Because of Miss Bridgerton

“Sorry.” She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a moment to catch her breath. “You surprised me.”

“My apologies. It was not my intention.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “Why are you here?”

“I needed a bit of quiet.” She still could not see his face clearly, but she could well imagine his bemused countenance, so she added, “Even I need quiet every now and again.”

He smiled faintly. “You don’t feel cooped up?”

“Not at all.” She tipped her head, acknowledging the riposte.

He took a moment to consider this, then said, “Would you like me to leave you to your solitude?”

“No, it’s all right,” Billie said, surprising herself with her statement. George’s presence was oddly calming, in a way Andrew’s or her mother’s or really any of the others’ never were.

“You’re in pain,” he said, finally stepping into the room.

How had he known? Nobody else had. But then again, George had always been uncomfortably observant. “Yes,” she said. There was little point pretending otherwise.

“A great deal?”

“No. But more than a little.”

“You should have rested this evening.”

“Perhaps. But I enjoyed myself, and I think it was worth it. It was lovely to see your mother so happy.”

George’s head cocked to the side. “You thought she was happy?”

“Didn’t you?”

“To see Andrew, perhaps, but in some ways his presence only serves to remind her that Edward is not here.”

“I suppose. I mean, of course she’d rather have two sons home, but the reminder of Edward’s absence is surely outweighed by the joy of Andrew’s presence.”

George’s lips pressed into a wry, one-sided curve. “She did have two sons home.”

Billie stared at him for a moment before— “Oh! I’m so sorry. Of course she did. I was just thinking of the sons who aren’t normally at home. I… Good God, I’m really sorry.” Her face was burning. Thank heavens the candlelight hid her blush.

He shrugged. “Think nothing of it.”

She couldn’t, though. No matter how even his mien, she couldn’t help but think she’d hurt his feelings. Which was mad; George Rokesby did not care enough for her good opinion to be bothered by anything she said.

But still, there had been something in his expression…

“Does it bother you?” she asked.

He came further into the room, stopping by the shelf where the good brandy was kept. “Does what bother me?”

“Being left behind.” She bit her lip. There had to be a better way of saying it. “Remaining home,” she amended, “when everyone else is gone.”

“You’re here,” he pointed out.

“Yes, but I’m hardly a comfort. To you, I mean.”

He chuckled. Well, not really, but he did exhale a bit through his nose, and it sounded amused.

“Even Mary’s gone to Sussex,” Billie said, shifting her position so that she could watch him over the back of the sofa.

George poured himself a brandy, setting the glass down as he returned the stopper to the decanter. “I can’t begrudge my sister a happy marriage. To one of my closest friends, no less.”

“Of course not. Nor could I. But I still miss her. And you’re still the only Rokesby in regular residence.”

He brought his glass to his lips, but he didn’t quite take a sip. “You do have a way of cutting right to the heart of the matter, don’t you?”

Billie held her tongue.

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

She didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question. “My siblings aren’t all gone. Georgiana is still home.”

“And you have so much in common with her,” he said in a dry voice.

“More than I used to think,” Billie told him. It was true. Georgiana had been a sickly child, worried over by her parents, stuck inside while the rest of the children ran wild across the countryside.

Billie had never disliked her younger sister; but at the same time, she hadn’t found her very interesting. Most of the time, she’d forgotten she was even there. There were nine years between them. Really, what could they possibly have had in common?

But then everyone else went away, and now Georgiana was finally growing close enough to adulthood to become interesting.

It was George’s turn to speak, but he did not seem to have noticed this fact, and the silence stretched for long enough to be vaguely unsettling.

“George?” Billie murmured. He was looking at her in the oddest manner. As if she were a puzzle – no, not that. As if he were thinking, quite deeply, and she just happened to be in the way of his eyes.

“George?” she repeated. “Are you all —”

He looked up suddenly. “You should be nicer to her.” And then, as if he hadn’t just said the most appalling thing, he motioned to the brandy. “Would you like a glass?”

“Yes,” Billie said, even though she was well aware that most ladies would have refused, “and what on earth do you mean, I should be nicer to her? When have I ever been unkind?”

“Never,” he agreed, splashing a bit of liquid into a glass, “but you ignore her.”