Because of Miss Bridgerton

George was not quite sure what to make of this. For Lady Alexandra’s sake, he hoped Northwick had a brother.

Billie was seated directly across from George, not that he could see her over the elaborate fruited epergne that graced the center of table. But he could hear her laughter, rich and deep, inevitably followed by Andrew’s guffaw and then some asinine bon mot delivered by the absurdly handsome Sir Reginald McVie.

Sir Reggie, as he had instructed everyone to call him.

George disliked him intensely.

Never mind that they had been introduced only one hour earlier; sometimes an hour was all it took. In this case, a minute had been enough. Sir Reggie had sauntered up to George and Billie, who were enjoying a private laugh about something entirely inconsequential (but nonetheless private), and then he’d flashed a smile that was positively blinding.

The man’s teeth were so straight they might have been laid into place with a yardstick. Really, who had teeth like that? It was unnatural.

Then the lout had taken Billie’s hand and kissed it like some French count, proclaiming her a beauty beyond the sea, sand, stars, and skies (in French, no less, despite the loss of alliteration).

It was beyond ridiculous; George had been sure that Billie would burst out laughing. But no, she blushed.

She blushed!

And then she had batted her eyelashes. It was quite possibly the least Billie Bridgerton-like thing he’d ever seen.

All for a set of freakishly straight teeth. And she didn’t even speak French!

Of course they had been seated next to each other at dinner. Lady Bridgerton had eyes like an eagle when it came to the marriage prospects of her eldest daughter; George did not doubt she had noticed Sir Reggie flirting with Billie within seconds of the first pearly white grin. If Billie hadn’t been seated next to him earlier that day, she would be by the dinner gong.

With Andrew on Billie’s other side, there was no stopping her. Laughter rang like church bells as that side of the table ate, drank, and made merry.

George’s side continued to extoll the many virtues of the Earl of Northwick.

The many, many virtues.

By the time the soup was removed, George was ready to put the man forth for a sainthood. To hear the Ladies Frederica and Alexandra tell it, nothing less would do him justice. The two ladies were regaling him with some nonsense involving Northwick and a parasol he had held for the both of them on a particularly rainy day, and George was just about to comment that it all sounded very crowded, when yet another peal of laughter rang out from the other side of the table.

George glowered, not that Billie could see him. She wouldn’t have seen him even if they didn’t have that damned fruit bowl between them. She was far too busy being the life of the party. The girl was a veritable shining star. Honestly, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she was literally sparkling.

And he’d offered to watch out for her.

Please. She was doing quite well on her own.

“What do you suppose they are talking about?” Lady Alexandra queried after a particularly loud burst of merriment.

“Teeth,” George muttered.

“What did you say?”

He turned with a bland smile. “I have no idea.”

“They seem to be enjoying themselves a great deal,” Lady Frederica said with a thoughtful frown.

George shrugged.

“Northie is such a wonderful conversationalist,” she said.

“Is he?” George murmured, stabbing a piece of roasted beef.

“Oh, yes. Surely you know him?”

George nodded absently. Lord Northwick was a few years his senior, but they had crossed paths at both Eton and Cambridge. George couldn’t remember much about him other than his shock of violently blond hair.

“Then you know,” Lady Frederica said with an adoring smile, “he’s perfectly droll.”

“Perfectly,” George echoed.

Lady Alexandra leaned forward. “Are you talking about Lord Northwick?”

“Er, yes,” George replied.

“He is so delightful at a house party,” Lady Alexandra concurred. “I wonder why you did not invite him.”

“Strictly speaking,” George reminded her, “I did not draw up the guest list.”

“Oh, yes, of course. I’d quite forgotten that you are not a member of the family. You seem so at home at Aubrey Hall.”

“The Bridgertons and Rokesbys have long been amiable neighbors,” he told her.

“Miss Sybilla is practically his sister,” Lady Frederica said, leaning forward to keep herself in the conversation.

Billie? His sister? George frowned. That wasn’t right. “I wouldn’t say…” he began.

But Lady Alexandra was already talking again. “Lady Mary said as much earlier this evening. She told the most amusing tales. I do so adore your sister.”

George had a mouthful of food, so he nodded and hoped she’d take that as a thank you.

Lady Alexandra leaned forward. “Lady Mary said the lot of you ran wild together as children. It sounded dreadfully exciting.”

“I was a bit older,” he said. “I rarely —”

“— and then it ran off!” Andrew chortled from across the table, loudly enough to put a (thankful) halt to George’s conversation with the two Fortescue-Endicott ladies.