It was almost heartbreaking.

Billie was directed to the sitting room, but before she exited the hall George appeared, obviously having been alerted to her arrival.

“Billie,” he said, bowing his head in greeting. “It is good to see you.”

Her first impulse was to ask if there had been any news, but of course there would not be. There would be no swift rider, down from London with a report. Edward was far too far away. It would likely be months before they learned his fate.

“How is your mother?” she asked.

He smiled sadly. “As well as can be expected.”

Billie nodded, following him into the sitting room. “And your father?”

George paused, but he did not turn to face her. “He sits in his study and stares out the window.”

Billie swallowed, her heart breaking at George’s bleak posture. She did not need to see his face to know his pain. He loved Edward, just as she did. Just as they all did.

“He is useless,” George said.

Billie’s lips parted in surprise at such harsh words, but then she realized that George had not meant them as scorn.

“He is incapacitated,” he clarified. “The grief . . .”

“I don’t think any of us knows how we will react to a crisis until we are forced into one.”

He turned, one corner of his mouth tipping up. “When did you grow so wise?”

“It isn’t wisdom to repeat platitudes.”

“It is wisdom to know which ones bear repeating.”

To her great surprise, Billie felt a bubble of humor rising within. “You are determined to compliment me.”

“It’s the only bloody bright spot in the day,” George muttered.

It was the sort of comment that would normally make her heart leap, but like the rest of them, she was too blunted by pain and worry. Edward was missing, and George was hurting—

She took a breath. This wasn’t about George. George was fine. He was here, right in front of her, healthy and hale.

No, this wasn’t about George.

It couldn’t be about George.

Except . . . lately it seemed as if everything was about George. She thought about him constantly, and heaven above, was it just the day before that they’d been playing Pall Mall and she’d practically kissed him?

She’d wanted to. Dear God, she’d wanted to, and if he’d shown any interest—and if there hadn’t been four other people milling about with Pall Mall mallets—she’d have done it. She’d never kissed anyone before, but when had that ever stopped her? She’d jumped her first fence when she was six. She’d never so much as jumped a shrub before that, but she’d taken one look at that five-foot fence and known that she had to take it. So she’d just hopped on her mare, and she’d done it. Because she’d wanted to.

And also because Edward had dared her. But she wouldn’t have tried it if she hadn’t thought she could do it.

And known she would love it.