BECAUSE MISS "BRIDGERTON"
chapter 1
The roof of an abandoned farmhouse between Aubrey Hall and the Crake House
Kent, England
I779
.
IT'S NOT LIKE BILLIE BRIDGERTON doesn't have common sense. Instead, he was pretty sure of himself being one of the most common-sense people among his acquaintances. But like any other individual who thinks, sometimes he chooses to ignore the small sound of common sense whispering in his mind. He was sure this could not be considered frivolity. When he ignored this voice that told him to be careful, it was a decision made consciously, after which analysis—agak— was cautious regarding the situation. And as a compliment to himself, when Billie made a decision—which would be considered mostly human as something very stupid—usually he managed to land cheerfully on both feet.
Except when it doesn't work.
Like now.
He glanced at his friend. “I should have strangled you.”
His friend meows, not caring.
Billie let out a somewhat inappropriate growl for a lady.
The cat judged Billie's growl, decided the sound was not worth paying attention to, and began licking her claws.
Billie considered the standards of honor and manners, decided that both were excessive, then replied to the cat with a childish whimper.
It doesn't make him feel better.
With a tired growl, Billie looked up at the sky, trying to figure out what time it was. The sun is sandwiched behind layers of clouds, which makes the task even more complicated, but it's now at least four o'clock. He felt trapped in this place for an hour, and he left the village at two o'clock. If he puts in the time it takes to walk…
Oh shit, what's the importance at what time is it? That's not gonna get him off this fucking roof. “This is all your fault,” he told the cat.
As expected, the cat ignored him.
“I don't know what you think you're doing on that tree,” Billie continues. “Any fool knows you won't be able to get down from there.”
Any fool would leave it up there, but not with Billie hearing him meow, and he was halfway up the tree before realizing he didn't even like cats.
“And I really don't like you,” he said.
He talked to the cat. It finally ended like this. He shifted his seat, grimacing as his stockings caught one of the weather-eaten shingles. The jolt made his leg twist to the side, and his throbbing ankle pain roared in protest.
Or rather, it was his mouth that roared. Billie couldn't help it. It hurts.
He thinks things could be worse. He was far up in the tree, two and a half meters above the roof of the farmer's house, when the cat hissed at him while throwing roots, and made them both fall upside down.
The cat, needless to say, landed unharmed with acrobatic elegance on its four legs.
Billie is still unsure how she landed, only that her elbow hurts, her hip hurts, and her jacket is torn, likely due to a twig that held her fall in two-thirds of her way down.
But the worst were his ankles and feet, which were extremely painful. When she was at home, Billie lifted her up on the pillow. He has often seen sprained ankles some in his own body, more often than in the body of others—and he knows what to do. Cold compress, lifted up, brother who waited and carried out all his commands…
Where are his accomplices when he needs them?
However, in the distance he saw a flurry of movement, and unless the local wild animals had recently switched to attacking two-wheelers, it was clearly human.
“Haloooooooo!” call him, then think again and shout, “Please!”
Unless his eyes fooled him—and it was impossible, absolutely impossible; even his best friend Mary Rokesby admitted Billie Bridgerton's eyes were so perfectly perfectthe man in the distance was a man. And no man of Billie's acquaintance can ignore a woman's cry for help.
“Please!” he shouted once more, feeling a great relief when the man stopped. Billie couldn't be sure if the man turned towards her—his perfect vision could only go that far so he shouted again, this time as loud as possible, and almost cried in relief when the gentleman was—oh, so he cried again, please let him be an honorable man, if not for heredity, then at least because of his true nature—began to move towards him.
But Billie wasn't crying. Because he never cried. She was never that kind of girl.
But he gasped— surprisingly sounded loud and shrill.
“Here!” call him, taking off his jacket so he can wave in the air. There is no point in trying to look honorable. After all he was stuck on a roof with a sprained ankle and a dirty cat.
“Sir!” he almost screamed. “Please! Please!”
The man moved faintly adjusting the direction of Billie's voice, and he looked up, and although he was still so far away that his perfect vision could not see his face, Billie knew.
No. gabe. No. gabe. No. gabe. Whoever as long as it's not that guy.
But of course it's him. Because who else would pass in Billie's worst moment, when she looks the most awkward and shameful, in the damned moment when she needs to be saved?
“Good afternoon, George,” said, as soon as the man was close enough to hear it.
The man ruffled his waist and narrowed his eyes at her. “Billie Bridgerton,” she says.
Billie waited for the man to add, “I should have expected.”
He didn't say it, and somehow it irritated Billie even more. The world is not in a normal state when Billie cannot predict every conceited and arrogant word that rolls out of George Rokesby's mouth.
“Try to get a little sunshine?” ask the man.
“Yes, I think I need more spots on the face,” Billie said.
The man did not respond immediately. Instead he took off his tricorn hat, showed a thick light brown hair that was not powdered, and observed with a judging and calm look. Finally, after carefully putting the hat into the remains of the stone wall, the man looked up and said, “I can't say that I didn't enjoy it. Just a little.”
Many answers danced around Billie's tongue, but she reminded herself that George Rokesby was the only human in sight, and if he wants to land both feet on the ground before May Day—Spring Festival—ia should be friendly to George.
At least until he saved her.
“Omong-by the way, how did you get up there?” ask George.
“Cats.” Billie replied in a voice that could perhaps be described vividly as bubbling.
“Ah.”
“The cat was above the tree,” Billie explained, although she did not know why she did it. George did not ask for further explanation.
“I understand.”
Did ya? Billie said the man didn't understand. “The cat was crying,”. “I can't ignore it.”
“True, I'm sure you can't,” said George, and although his voice sounded very friendly, Billie was sure the man was laughing at him.
“Some of us are affectionate and considerate individuals,” he separated his teeth which were being gritted to say.
George shakes his head. “Good to small children and animals?”
“True once.”
The man's right eyebrow was raised in a typical Rokesby style that was so irritating.
“Some of us are good to children who are already big and animals,” said George slowly.
Billie biting her tongue. First as a figure of speech, then literally. Be kind, he reminded himself inwardly. Even if it kills you…
George smiled kindly. Well, except for a little grin at the corner of his mouth.
“Damn it, are you going to help me down or not?” blow Billie in the end.
“Very once,” scold the man.
“I learned from your brothers.”
“Oh, I know,” says George. “I never managed to convince them that you're actually a girl.”
Billie sat on both hands. He literally sat on his hands, so sure he would not be able to resist throwing himself off the roof to strangle the man.
“Never managed to convince myself that you are actually human,” added George without a second thought.
Billie's fingers are curled stiffly. And it felt really uncomfortable, after considering everything. “George,” said, and he heard thousands of different things in his voice—nada pleaded, pain, surrender, memories. They both have a history, and no matter how big of a difference between them, the man is a Rokesby and Billie a Bridgerton, and in a critical state they can be considered family.
Their home—Crake House for the Rokesby family and Aubrey Hall for the Bridgerton— family is just five kilometers apart in this cozy and lush corner of Kent. The Bridgerton family stayed there longer and they arrived in the early 1500s, when James Bridgerton was given the title of viscount and granted land by Henry VIII—but the Rokesby family defeated their noble status since 1672.
One of the very enterprising Baron Rokesby—that's how the story— served so much importance to Charles II and was named the first Earl of Manston as a thank you. The details surrounding this rise in status grew increasingly blurred with the passage of time, but broadly speaking the service involved a passenger train, a bundle of Turkish silk, and two mistresses for the king.
Billie can trust him. Charm can be inherited, right? George Rokesby may be the stiff type to expect from an earl title heir, but his younger brother Andrew has a mischievous joie de vivre aura that will surely make him dear to Charles II who is famous as an accomplished seducer. The other Rokesby brothers were not so mischievous (though according to him Nicholas, who was only fourteen years old, was still honing his craft), yet they would easily beat George in all contests involving charm and friendliness.
George. They never liked each other. But Billie thinks she can't complain. George is the only Rokesby currently available. Edward was in the colony, wielding a sword or a gun, or just God knows what else, and Nicholas was in Eton, he said, it may also be wielding a sword or pistol—although hopefully the effect is much smaller. Andrew was in Kent for the next few weeks, but his arm was still fractured from doing something valiant in the navy. He can't possibly help.
No, it's just George, and Billie has to be polite.
He smiled at the man. Well, he stretched his lips to the side.
George scolded. Just slightly. “Will I see if there are stairs behind.”
“Thank you,” Billie said politely, but she didn't think the man heard her. George was always moving with wide, fast steps, and he disappeared behind the building before Billie could properly show courtesy.
A few minutes later George returned to view, his arm holding a ladder that looked as if it had been used for the last time during the Revolution of 1688. “What really happened?” asked the man while putting the stairs in place. “Stuck in there is not a possible thing to happen to you.”
As far as Billie had heard from the man's mouth, these words were closest to praise. “The cat was not as grateful for my help as expected,” he said, every consonant like an ice pickaxe full of arrogance directed at the little monster.
The ladder was placed in the right position with a bang, and Billie heard George climb to the top.
“What ladder can last?” he asks. The wood looked somewhat chapped and let out a dangerous creaking sound every time it was stepped on.
The sound stopped for a moment. “It doesn't matter whether this ladder is able to survive or not, does it?”
Billie is in danger, so George has no choice. He has to help, no matter how annoying Billie is to him.
And the man did find it annoying. Oh, Billie knows that. George never tried to hide it. Even if you want to be fair, Billie does the same.
The man's head appeared in view, and his Rokesby blue eyes narrowed. All Rokesby breeds have blue eyes. Everything was.
“You wear pants,” George sighs heavily. “Of course you wear pants.”
“I couldn't have tried to climb a tree by using a dress.”
“True,” sahut the man was flat. “You're too reasonable to do it.”
Billie decided to ignore the word. “The cat scratched me,” it raised its head towards the cat.
“Really?”
“We both fell.”
George looks. “The distance is quite high.”
Billie followed the man's gaze. The nearest branch was a meter and a half above, and he was not at the nearest branch. “My ankle sprained,” I got.
“I think it's like that too.”
Billie looked up at the man with a look of asking.
“If not, you must have jumped down.”
Billie's mouth puckered as she scanned behind George's shoulder into the dense soil surrounding the remains of the farmer's house. It used to be owned by a very prosperous farmer because the height of the building was two floors. “No,” said, while measuring distance. “Too far for it.”
“Even for you?”
“I'm not stupid, George.”
The man didn't approve as quickly as he should have. The brave, not at all.
“Alright,” finally that's what George said. “I'll drop you.”
Billie took a breath. Then exhale. Then said, “Thank you.”
George looked at her with an awkward expression. Maybe he didn't believe it because Billie said thank you and thanks in the same sentence?
“Before the sky will darken,” said Billie, her nose wrinkled as she looked up at the sky. “It would be terrible if it had to be stuck—” It cleared its throat. “Thank you.”
George greeted with a brief nod. “Can you use the stairs?”
“Taste can.” It's going to hurt a lot, but Billie can do it. “Ya.”
“I can carry you.”
“Above the stairs?”
“On my back.”
“I don't want to go up to your back.”
“I don't want you there either,” grumbled George.
Billie looked sharp.
“Alright, well,” continued the man, and climbed two more steps. The edge of the roof is now aligned with his hips. “Can you stand?”
Billie looked at him not understanding.
“I want to see how much weight you can put on that ankle,” George explained.
“Oh,” muttered Billie. “Of course.”
Maybe he shouldn't have tried. The roof was so tilted that Billie needed both of her legs to get balance, and her left leg was barely usable at the moment. But he tried, because he did not like to show weakness in front of this man, or maybe he tried just because it wasn't his nature to not try—anything—or maybe he didn't think about it in the first place, but Billie stood up, and staggered, and sat down.
But not before a scream of stifled pain gushed out from his mouth.
George immediately left the stairs and reached the roof. “Basic fool,” he grumbled, but there was an affectionate tone in his voice, or at least as much affection as he had ever shown. “By my view?”
Reluctantly, Billie stuck her leg out toward the man. He took off his shoes.
George touched with a clinical attitude, cupping Billie's heel in one hand while trying to figure out the limits of his movements with the other hand. “What is the pain here?” he asked, and pressed the outside of Billie's ankle lightly.
Billie hissed in pain before she could stop herself and nodded.
George moved to another section. “Here?”
Billie nodded again. “But not too.”
“How about—”
The pain shot through Billie's leg, so intense that it felt like a shock. Without thinking, he pulled his foot from both of the man's hands.
“I assume the answer is yes,” George said while frowning. “But I don't think your leg is broken.”
“Of course not broken,” sambar Billie ketus. And it's actually ludicrous because there's nothing of course in that. But George Rokesby always brings out the worst side of him, and his aching leg doesn't help him, damn it.
“Keseleo,” said George, ignoring his small explosion.
“I know.” Furiously. Again. Billie hates herself right now.
George smiled kindly. “Of course you know.”
Billie wants to kill him.
“I'll get off first.” George announced. “Thus if you stumble I will be able to stop you before you fall.”
Billie nodded. It was a good plan, the only plan, actually, and he was stupid to argue it just because George proposed it. Even if it was his first impulse.
“Ready?” the man asked.
Billie nodded once more. “You're not worried I'll kick you down the stairs?”
“No.”
There's no explanation. Just no. As if thinking about that question alone was already ridiculous.
Billie raised her head sharply. George looks so strong. And powerful. And reliable. He's always reliable, Billie realized. It's just that he's usually too busy being annoyed with the man that he doesn't realize it.
Slowly the man inched to the edge of the roof, and twisted the body so that he could put one foot on the top of the stairs.
“Don't forget the cat,” Billie's orders.
“His cat,” reset George, and give Billie a look you must be kidding.
“I won't leave it after all this.”
George pressed his teeth, and muttered something very rude, and grabbed the cat.
Bite it.
“Sia—”
Billie shuffled a little backwards. George looks like he's ready to pull out someone's head, and Billie's position is closer than the cat's.
“The cat could rot in hell,” furious George.
“Agree,” Billie said very quickly.
George blinked at his lightning-fast approval. Billie tried to smile and ended up with a shoulder twitch. He has two siblings and three others who may have been his brothers at the Rokesby house. Four if he's with George, and he's not sure he can do it.
In essence, he understands men, and he knows when to keep his mouth shut.
After all, he was fed up with the cursed beast. Never say Billie Bridgerton has a soft heart. He had tried to save the filthy beast because it was the right thing, then tried to save it again, even though it was only because he seemed to have wasted his previous effort if he had not done it, but now…
Billie stared at the beast sharply. “You're alone now.”
“I'll be down first,” George move up the stairs. “I want you to always be right in front of me. That way if you tripped—”
“We both will fall?”
“I'll catch you,” says George ketus.
Billie was only joking, but it didn't seem wise to explain.
George turned around and began to move down, but as he moved to put his foot on the uppermost rung, the cat, who apparently did not like to be ignored, meowed loudly and darted past his feet. George staggered back, his arms twirling around holding the balance.
Billie didn't think. He doesn't think about his legs, or his balance, or anything. He just jumped forward and grabbed the man, pulling him to safety.
“That ladder!” he squealed.
But it's too late. Together they see the stairs circling, then tumble down with the clumsy elegance of a ballet dancer
