“Watch out!” someone yelled.

She jumped back just before the blue ball slammed into her toes. Lady Alexandra was equally nimble, and they both watched as Mr. Berbrooke’s ball settled a few feet away from the wicket.

“I suppose it would serve us both right if that idiot won the game,” Lady Alexandra said.

Billie stared at her in surprise. It was one thing to trade insults with her; she could certainly give as good as she got. But to disparage Mr. Berbrooke, who was quite possibly the most genial man she’d ever met…

Honestly, the woman was a monster.

Billie glanced back up the course. The purple ball was still firmly fixed behind the first wicket. “It’s almost your turn,” she said sweetly.

Lady Alexandra narrowed her eyes and made a surprisingly unpleasant sound before stalking off.

“What did you say to her?” George asked a moment later. He’d just taken his turn and was presently well-situated to take the second wicket.

“She is a terrible person,” Billie muttered.

“Not what I asked,” George said, glancing back at the lady in question, “but probably answer enough.”

“She— Oh, never mind.” Billie gave her head a shake. “She’s not worth my breath.”

“Certainly not,” George agreed.

Billie’s heart did a flip at the compliment, and she turned. “George, have you —” She frowned, cocking her head to the side. “Is that Felix coming toward us?”

George shaded his eyes as he peered in the direction she was pointing. “I believe so, yes.”

“He’s moving very quickly. I hope nothing is amiss.”

They watched as Felix approached Andrew, who was closer than they were to the house. They spoke for a few moments and then Andrew took off at a full sprint.

“Something’s wrong,” George said. Mallet still in hand, he started walking toward Felix, picking up speed with every step.

Billie hurried after him as best she could, half-limping half-hopping, the rest of their Pall Mall equipment forgotten on the lawn. Frustrated with her lack of speed, she hiked up her skirts and just ran, pain be damned. She caught up with George moments after he reached Felix.

“There was a messenger,” Felix was saying.

George’s eyes searched his face. “Edward?”

Billie’s hand flew to her mouth. Not Edward. Oh, please, not Edward.

Felix nodded grimly. “He’s gone missing.”

Chapter 16

George was already halfway to Aubrey Hall before he realized that Billie was scurrying alongside him, forced to run just to keep up with his long, swift stride.

Running. She was running.

On her ankle.

He stopped short. “What are you —”

But then it occurred to him, without even pausing for thought. This was Billie. Of course she was going to run on her injured ankle. She was headstrong. She was reckless.

She cared.

He did not say another word. He simply scooped her into his arms and continued on toward the house, his pace only fractionally slower than before.

“You didn’t have to carry me,” she said.

He heard the pain in her voice. “Yes,” he said. “I did.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her words melting into his shirt.

But he couldn’t respond. He was beyond words now, at least beyond meaningless platitudes. He didn’t need to say anything for Billie to know that he’d heard her. She would understand. She would know that his head was somewhere else, somewhere far beyond please and you’re welcome.

“They’re in the private drawing room,” Felix said when they reached the house. George could only assume that they meant the rest of his family. And maybe the Bridgertons, as well.

They were family, too, he realized. They’d always been family.

When he reached the drawing room, the sight that awaited him was one to make any grown man blanch. His mother was on the sofa, sobbing in Lady Bridgerton’s arms. Andrew looked to be in shock. And his father…

His father was crying.

Lord Manston stood removed from the rest of the group, not quite facing them but not turned entirely away. His arms were sticks at his sides, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, as if that might possibly halt the slow trickle of tears down his cheeks. As if maybe, if he could not see the world around him, then none of this would have happened.

George had never seen his father cry. He had not imagined it even possible. He tried not to stare, but the sight was so stunning, so soul-altering, that he could not quite look away.

His father was The Earl of Manston, solid and stern. Since George was a child he had led the Rokesby family with a firm but fair hand. He was a pillar; he was strength. He was unquestionably in charge. He treated his children with scrupulous fairness, which occasionally meant that no one was satisfied with his judgments, but he was always obeyed.

In his father George saw what it meant to lead a family. And in his father’s tears, he saw his own future.

Soon, it would be time for George to lead.

“Dear heavens,” Lady Bridgerton exclaimed, finally noticing them in the doorway. “What happened to Billie?”

George just stared for a moment. He’d forgotten he was holding her. “Here,” he said, setting Billie down near her mother. He looked around the room. He didn’t know to whom he should apply for information. Where was the messenger? Was he even still here?

“George,” he heard Felix say. He looked up and saw his friend holding out a sheet of paper. Wordlessly, he took it.

To the Earl of Manston,