

“My mother always says that once you’re in your dressing gown, you’re in your room for the night.”