“Your foot.” She motioned with her head toward the extremity in question. “You kicked the ladder.”

George gave up all pretense of ignoring her. “You are not blaming this on me,” he all but hissed.

“No, of course not,” she said quickly, finally showing a shred of self-preservation. “I merely meant—Just that you—”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Never mind,” she mumbled. She let her chin rest on her bent knees and gazed out over the field. Not that there was anything to see. The only thing moving was the wind, declaring its presence through the light ruffling of the leaves on the trees.

“I think we have another hour before the sun goes down,” she murmured. “Maybe two.”

“We won’t be here when it gets dark,” he told her.

She looked at him, then down at the ladder. Then back at him with an expression that made him want to leave her in the proverbial dark.

But he didn’t. Because apparently he couldn’t. Twenty-seven years was a long time to have the tenets of gentlemanly behavior schooled into one’s brain, and he could never be so cruel to a lady. Even her.

“Andrew should be along in thirty minutes or so,” he said.

“What?” She looked relieved, then annoyed. “Why didn’t you say something? I can’t believe you let me think we would be stranded up here all night.”

He looked at her. At Billie Bridgerton, the bane of his existence since her birth twenty-three years earlier. She was glaring at him as if he’d committed some unspeakable affront, her cheeks high with color, her lips pursed like a furious rose.

With great and icy enunciation he said, “One minute has passed between the time the ladder hit the ground and this moment, right now, as these words are leaving my lips. Pray, tell me, when, during your enlightening analysis of the motion by which my foot connected with the ladder was I meant to offer this information?”

The corners of her mouth moved, but it wasn’t quite a smirk. It was nothing that indicated sarcasm. If she were anyone else, he would have thought her embarrassed, or maybe even sheepish. But this was Billie Bridgerton, and she didn’t do embarrassment. She just did as she pleased and damn the consequences. She had done her entire life, generally dragging half the Rokesby clan down with her.

And somehow everyone always forgave her. She had that way about her—it wasn’t charm exactly—it was that crazy, reckless confidence that made people flock to her side. Her family, his family, the entire bloody village—they all adored her. Her smile was wide, and her laugh was infectious, and God in heaven but how was it possible he was the only person in England who seemed to realize what a danger she was to humanity?

That twisted ankle of hers? It wasn’t the first. She’d broken her arm, too, in typically spectacular fashion. She’d been eight, and she had taken a tumble from a horse. A barely trained gelding she’d had no business riding, much less trying to jump a hedge on. The bone had healed perfectly—of course it did, Billie had always had the devil’s own luck—and within months she was back to her old ways, and no one thought to scold her. Not when she rode astride. In breeches. On that same damned gelding over that same damned hedge. And when one of his younger brothers followed her lead and knocked his shoulder out of joint . . .