by Julia Quinn
It was a dismissal, clear and sensible. It was a kindness, really. She was stopping him from making a fool of himself. If she wanted him to propose, wouldn’t she have taken the bait he’d so casually dangled?
“As you wish,” he said, executing a polite bow even though she was not facing him. He saw her nod, and then he left the room.
OH, DEAR GOD, what had she done?
He could have proposed to her. Right then and there. George.
And she had stopped him. Stopped him because—bloody hell, she didn’t know why. Hadn’t she spent the entire day in a blue haze, wondering why he was avoiding her and how she might get him to kiss her again?
Wouldn’t marriage ensure future kisses? Wasn’t it precisely what she needed to achieve her (admittedly unladylike) goals?
But he’d been sitting there, sprawled out in the desk chair like he owned the place (which she supposed he did, or rather, would), and she couldn’t tell if he meant it. Was he teasing her? Having a spot of fun? George had never been cruel; he wouldn’t purposefully hurt her feelings, but if he thought she regarded the whole thing as a joke, then he might feel permitted to treat it as such . . .
It was what Andrew would have done. Not that Andrew would ever have kissed her, or that she’d have wanted him to, but if for some reason they’d been joking about marriage, absolutely he’d have said something ridiculous about getting down on one knee.
But with George . . . she just hadn’t known if he’d meant it. And then what if she’d said yes? What if she’d said that she’d love for him to get down on one knee and pledge his eternal devotion . . .
And then found out he was joking?
Her face flamed just thinking of it.
She didn’t think he would tease about such a thing. But then again, this was George. He was the eldest son of the Earl of Manston, the noble and honorable Lord Kennard. If he were going to propose to a lady, he would never do it slapdash. He’d have the ring, and he’d have the poetic words, and he certainly wouldn’t leave it up to her to decide if he ought to do it on bended knee.
Which meant he couldn’t have meant it, right? George would never be so unsure of himself.
She flopped on her bed, pressing both hands against her chest, trying to quell her racing heart. She used to hate that about George—his unshakable confidence. When they were children he always knew better than the rest of them. About everything. It had been the most annoying thing, even if now she realized that at five years their senior, he probably had known better about everything. There was no way the rest of them were going to catch up until they reached adulthood.
And now . . . Now she loved his quiet confidence. He was never brash, never boastful. He was just . . . George.
And she loved him.
She loved him, and—OH DEAR GOD, SHE HAD JUST STOPPED HIM FROM ASKING HER TO MARRY HIM.
What had she done?
And more importantly, how could she undo it?
Chapter 20
George was always the first in his family to come down to breakfast, but when he stepped into the informal dining room the following morning, his mother was already at the table, sipping a cup of tea.
There was no way this was a coincidence.
“George,” she said immediately upon seeing him, “we must speak.”
“Mother,” he murmured, stepping over to the sideboard to fix his plate. Whatever it was she was het up over, he was not in the mood. He was tired and he was cranky. He might have only almost proposed marriage the night before, but he had most definitely been rejected.
It was not the stuff dreams were made of. Nor a good night’s sleep.
“As you know,” she said, jumping right into it, “tonight is Lady Wintour’s ball.”
He spooned some coddled eggs onto his plate. “I assure you it has not slipped my mind.”
Her lips tightened, but she did not take him to task for his sarcasm. Instead she waited with heavy patience until he joined her at the table.
“It is about Billie,” she said.
Of course it was.
“I am very concerned about her.”
So was he, but he doubted it was for the same reasons. He pasted a bland smile on his face. “What is the problem?”
“She is going to need all the help she can get tonight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, but he knew what she meant. Billie was not meant for London. She was a country girl, through and through.
“She lacks confidence, George. The vultures will see this instantly.”
“Do you ever wonder why we choose to socialize with these vultures?” he mused.
“Because half of them are really doves.”
“Doves?” He stared at her in disbelief.
She waved a hand. “Perhaps carrier pigeons. But that is not the point.”
“I would never be so lucky.”
She gave him just enough of a look to make it clear that while she had heard this, she was graciously choosing to ignore it. “Her success is in your hands.”
He knew he would regret encouraging her to expand upon this point, but he could not stop himself from saying, “I beg your pardon?”
“You know as well as I do that the surest way to ensure a debutante’s success is for an eligible gentleman—such as yourself—to pay her attention.”
For some reason, this irritated him greatly. “Since when is Billie a debutante?”
His mother stared at him as if he were an idiot. “Why else do you think I brought her to London?”
“I believe you said you wished for her company?” he countered.
His mother waved that away as the nonsense she clearly saw it to be. “The girl needed some polish.”
No, George thought, she didn’t. He jabbed his fork into his sausage with far too much force. “She’s perfectly fine the way she is.”
“That is very gracious of you, George,” she replied, inspecting her muffin before deciding to add an additional dab of butter, “but I assure you, no lady wishes to be ‘perfectly fine.’”
He fixed a patient expression on his face. “Your point, Mother?”
“Merely that I need you to do your part this evening. You must dance with her.”
She made it sound as if he thought it a chore. “Of course I’ll dance with her.” It would be awkward as hell, all things considered, but even so, he could not help but look forward to it. He’d been longing to dance with Billie since that morning back at Aubrey Hall when she’d looked up at him, planted her hands on her hips, and demanded, “Have you ever danced with me?”
At the time, he couldn’t believe that he’d never done so. After all those years as neighbors, how could he not have danced with her?
But now he couldn’t believe that he’d ever thought he had. If he had danced with Billie, music washing over them as he placed his hand on her hip . . . It was not something he could forget.
And he wanted it. He wanted to take her hand in his and dance her down the line, to step and dip, and feel her innate grace. But more than that, he wanted her to feel it. He wanted her to know that she was every bit as womanly and elegant as the rest, that she was perfect in his eyes, not just ‘perfectly fine,’ and if he could only—
“George!”
He looked up.
“Kindly pay attention,” his mother said.
“My apologies,” he murmured. He had no idea how long he’d been lost in his own thoughts, although generally speaking, with his mother even a second or two of woolgathering was not to be tolerated.
“I was saying,” she said somewhat peevishly, “that you must dance with Billie twice.”
“Consider it done.”
Her eyes narrowed; she was clearly suspicious at the ease at which she was getting her way. “You must also be sure to allow at least ninety minutes to elapse between dances.”
He rolled his eyes and did not bother to hide it. “As you wish.”
Lady Manston stirred a bit of sugar into her tea. “Y
ou must appear attentive.”
“But not too attentive?”
“Don’t mock me,” she warned.
He set down his fork. “Mother, I assure you that I am every bit as eager for Billie’s happiness as you are.”
This seemed to appease her somewhat. “Very well,” she said, “I am pleased that we are in agreement. I wish to arrive at the ball at half past nine. This will give us the opportunity to make a proper entrance, but it will still be early enough that it won’t be so difficult to make introductions. It gets so loud at these things.”
George nodded his agreement.
“I think we should depart at nine—there will surely be a line of carriages outside of Wintour House and you know how long that takes—so if you could be ready by three-quarters past eight—”
“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” George interrupted, thinking of the ridiculous message he was meant to pass along to Robert Tallywhite. “I cannot accompany you. I’ll need to make my own way to the ball.”
“Don’t be absurd,” she said dismissively. “We need you to escort us.”
“I wish I could,” he said quite honestly. He would have liked nothing better than for Billie to make her entrance on his arm, but he’d already given a great deal of thought to this evening’s schedule, and he had determined that it was imperative that he arrive on his own. If he came with the ladies, he would have to practically abandon them at the door. And heaven knew that would never happen without a full interrogation from his mother.
No, better to get there earlier so that he could find Tallywhite and take care of the whole thing before they even arrived.
“What can possibly be more important than accompanying Billie and me?” his mother demanded.
“I have a previous engagement,” he replied, lifting his own cup of tea to his lips. “It cannot be avoided.”
His mother’s lips pressed into a firm line. “I am most displeased.”
“I am sorry to disappoint.”
She began stirring her tea with increasing vigor. “I could be completely wrong about this, you know. She could be an instant success. We could be surrounded by gentlemen from the moment we arrive.”
“Your tone seems to imply that you think that would be a bad thing,” George said.
“Of course not. But you won’t be there to see it.”
In truth, it was the last thing George wanted to see. Billie, surrounded by a pack of gentlemen astute enough to realize what a treasure she was? It was the stuff of nightmares.
And a moot point, as it happened. “Actually,” he told his mother, “I will likely arrive at Wintour House before you do.”
“Well, then I see no reason you cannot circle back ’round from your errand and pick us up on the way.”
He fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Mother, it won’t work. Please leave it at that and know that I will see you at the ball, where I shall dance such attendance upon Billie that the gentlemen of London will be waiting in line just to fall at her feet.”
“Good morning.”
They both turned to see Billie standing in the doorway. George stood to greet her. He wasn’t sure how much she had heard, beyond his obvious sarcasm, and he very much feared she would take it the wrong way.
“It is very kind of you to agree to attend to me tonight,” she said, her tone so sweet and pleasant that he could not quite gauge its sincerity. She walked over to the sideboard and picked up a plate. “I do hope it will not be too much of a chore.”
Ah, and there she was.
“On the contrary,” he replied. “I am very much looking forward to being your escort.”
“But not so much that you will actually accompany us in the carriage,” his mother muttered.
“Stop,” he said.
Billie turned around, her eyes darting from Rokesby to Rokesby with unconcealed curiosity.
“I regret to inform you that I have an unbreakable commitment this evening,” he told her, “which means I will not be able to drive to Wintour House with you. But I will see you there. And I hope you will save me two dances.”
“Of course,” she murmured. But then again, she could hardly say anything else.
“Since you cannot escort us this evening . . .” Lady Manston began.
George nearly threw down his napkin.
“. . . perhaps you may assist us in some other way.”
“Please,” he said, “inform me how I may be of service.”
Billie made a sound that might have been a snort. He wasn’t sure. But it was certainly in her nature to find amusement in his rapidly dwindling patience with his mother.
“You know all of the young gentlemen better than I do,” Lady Manston continued. “Are there any we should avoid?”
All of them, George wanted to say.
“And are there any we should particularly look out for? That Billie may plan to set her cap for?”
“That I may—what?”
Billie must truly have been startled, George thought. She dropped three slices of bacon on the floor.
“Set your cap, darling,” Lady Manston said. “It’s an expression. Surely you’ve heard it.”
“Of course I’ve heard it,” Billie said, hurrying over to take her place at the table. “I don’t, however, see how it applies to me. I did not come to London to look for a husband.”
“You must always be looking for a husband, Billie,” Lady Manston said, then turned right back to George. “What about Ashbourne’s son? Not the oldest, of course. He’s already married, and as delightful as you are,”—this, she said over her shoulder to the still-aghast Billie—“I don’t think you could snag the heir to a dukedom.”
“I’m fairly certain I don’t want to,” Billie said.
“Very practical of you, my dear. It’s quite a lot of pomp.”
“So says the wife of an earl,” George remarked.
“It’s not at all the same thing,” his mother said. “And you didn’t answer my question. What about Ashbourne’s son?”
“No.”
“No?” his mother echoed. “No, as in you don’t have an opinion?”
“No, as in no. He is not for Billie.”
Who, George could not help but note, was watching the mother-son exchange with an odd mix of curiosity and alarm.
“Any particular reason?” Lady Manston asked.
“He gambles,” George lied. Well, maybe it wasn’t a lie. All gentlemen gambled. He had no idea if the one in question did so to excess.
“What about the Billington heir? I think he—”
“Also no.”
His mother regarded him with an impassive expression.
“He’s too young,” George said, hoping it was true.
“He is?” She frowned. “I suppose he might be. I can’t remember precisely.”
“I don’t suppose I have any say in the matter,” Billie put in.
“Of course you do,” Lady Manston said, patting her hand. “Just not yet.”
Billie’s lips parted, but she appeared not to know what to say.
“How could you,” Lady Manston continued, “when you don’t know anyone but us?”
Billie put a piece of bacon in her mouth and began to chew with impressive force. George suspected this was to stop herself from saying something she’d regret.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” Lady Manston said.
George took a sip of his tea. “She doesn’t look worried to me.”
Billie shot him a grateful look.
His mother ignored him completely. “You will get to know everyone soon enough, Billie. And then you can decide with whom you wish to pursue an acquaintance.”
“I don’t know that I plan to be here long enough to form opinions one way or another,” Billie said, her voice—in George’s opinion—remarkably even and calm.
“Nonsense,” Lady Manston said. “Just leave everything to me.”
“You’re not her mother,” George said quietly.
To which his m
other raised her brows and said, “I could be.”
To which both George and Billie stared at her in openmouthed shock.
“Oh, come now, you two,” Lady Manston said, “surely it can be no surprise that I have long hoped for an alliance between the Rokesbys and Bridgertons.”
“Alliance?” Billie echoed, and all George could think was that it was a terrible, clinical word, one that could never encompass all that he had come to feel for her.
“Match, marriage, whatever you wish to call it,” Lady Manston said. “We are the dearest of friends. Of course I should like to be family.”
“If it makes any difference,” Billie said quietly, “I already think of you as family.”
“Oh, I know that, dear. I feel the same way. I’ve just always thought it would be wonderful to make it official. But no matter. There is always Georgiana.”
Billie cleared her throat. “She’s very young yet.”
Lady Manston smiled devilishly. “So is Nicholas.”
The look on Billie’s face came so close to horror George almost laughed. He probably would have done if he hadn’t been fairly certain his own face held the same expression.
“I see that I have shocked you,” his mother said. “But any mother will tell you—it’s never too early to plan for the future.”
“I would not recommend mentioning this to Nicholas,” George murmured.
“Or Georgiana, I’m sure,” his mother said, pouring herself yet another cup of tea. “Would you like a cup, Billie?”
“Ehrm . . . yes, thank you.”
“Oh, and that’s another thing,” Lady Manston said as she put a splash of milk in Billie’s teacup. “We need to stop calling you Billie.”
Billie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
In went the tea, and then Lady Manston held the cup out and said, “Starting today we will use your given name. Sybilla.”
Billie’s mouth hung open for a brief—but noticeable—moment before she said, “That’s what my mother calls me when she’s cross.”
“Then we shall begin a new, happier tradition.”
“Is this really necessary?” George asked.
“I know it will be difficult to remember,” Lady Manston said, finally setting the cup down near Billie’s plate, “but I think it’s for the best. As a name, Billie is so, well . . . I don’t know that I would call it mannish, but I don’t think it accurately represents how we wish to portray you.”