“I shall take that under advisement.”

“Do.” She smiled, and his breath caught. No one smiled like Billie. No one ever had. He’d known this for years and yet . . . it was only now . . .

He indulged in a mental curse. This had to be the most inconvenient attraction in the history of man. Billie Bridgerton, for God’s sake. She was everything he’d never wanted in a woman. She was headstrong, stupidly reckless, and if she’d ever had a mysterious, feminine moment in her life, he’d never seen it.

And yet . . .

He swallowed.

He wanted her. He wanted her like he’d never wanted anything in his life. He wanted her smile, and he wanted it exclusively. He wanted her in his arms, beneath his body . . . because somehow he knew that in his bed, she would be everything mysterious and feminine.

He also knew that every single one of these delightful activities required that he marry her, which was so patently ludicrous that—

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Billie muttered.

George snapped back to attention.

“Andrew’s coming over,” she said. “Hold your horses!” she bellowed. “I swear,” she said to George, “he is so impatient.”

“Said the—”

“Don’t call me a kettle.” She started marching back to the beginning of the course. As best as she could; she really did look ridiculous with her two-part limp.

He waited for a moment, grinning at her back. “Are you sure you don’t want the black mallet?”

“I hate you!” she called.

He couldn’t help but smile. It was quite the merriest declaration of hate he’d ever heard.

“I hate you, too,” he murmured.

But he didn’t mean it, either.

Chapter 15

Billie was humming quite happily by the time she reached the beginning of the Pall Mall course. She was in a remarkably cheerful mood, all things considered. Andrew was still being abominably impatient, and Lady Alexandra was still the most awful person in the history of the world, but none of that seemed to matter.

She peeked over her shoulder at George. He’d been following her the whole way, trading insults with a wolfish smile.

“What are you so happy about?” Andrew demanded.

She smiled enigmatically. Let him stew for a bit. Besides, she wasn’t sure why she was so happy. She just was.

“Who plays first?” Lady Alexandra asked.

Billie opened her mouth to reply, but Andrew beat her to it.

“We usually play youngest to oldest,” he said, “but it does seem somewhat rude to inquire . . .”

“I am certainly first, then,” Georgiana announced, plopping the green ball down near the starting stick. “No question about it.”

“I should think I am second,” Lady Alexandra said, sending a pitying glance over at Billie.

Billie ignored her. “Mr. Berbrooke, might we inquire as to your age?”

“What? Oh, I’m twenty-five.” He smiled broadly. He did that a lot. “Quarter of a century, you know.”

“Very well, then,” Billie said, “the order of play shall be Georgiana, Lady Alexandra . . . we assume, Andrew, me, Mr. Berbrooke, and George.”