“Of course it’s not broken,” she practically snapped. Which was a ridiculous thing to say because there was no of course about it. But George Rokesby always brought out the worst in her, and it didn’t help that her foot hurt, damn it all.

“A sprain,” George said, ignoring her little outburst.

“I know.” Petulantly. Again. She hated herself right now.

He smiled blandly. “Of course you do.”

She wanted to kill him.

“I’ll go first,” George announced. “That way if you stumble I’ll be able to stop you from falling.”

Billie nodded. It was a good plan, the only plan, really, and she’d be stupid to argue just because he was the one who’d come up with it. Even if that had been her initial impulse.

“Ready?” he asked.

She nodded again. “You’re not concerned that I’ll knock you off the ladder?”

“No.”

No explanations. Just no. As if it were absurd even to ponder the question.

She looked up sharply. He looked so solid. And strong. And dependable. He’d always been dependable, she realized. She was just usually too busy being irritated by him to notice.

He edged carefully back to the end of the roof, turning around so that he could set one foot on the top rung of the ladder.

“Don’t forget the cat,” Billie directed.

“The cat,” he repeated, giving her a surely you jest look.

“I’m not going to abandon it after all this.”

George gritted his teeth, said something quite unsavory under his breath, and reached out for the cat.

Which bit him.

“Mother of —”

Billie scooted back an inch. He looked ready to tear someone’s head off, and she was closer than the cat.

“That cat,” George growled, “can rot in hell.”

“Agreed,” she said, very quickly.

He blinked at her speedy acquiescence. She tried for a smile and settled for a shrug. She had two brothers by blood and three more who might as well have been brothers in the Rokesby household. Four if she included George, which she wasn’t quite sure she did.

The point was, she understood men, and she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

Besides, she was done with that cursed animal. Never let it be said that Billie Bridgerton was in possession of a sentimental heart. She’d tried to save the mangy beast because it was the right thing to do, then she had tried to save it again, if only because it seemed like a waste of her previous efforts not to, but now…

She stared down at the animal. “You are on your own.”

“I’ll go first,” George said, moving over to the ladder. “I want you right in front of me the whole way. That way if you stumble —”

“We’ll both go down?”

“I’ll catch you,” he ground out.

She’d been joking, but it didn’t seem the wisest course of action to point that out.

George turned to descend, but as he moved to set his foot on the highest rung, the cat, which had apparently not liked being ignored, let out a bloodcurdling screech and dashed through his legs. George pitched back, arms pinwheeling.

Billie didn’t think. She didn’t notice her foot, or her balance, or anything. She just leapt forward and grabbed him, pulling him back to safety.

“The ladder!” she shrieked.

But it was too late. Together they watched the ladder pivot, spin, then fall with a strange balletic grace to the ground.

Chapter 2

I
t would be fair to say that George Rokesby, eldest son of the Earl of Manston and currently known to the civilized world as Viscount Kennard, was an even-tempered gentleman. He had a calm, steady hand, a relentlessly logical mind, and a way of narrowing his eyes just-so that ensured that his wishes were met with cool efficiency, his desires granted with breathless pleasure, and – and this was the most important part – all of this occurred according to his preferred schedule.

It would also be fair to say that if Miss Sybilla Bridgerton had any idea how close he was to going for her throat, she would look a lot more frightened of him than she was of the gathering darkness.

“That’s most unfortunate,” she said, peering down at the ladder.

George did not speak. He thought this best.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

He unclenched his jaw for just long enough to say, “I am not certain that you do.”

“You’re trying to decide which of us you’d rather toss from the roof. Me or the cat.”

She was a lot closer to the truth than one might have predicted.

“I was only trying to help,” she said.

“I know.” Said in a tone that was not meant to encourage future conversation.

But Billie just went right on talking. “If I hadn’t grabbed you, you would have fallen.”

“I know.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, and for one blessed moment he thought she was going to let the matter drop.

Then she said, “It was your foot, you know.”

He moved his head about an inch. Just enough to indicate he’d heard. “I beg your pardon?”

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