Andrew flashed her a cheeky grin. “Reason seven hundred and thirty-eight why I’m glad I was not born a female.”

Billie rolled her eyes.

“Are you allowed during the day?” Georgiana asked her.

“Of course,” Billie said, but George noticed that her mother didn’t look happy about it.

Neither did Georgiana. Her lips were pursed into a frustrated frown, and she had one hand on the table, her index finger tapping impatiently against the cloth.

“Mrs. Bucket makes the most delicious pork pie,” Billie said. “Every Thursday.”

“I’d forgotten,” Andrew said, shuddering with delicious culinary memory.

“How on earth could you? It’s heaven in a crust.”

“Agreed. We shall have to sup together. Shall we say at noo —”

“Women are bloody,” Georgiana blurted out.

Lady Bridgerton dropped her fork.

Billie turned to her sister with an expression of cautious surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“Women can be bloody, too,” Georgiana said, her tone approaching truculence.

Billie seemed not to know what to make of that. Normally George would be enjoying her discomfiture, but the conversation had taken such a sharp turn into the bizarre that he could not bring himself to feel anything but sympathy.

And relief that he wasn’t the one questioning the young girl.

“What you said earlier,” Georgiana said. “About women, and how we would wage war less frequently than men. I don’t think that’s true.”

“Oh,” Billie said, looking mightily relieved. Truth was, George was relieved, too. Because the only other explanation for women being bloody was a conversation he did not want to have at the dining table.

Or anywhere for that matter.

“What about Queen Mary?” Georgiana continued. “No one could call her a pacifist.”

“They didn’t call her Bloody Mary for nothing,” Andrew said.

“Exactly!” Georgiana agreed with an enthusiastic nod. “And Queen Elizabeth sank an entire armada.”

“She had her men sink the armada,” Lord Bridgerton corrected.

“She gave the orders,” Georgiana shot back.

“Georgiana has a point,” George said, happy to give credit where it was due.

Georgiana gave him a grateful look.

“Indeed,” Billie said with a smile.

At that, Georgiana seemed ridiculously pleased.

“I did not mean to say that women couldn’t be violent,” Billie said, now that Georgiana was done with her argument. “Of course we can, given proper motivation.”

“I shudder to think,” Andrew murmured.

“If someone I loved was in danger,” Billie said with quiet intensity, “I’m quite certain I could be moved to violence.”

For years George would wonder about that moment. Something changed. Something shook and twisted. The air crackled electric, and everyone – every last Rokesby and Bridgerton at the table – sat almost suspended in time, as if waiting for something none of them understood.

Even Billie.

George studied her face. It was not difficult to imagine her as a warrior, fierce and protective of the people she loved. Was he counted among that number? He rather thought he was. Anyone with his surname would fall beneath her protection.

No one spoke. No one even breathed until his mother let out a laugh that was really nothing more than a breath, and then declared, “Such a depressing topic.”

“I disagree,” George said softly. He didn’t think she’d heard him. But Billie did. Her lips parted, and her dark eyes met his with curiosity and surprise. And maybe even a hint of gratitude.

“I do not understand why we are talking of such things,” his mother continued, thoroughly determined to steer the conversation back to sweetness and light.

Because it’s important, George thought. Because it means something. Because nothing had meant anything for years, not for those who had been left behind. He was sick of being useless, of pretending that he was more valuable than his brothers by virtue of his birth.

He looked down at his soup. He’d lost his appetite. And of course that was when Lady Bridgerton exclaimed, “We should have a party!”

Chapter 7

A
party?

Billie carefully set down her napkin, a vague sense of alarm washing over her. “Mother?”

“A house party,” her mother clarified, as if that had been what she’d been asking about.

“This time of year?” her father asked, his soupspoon pausing only briefly on its way to his mouth.

“Why not this time of year?”

“We usually have one in the autumn.”

Billie rolled her eyes. What typically male reasoning. Not that she disagreed. The last thing she wanted right now at Aubrey Hall was a house party. All those strangers tramping around her home. Not to mention the time it would take to play the part of the dutiful daughter of the hostess. She’d be stuck in her frocks all day, unable to tend to the very real responsibilities of running the estate.

She tried to catch her father’s eye. Surely he realized what a bad idea this was, no matter the season. But he was oblivious to anything but his wife. And his soup.

“Andrew won’t be home in the autumn,” Lady Bridgerton pointed out. “And we should celebrate now.”