Because of Miss Bridgerton

Her first impulse was to ask if there had been any news, but of course there would not be. There would be no swift rider, down from London with a report. Edward was far too far away. It would likely be months before they learned his fate.

“How is your mother?” she asked.

He smiled sadly. “As well as can be expected.”

Billie nodded, following him into the sitting room. “And your father?”

George paused, but he did not turn to face her. “He sits in his study and stares out the window.”

Billie swallowed, her heart breaking at George’s bleak posture. She did not need to see his face to know his pain. He loved Edward, just as she did. Just as they all did.

“He is useless,” George said.

Billie’s lips parted in surprise at such harsh words, but then she realized that George had not meant them as scorn.

“He is incapacitated,” he clarified. “The grief…”

“I don’t think any of us knows how we will react to a crisis until we are forced into one.”

He turned, one corner of his mouth tipping up. “When did you grow so wise?”

“It isn’t wisdom to repeat platitudes.”

“It is wisdom to know which ones bear repeating.”

To her great surprise, Billie felt a bubble of humor rising within. “You are determined to compliment me.”

“It’s the only bloody bright spot in the day,” George muttered.

It was the sort of comment that would normally make her heart leap, but like the rest of them, she was too blunted by pain and worry. Edward was missing, and George was hurting — She took a breath. This wasn’t about George. George was fine. He was here, right in front of her, healthy and hale.

No, this wasn’t about George.

It couldn’t be about George.

Except… lately it seemed as if everything was about George. She thought about him constantly, and heaven above, was it just the day before that they’d been playing Pall Mall and she’d practically kissed him?

She’d wanted to. Dear God, she’d wanted to, and if he’d shown any interest – and if there hadn’t been four other people milling about with Pall Mall mallets – she’d have done it. She’d never kissed anyone before, but when had that ever stopped her? She’d jumped her first fence when she was six. She’d never so much as jumped a shrub before that, but she’d taken one look at that five-foot fence and known that she had to take it. So she’d just hopped on her mare, and she’d done it. Because she’d wanted to.

And also because Edward had dared her. But she wouldn’t have tried it if she hadn’t thought she could do it.

And known she would love it.

She’d known even then that she wasn’t like other girls. She didn’t want to play the pianoforte or pick at her sewing. She wanted to be outside, to fly through the air on the back of her horse, sunlight dancing across her skin as her heart skipped and raced with the wind.

She wanted to soar.

She still did.

If she kissed George… if he kissed her… Would it feel the same way?

She trailed her fingers along the back of the sofa, trying to fill the moment with idle movement. But then she made the mistake of looking up…

He was staring at her, his eyes fierce and curious and something else, too, something she could not precisely name.

But whatever it was… she felt it. Her heart leapt, and her breath quickened, and she realized it was just like when she raced on her mare. Breathless and giddy and determined and wild… It was all there within her, bursting to get free.

All because he’d looked at her.

Dear God, if he actually kissed her she might fall apart.

She tapped nervous fingers on the edge of the sofa, then gestured stupidly to a chair. “I should sit.”

“If you wish.”

But her feet wouldn’t move. “I seem not to know what to do with myself,” she admitted.

“Join the club,” he muttered.

“Oh, George…”

“Do you want a drink?” he asked suddenly.

“Now?” It was barely past eleven.

His shrug bordered on insolence. Billie could only wonder at how much he’d already had.

But he didn’t head for the brandy decanter. Instead he stood by the window, staring out over the garden. It had started to rain; a light misty drizzle that made the air thick and gray.

She waited for several moments, but he did not turn around. His hands were clasped behind his back – the classic stance of a gentleman. But it wasn’t quite right. There was a certain harshness to his pose, a tension in his shoulders that she wasn’t used to seeing there.

He was brittle. Bleak.

“What will you do?” she finally forced herself to ask. She did not think she could bear the silence for another moment.

His posture changed, a slight movement in his neck maybe, and then he turned his head to the side. But not far enough to actually look at her. Instead she was treated to his profile as he said, “Go to London, I suppose.”

“To London?” she echoed.

He snorted. “There’s not much else I can do.”

“You don’t want to go to the Colonies to look for him?”

“Of course I want to go to the Colonies,” he snapped, whirling around to face her. “But that’s not what I do.”