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“You’ve jettisoned the crutches,” he said with an approving nod. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” She glanced about the room. Still no George. He had not visited since that first morning in the library. Not that she had expected him to. She and George were not friends.
They weren’t enemies, of course. Just not friends. They never had been. Although maybe they were a little bit… now.
“What’s wrong?” Andrew asked.
Billie blinked. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You’re scowling.”
“I’m not scowling.”
His expression turned condescending. “You can see your own face?”
“And you’re here to cheer me up,” she drawled.
“Gad no, I’m here for the shortbread.” He reached out and took some of the playing cards from her. “And maybe to build a house.”
“At last, some honesty.”
Andrew laughed and flopped down on the sofa. “I have hardly been hiding my motives.”
Billie acknowledged this with a flick of her eyes. He had eaten a prodigious amount of shortbread in the past few days.
“You’d be kinder to me,” he continued, “if you knew how horrid the food is on a ship.”
“Scale of one to ten?”
“Twelve.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said with a grimace. She knew how Andrew liked his sweets.
“I knew what I was getting into.” He paused, frowning with thought. “No, actually I don’t think I did.”
“You wouldn’t have entered the navy if you’d realized there would be no biscuits?”
Andrew sighed dramatically. “Sometimes a man must make his own biscuits.”
Several playing cards slid from her grasp. “What?”
“I believe he’s substituting biscuits for destiny,” came a voice from the door.
“George!” Billie exclaimed. With surprise? With delight? What was that in her voice? And why couldn’t she, of all people, figure it out?
“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.