Page 20

George slowed his pace yet again as he turned a corner and the door to the dining room came into view. “You never did go to London for a Season, did you?”
“You know I didn’t.”
He wondered why. Mary had done so, and she and Billie usually did everything together. But it didn’t seem polite to ask, at least not now, just as supper was about to commence.
“I didn’t want to,” Billie said.
George did not point out that he had not asked for an explanation.
“I’d have been dreadful at it.”
“You’d have been a breath of fresh air,” he lied. She would have been dreadful at it, and then he’d have been conscripted to be her social savior, making sure her dance card was at least halfway filled, and then defending her honor every time some brainless young lord assumed she was lax of morals because she was a bit too loud and free.
It would have been exhausting.
“Excuse me,” he murmured, pausing to ask a footman to find her an ottoman. “Shall I hold you until he returns?”
“Hold me?” she echoed, as if she had suddenly lost her command of English.
“Is something wrong?” his mother asked, watching them with undisguised curiosity through the open doorway. She, Lady Bridgerton, and Georgiana had already taken their seats. The gentlemen were waiting for Billie to be set down.
“Sit,” George told them, “please. I’ve asked a footman to bring something for under the table. So that Billie may elevate her foot.”
“That’s very kind of you, George,” Lady Bridgerton said. “I should have thought of that.”
“I’ve turned an ankle before,” he said, carrying Billie into the room.
“And I have not,” Lady Bridgerton returned, “although one would think I’d be an expert on them by now.” She looked over at Georgiana. “I think you might be the only one of my children who hasn’t broken a bone or twisted a joint yet.”
“It’s my special skill,” Georgiana said in a flat voice.
“I must say,” Lady Manston said, looking over at George and Billie with a deceptively placid smile, “the two of you make quite a pair.”
George speared his mother with a stare. No. She might want to see him married, but she was not going to try this.
“Don’t tease so,” Billie said, with exactly the right amount of affectionate admonishment in her voice to put a halt to that line of thinking. “Who else would carry me if not George?”
“Alas, my fractured limb,” Andrew murmured.
“How did you break it?” Georgiana asked.
He leaned forward, his eyes sparkling like the sea. “Wrestled with a shark.”
Billie snorted.
“No,” Georgiana said, unimpressed, “what really happened?”
Andrew shrugged. “I slipped.”
There was a little beat of silence. No one had expected anything so mundane as that.
“The shark makes for a better story,” Georgiana finally said.
“It does, doesn’t it? The truth is rarely as glamorous as we’d like.”
“I thought at the very least you’d fallen from the mast,” Billie said.
“The deck was slippery,” Andrew said in a matter-of-fact manner. And while everyone was pondering the utter banality of this, he added, “It gets that way. Water, you know.”
The footman returned with a small tufted ottoman. It was not as tall as George would have liked, but he still thought it would be better for Billie than letting her foot dangle.
“I was surprised Admiral McClellan allowed you to recuperate at home,” Lady Manston said as the footman crawled under the table to set the ottoman into place. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s delightful to have you at Crake where you belong.”
Andrew gave his mother a lopsided smile. “Not much use for a one-armed sailor.”
“Even with all those peg-legged pirates?” Billie quipped as George set her down in her seat. “I thought it was practically a requirement to be missing a limb at sea.”
Andrew tipped his head thoughtfully to the side. “Our cook is missing an ear.”
“Andrew!” his mother exclaimed.
“How gruesome,” Billie said, eyes aglow with macabre delight. “Were you there when it happened?”
“Billie!” her mother exclaimed.
Billie whipped her head around to face her mother, protesting, “You can’t expect me to hear about an earless sailor and not ask.”
“Nevertheless, it is not appropriate conversation at a family supper.”
Gatherings between the Rokesby and Bridgerton clans were always classified as family, no matter that there wasn’t a drop of shared blood between them. At least not within the last hundred years.
“I can’t imagine where it would be more appropriate,” Andrew said, “unless we all head out to the public inn.”
“Alas,” Billie said, “I’m not allowed this time of night.”
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.”