Because of Miss Bridgerton

“Billie,” he murmured, offering a polite bow.

She stared. “What are you doing here?”

His mouth moved into a dry expression that in all honesty could not be called a smile. “Ever the model of gentility.”

“Well” – she bent down to gather the cards she’d dropped, trying not to trip on the lace trim of her skirt – “you haven’t visited for four days.”

Now he did smile. “You’ve missed me, then.”

“No!” She glared at him, reaching out to snatch up the knave of hearts. The annoying little rascal had slid halfway under the sofa. “Don’t be ridiculous. Thamesly said nothing about your being here. He mentioned only Andrew.”

“I was seeing to the horses,” George said.

She immediately looked to Andrew, surprise coloring her features. “Did you ride?”

“Well, I tried,” he admitted.

“We went very slowly,” George confirmed. Then his eyes narrowed. “Where are your crutches?”

“Gone,” she replied, smiling proudly.

“I can see that.” His brow pulled down into a scowling vee. “Who told you you were allowed to stop using them?”

“No one,” she bristled. Who the devil did he think he was? Her father? No, definitely not her father. That was just…

Ugh.

“I rose from bed,” she said with exaggerated patience, “took a step, and decided for myself.”

George snorted.

She drew back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Allow me to translate,” Andrew said from the sofa, where he was still stretched out in a boyish sprawl.

“I know what it meant,” Billie snapped.

“Oh, Billie,” Andrew sighed.

She swung around to glare at him.

“You need to get out of the house,” he said.

Please, as if she didn’t know that. She turned back to George. “Pray, excuse my impoliteness. I wasn’t expecting you.”

His brows arched, but he accepted her apology with a nod and took a seat when she did.

“We need to feed him,” Billie said, tilting her head toward Andrew.

“Water him, too?” George murmured, as if Andrew were a horse.

“I’m right here!” Andrew protested.

George motioned to the day-old copy of the London Times, which lay freshly ironed on the table next to him. “Do you mind if I read?”

“Not at all,” Billie said. Far be it from her to expect him to entertain her. Even if that had been his implied purpose in stopping by. She leaned forward, giving Andrew a little tap on his shoulder. “Would you like me to get you started?”

“Please,” he said, “and then don’t touch it.”

Billie looked at George. The newspaper was still folded in his lap, and he was watching the two of them with amused curiosity.

“In the center of the table,” Andrew said.

Billie gave him a bit of a look. “Autocratic as always.”

“I am an artist.”

“Architect,” George said.

Andrew looked up, as if he’d forgotten his brother was there. “Yes,” he murmured. “Quite.”

Billie slid from her chair and knelt in front of the low table, adjusting her weight so as not to put pressure on her bad foot. She selected two cards from the messy pile near the table’s edge and balanced them into the shape of a T. Carefully, she released her fingers and waited to see if it was secure.

“Nicely done,” George murmured.

Billie smiled, absurdly pleased by his compliment. “Thank you.”

Andrew rolled his eyes.

“I swear, Andrew,” Billie said, using a third card to transform the T into an H, “you turn into the most annoying person when you’re doing this.”

“But I get the job done.”

Billie heard George chuckle, followed by the crinkling sound of the newspaper opening and then folding into a readable shape. She shook her head, decided that Andrew was extraordinarily fortunate she was his friend, and set a few more cards into place. “Will that be enough to get you started?” she asked Andrew.

“Yes, thank you. Mind the table when you get up.”

“Is this what you’re like at sea?” Billie asked, limping across the room to get her book before settling back down. “It’s a wonder anyone puts up with you.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes – at the card structure, not at her – and placed a card into position. “I get the job done,” he repeated.

Billie turned back to George. He was watching Andrew with a peculiar expression on his face. His brow was furrowed, but he wasn’t precisely frowning. His eyes were far too bright and curious for that. Every time he blinked, his lashes swept down like a fan, graceful and — “Billie?”

Oh, God, he’d caught her looking at him.

Wait, why was she looking at him?

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “Lost in thought.”

“I hope it was something interesting.”

She choked on her breath before answering, “Not really.” Then she felt kind of terrible, insulting him without his even knowing it.

And without her really meaning to.

“He’s like a different person,” she said, motioning to Andrew. “I find it very disconcerting.”