She made it down another rung without incident, and George realized that their conversation was proving an able distraction. “You can do this, Billie,” he said.

“You said that already.”

“It bears repeating.”

“I think —” She hissed, then sucked in her breath as she moved down another rung.

He waited while she collected herself, her body quivering as she balanced for a moment on her good foot.

“I think,” she said again, her voice more carefully modulated, as if she were determined to get the sentence out in an orderly manner, “that this might be the most amiable you have ever behaved in my presence.”

“I could say the same,” he commented.

She made it down to the halfway mark. “Touché.”

“There is nothing quite so invigorating as an able opponent,” he said, thinking of all the times they had crossed verbal swords. Billie had never been an easy person to best in conversation, which was why it was always so delicious when he did.

“I’m not sure that holds true on the battle – oh!”

George waited as she gritted her teeth and continued.

“— on the battlefield,” she said, after a rather angry-sounding inhalation. “My God, this hurts,” she muttered.

“I know,” he said encouragingly.

“No you don’t.”

He smiled yet again. “No, I don’t.”

She gave a terse nod and took another step. Then, because she was Billie Bridgerton and thus fundamentally unable to allow an unfinished point to lay dormant, she said, “On the battlefield, I think I might find an able opponent inspiring.”

“Inspiring?” he murmured, eager to keep her talking.

“But not invigorating.”

“One would lead to the other,” he said, not that he had any firsthand experience. His only battles had taken place in fencing salons and boxing rings, where the most serious risk was to one’s pride. He eased down another step, giving Billie room to maneuver, then peered over his shoulder at Andrew, who appeared to be whistling while he waited.

“Can I help?” Andrew asked, catching his glance.

George shook his head, then looked back up to Billie. “You’re almost to the bottom,” he told her.

“Please tell me you’re not lying this time.”

“I’m not lying.”

And he wasn’t. He hopped down, skipping the last two rungs, and waited for her to draw close enough for him to grab her. A moment later she was within reach, and he swept her into his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, and he felt her collapse a little, for once in her life allowing someone else to take charge of her.

“Well done,” Andrew said cheerfully, poking his head in close. “Are you all right there, Billie-goat?”

Billie nodded, but she didn’t look all right. Her jaw was still clenched, and from the way her throat worked, it was clear she was trying her damnedest not to cry.

“You little fool,” George murmured, and then he knew she wasn’t all right, because she let that pass without a word of protest. In fact, she apologized, which was so wholly unlike her as to be almost alarming.

“Time to go home,” George said.

“Let’s take a look at that foot,” Andrew said, his voice still an obnoxiously bright note in the tableau. He peeled off her stocking, let out a low whistle, and said with some admiration, “Ech, Billie, what did you do to yourself? That looks brutal.”

“Shut up,” George said.

Andrew just shrugged. “It doesn’t look broken —”

“It’s not,” Billie cut in.

“Still, you’ll be off it for a week, at least.”

“Perhaps not quite so long,” George said, even though he rather thought Andrew was correct in his assessment. Still, there was no point in debating her condition. They weren’t saying anything Billie didn’t already know. “Shall we go?” he said.

Billie closed her eyes and nodded. “We should put the ladder away,” she mumbled.

George tightened his arms around her and headed east toward Aubrey Hall, where Billie lived with her parents and three younger siblings. “We’ll get it tomorrow.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

“That covers quite a lot,” he said in a dry voice. “Are you sure you wish to be in such debt?”

She looked up at him, her eyes tired but wise. “You’re far too much of a gentleman to hold me to it.”

George chuckled at that. She was right, he supposed, although he’d never treated Billie Bridgerton like any other female of his acquaintance. Hell, no one did.

“Will you still be able to come to dinner tonight?” Andrew asked, loping alongside George.

Billie turned to him distractedly. “What?”

“Surely you haven’t forgotten,” he said, laying one dramatic hand over his heart. “The Family Rokesby is welcoming the prodigal son —”

“You’re not the prodigal son,” George said. Good God.

“A prodigal son,” Andrew corrected with good cheer. “I have been gone for months, even years.”