“It’s hardly a quarantine.”

“It would feel like quarantine,” she muttered.

He regarded her with a curious expression. “You don’t like being by yourself, do you?”

“Not when the rest of the world is making merry without me,” she retorted.

He was quiet for a moment, his head cocking just far enough to the side to indicate that he found her words curious. “What about the rest of the time?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“When the world isn’t gathering without you,” he said with a vaguely condescending tone. “Do you mind being on your own?”

She felt her brows come together as she gazed up at him. What on earth could be prompting such probing?

“It’s not a difficult query,” he said, something slightly provocative bringing his voice down to a murmur.

“No, of course I don’t mind being alone.” She pressed her lips together, feeling rather peeved. And peevish. But he was asking her questions she never even asked herself. But then, before she realized she was planning to speak, she heard herself say, “I don’t like —”

“What?”

She gave her head a shake. “Never mind.”

“No, tell me.”

She let out a sigh. He wasn’t going to let up. “I don’t like being cooped up. I can spend all day in my own company if I’m out of doors. Or even down in the drawing room, where the windows are tall and let in so much light.”

He nodded slowly, as if he agreed with her.

“Are you much the same way, then?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he said.

Well, then, so much for her being able to interpret his gestures.

“I quite enjoy my own company,” he continued.

“I’m sure you do.”

His mouth managed half a smile. “I thought we weren’t insulting each other tonight.”

“We weren’t?”

“I am carrying you down a flight of stairs. You’d do well to speak kindly to me.”

“Point taken,” she acceded.

George rounded the landing, and she thought they were done with the conversation when he said, “The other day it rained… all day long, unremittingly.”

Billie tipped her head to the side. She knew which day he was talking about. It had been miserable. She had been planning to take her mare Argo out to inspect the fences at the southern end of her father’s lands. And maybe stop at the wild strawberry patch. It was much too early in the season for fruit, but the blossoms would be starting to emerge, and she was curious as to their abundance.

“I stayed indoors, of course,” George continued. “There was no reason to go out.”

She wasn’t quite sure where he was going with this, but obliged him by inquiring, “How did you occupy yourself?”

“I read a book.” He sounded quite pleased with himself. “I sat in my study and read an entire book from start to finish, and it was quite the most pleasant day in recent memory.”

“You need to get out more,” she deadpanned.

He ignored that entirely. “All I’m saying is, I spent the day cooped up, as you call it, and it was delightful.”

“Well. That just proves my point.”

“We were making points?”

“We’re always making points, George.”

“And always keeping score?” he murmured.

Always. But she didn’t say it out loud. It seemed childish. And petty. And worse, like she was trying too hard to be something she wasn’t. Or rather, something she was but that society would never allow her to be. He was Lord Kennard, and she was Miss Sybilla Bridgerton, and while she’d gleefully stack her inner fortitude up against his any day of the week, she was no fool. She understood how the world worked. Here in her little corner of Kent, she was queen of her domain, but in any contest held outside the homey little circle drawn ’round Crake and Aubrey Hall…

George Rokesby would win. Always. Or if not, he’d give the appearance of having done so.

And there was nothing she could do about it.

“You look uncommonly serious all of a sudden,” he said, stepping onto the polished parquet of the ground floor hall.

“Thinking about you,” she said truthfully.

“A dare if ever I heard one.” He reached the open door to the drawing room, and his lips moved closer to her ear. “And one I shall not take.”

Her tongue touched the top of her mouth, readying a reply, but before she could make a sound, George had stepped through the entry to Crake House’s formal drawing room.

“Good evening, everyone,” he said grandly.

Any hope Billie might have had at making a subtle entrance were squashed immediately when she realized they were the last to arrive. Her mother was seated next to Lady Manston on the long sofa with Georgiana in a nearby chair looking vaguely bored. The men had congregated over by the window. Lords Bridgerton and Manston were chatting with Andrew, who was happily accepting a glass of brandy from his father.

“Billie!” her mother exclaimed, practically hopping to her feet. “In your message you wrote that it was just a sprain.”

“It is just a sprain,” Billie replied. “I’ll be as good as new by the end of the week.”