He’d skipped the midday meal – the only way to avoid Lady Alexandra, who seemed to have decided he was the next best thing to Northwick – and now he was in a very bad mood. He was hungry and he was tired, twin demons guaranteed to reduce a grown man’s disposition to that of a querulous three-year-old.

The previous night’s sleep had been…

Unsatisfying.

Yes, that seemed the most appropriate word. Desperately inadequate, but appropriate.

The Bridgertons had put all of the Rokesbys in the family wing, and George had sat in the cushioned chair by his fireplace, listening to the regular, ordinary sounds of a family ending the day – the maids attending the ladies, doors opening and closing…

It should have been of no consequence. They were all the same noises one heard at Crake. But somehow, here at Aubrey Hall it felt too intimate, almost as if he were eavesdropping.

With every soft and sleepy sound, his imagination took flight. He knew he couldn’t hear Billie moving about; her bedroom was across the hall and three doors down. But it felt like he heard her. In the silence of the night he sensed her feet lightly padding across her carpet. He felt the whisper of her breath as she blew out a candle. And when she settled into her bed, he was sure he could hear the rustling of her sheets.

She’d said she fell asleep immediately – but what then? Was she a restless sleeper? Did she wriggle about, kicking the covers, pushing the sheets to the bottom of the bed with her feet?

Or did she lie still, sweetly on her side with her hands tucked under her cheek?

He’d wager she was a squirmer; this was Billie, after all. She’d spent her entire childhood in constant motion. Why would she sleep any other way? And if she shared a bed with someone…

His brandy nightcap turned into three, but when he’d finally laid his head against his pillow, it had taken him hours to fall asleep. And then when he did, he’d dreamed of her.

And the dream… Oh, the dream.

He shuddered, the memory washing over him anew. If he’d ever thought of Billie as a sister…

He certainly didn’t now.

It had started in the library, in the moonlit dark, and he didn’t know what she’d been wearing – just that it wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen her in before. It had to have been a nightgown… white and diaphanous. With every breeze it molded to her body, revealing perfectly lush curves designed to fit his hands.

Never mind that they were in the library, and there was no logical reason for a breeze. It was his dream, and it was breezy, and then it didn’t matter anyway because when he took her hand and pulled her hard against him they were suddenly in his bedroom. Not the one here at Aubrey Hall but back at Crake, with his mahogany four-poster bed, the mattress large and square, with room for all sorts of reckless abandon.

She didn’t say a word, which he had to admit was very unlike her, but then again, it was a dream. When she smiled, though, it was pure Billie – wide and free – and when he laid her on the bed, her eyes met his, and it was as if she had been born for that moment.

As if he had been born for that moment.

His hands opened the folds of her gown, and she arched beneath him, her perfect breasts thrusting toward him like an offering.

It was mad. It was madness. He shouldn’t know what her breasts looked like. He shouldn’t even be able to imagine it.

But he did, and in his dream, he worshipped them. He cupped them, squeezed them, pushed them together until that intoxicatingly feminine valley formed between them. Then he bent down and took her nipple between his teeth, teasing and tempting until she moaned with delight.

But it didn’t end there. He slid his hands to the junction of her legs and her hips and he pushed her thighs open, his thumbs coming torturously close to her center.

And then he stroked… closer… closer… until he could sense the wet heat of her, and he knew that their joining was inevitable. She would be his, and it would be glorious. His clothes melted away, and he positioned himself at her opening…

And woke up.

Bloody goddamn bleeding bollocks.

He woke up.

Life was spectacularly unfair.

The following morning was the ladies’ archery competition, and if George had felt a bit of irony while watching, surely he could be forgiven. There was Billie with a stiff, pointy thing, and there was he, still with a stiff, pointy thing, and it had to be said: only one of them was having any fun.

It had taken a full hour of very icy thoughts before he was able to move from his carefully cross-legged position in the chairs that had been set up at the edge of the field. Every other gentleman had got up at some point to inspect the targets, but not George. He’d smiled, and he’d laughed, and he made up some sort of nonsense about enjoying the sun. Which was ridiculous, because the one spot of blue in the sky was about the size of his thumbnail.

Desperate for a moment of his own company, he made for the library immediately after the tournament. No one in the party struck him as much of a reader; surely he could find some peace and quiet.

Which he did, for all of ten minutes before Billie and Andrew came squabbling through the door.

“George!” Billie exclaimed, limping in his direction. She looked glowingly well-rested.

She never had difficulty falling asleep, George thought irritably. She probably dreamed of roses and rainbows.

“Just the person I’d hoped to find,” she said with a smile.