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He certainly didn’t now.
It had started in the library, in the moonlit dark, and he didn’t know what she’d been wearing – just that it wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen her in before. It had to have been a nightgown… white and diaphanous. With every breeze it molded to her body, revealing perfectly lush curves designed to fit his hands.
Never mind that they were in the library, and there was no logical reason for a breeze. It was his dream, and it was breezy, and then it didn’t matter anyway because when he took her hand and pulled her hard against him they were suddenly in his bedroom. Not the one here at Aubrey Hall but back at Crake, with his mahogany four-poster bed, the mattress large and square, with room for all sorts of reckless abandon.
She didn’t say a word, which he had to admit was very unlike her, but then again, it was a dream. When she smiled, though, it was pure Billie – wide and free – and when he laid her on the bed, her eyes met his, and it was as if she had been born for that moment.
As if he had been born for that moment.
His hands opened the folds of her gown, and she arched beneath him, her perfect breasts thrusting toward him like an offering.
It was mad. It was madness. He shouldn’t know what her breasts looked like. He shouldn’t even be able to imagine it.
But he did, and in his dream, he worshipped them. He cupped them, squeezed them, pushed them together until that intoxicatingly feminine valley formed between them. Then he bent down and took her nipple between his teeth, teasing and tempting until she moaned with delight.
But it didn’t end there. He slid his hands to the junction of her legs and her hips and he pushed her thighs open, his thumbs coming torturously close to her center.
And then he stroked… closer… closer… until he could sense the wet heat of her, and he knew that their joining was inevitable. She would be his, and it would be glorious. His clothes melted away, and he positioned himself at her opening…
And woke up.
Bloody goddamn bleeding bollocks.
He woke up.
Life was spectacularly unfair.
The following morning was the ladies’ archery competition, and if George had felt a bit of irony while watching, surely he could be forgiven. There was Billie with a stiff, pointy thing, and there was he, still with a stiff, pointy thing, and it had to be said: only one of them was having any fun.
It had taken a full hour of very icy thoughts before he was able to move from his carefully cross-legged position in the chairs that had been set up at the edge of the field. Every other gentleman had got up at some point to inspect the targets, but not George. He’d smiled, and he’d laughed, and he made up some sort of nonsense about enjoying the sun. Which was ridiculous, because the one spot of blue in the sky was about the size of his thumbnail.
Desperate for a moment of his own company, he made for the library immediately after the tournament. No one in the party struck him as much of a reader; surely he could find some peace and quiet.
Which he did, for all of ten minutes before Billie and Andrew came squabbling through the door.
“George!” Billie exclaimed, limping in his direction. She looked glowingly well-rested.
She never had difficulty falling asleep, George thought irritably. She probably dreamed of roses and rainbows.
“Just the person I’d hoped to find,” she said with a smile.
“Words to strike terror in his heart,” Andrew drawled.
So true, George thought, although not for the reasons Andrew supposed.
“Stop.” Billie scowled at him before turning back to George. “We need you to settle a point.”
“If it’s who can climb a tree faster, it’s Billie,” George said without missing a beat. “If it’s who can shoot with more accuracy, it’s Andrew.”
“It’s neither,” Billie said with a light frown. “It’s got to do with Pall Mall.”
“Then God help us all,” George muttered, getting up and heading for the door. He’d played Pall Mall with his brother and Billie; it was a vicious, bloodthirsty sport involving wooden balls, heavy mallets, and the constant risk of grievous head injury. Definitely not something for Lady Bridgerton’s gentle house party.
“Andrew accused me of cheating,” Billie said.
“When?” George asked, honestly perplexed. As far as he knew, the entire morning had been taken up by the ladies’ archery tournament. (Billie had won, not that anyone named Rokesby or Bridgerton was surprised.)
“Last April,” Billie said.
“And you’re arguing about it now?”
“It’s the principle of the matter,” Andrew said.
George looked at Billie. “Did you cheat?”
“Of course not! I don’t need to cheat to beat Andrew. Edward maybe,” she allowed with a flick of her eyes, “but not Andrew.”
“Uncalled for, Billie,” Andrew scolded.
“But true,” she returned.
“I’m leaving,” George said. Neither was listening, but it seemed only polite to announce his departure. Besides, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea for him to be in the same room as Billie just then. His pulse had already begun a slow, inexorable acceleration and he knew he didn’t want to be near her when it reached its crescendo.
This way lies ruin, his mind was screaming. Miraculously, his legs didn’t put up any resistance, and he made it all the way to the door before Billie said, “Oh, don’t go. It’s just about to get interesting.”
He managed a small but exhausted smile as he turned around. “With you it’s always about to get interesting.”