Or maybe he just disliked this house party. Between the Northwick-besotted Fortescue-Endicott girls, Lord Reggie of the snow white teeth, and Ned Berbrooke, who had accidentally spilled port all over George’s boots the previous night, he was ready to crawl back to Crake House.

It was only three miles away. He could do it.

He’d skipped the midday meal—the only way to avoid Lady Alexandra, who seemed to have decided he was the next best thing to Northwick—and now he was in a very bad mood. He was hungry and he was tired, twin demons guaranteed to reduce a grown man’s disposition to that of a querulous three-year-old.

The previous night’s sleep had been . . .

Unsatisfying.

Yes, that seemed the most appropriate word. Desperately inadequate, but appropriate.

The Bridgertons had put all of the Rokesbys in the family wing, and George had sat in the cushioned chair by his fireplace, listening to the regular, ordinary sounds of a family ending the day—the maids attending the ladies, doors opening and closing . . .

It should have been of no consequence. They were all the same noises one heard at Crake. But somehow, here at Aubrey Hall it felt too intimate, almost as if he were eavesdropping.

With every soft and sleepy sound, his imagination took flight. He knew he couldn’t hear Billie moving about; her bedroom was across the hall and three doors down. But it felt like he heard her. In the silence of the night he sensed her feet lightly padding across her carpet. He felt the whisper of her breath as she blew out a candle. And when she settled into her bed, he was sure he could hear the rustling of her sheets.

She’d said she fell asleep immediately—but what then? Was she a restless sleeper? Did she wriggle about, kicking the covers, pushing the sheets to the bottom of the bed with her feet?

Or did she lie still, sweetly on her side with her hands tucked under her cheek?

He’d wager she was a squirmer; this was Billie, after all. She’d spent her entire childhood in constant motion. Why would she sleep any other way? And if she shared a bed with someone . . .

His brandy nightcap turned into three, but when he’d finally laid his head against his pillow, it had taken him hours to fall asleep. And then when he did, he’d dreamed of her.

And the dream . . . Oh, the dream.

He shuddered, the memory washing over him anew. If he’d ever thought of Billie as a sister . . .

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.