by Julia Quinn
“It accurately represents who she is,” George practically growled.
“Goodness. I had no idea you would feel so strongly about this,” his mother said, peering over at him with a flawlessly innocent expression. “But of course, it’s not up to you.”
“I would prefer to be called Billie,” Billie said.
“I’m not sure it’s up to you, either, dear.”
George’s fork came down heavily on his plate. “Who the devil is it up to, then?”
His mother regarded him as if he had asked just the stupidest question. “Me.”
“You,” he said.
“I know how these things work. I’ve done this before, you know.”
“Didn’t Mary find her husband in Kent?” George reminded her.
“Only after she gained her polish in London.”
Good God. His mother had gone mad. It was the only explanation. She could be tenacious, and she could be exacting when it came to society and etiquette, but never had she managed to weave the two together with such complete irrationality.
“Surely it doesn’t matter,” Billie said. “Won’t most everyone be calling me Miss Bridgerton, anyway?”
“Of course,” Lady Manston conceded, “but they will hear us speaking with you. It’s not as if they won’t know your Christian name.”
“This is the most asinine conversation,” George grumbled.
His mother just flicked him A Look. “Sybilla,” she said, turning to Billie, “I know you did not come to London with the intention of looking for a husband, but surely you see the convenience of it now that you’re here. You’ll never find so many eligible gentlemen in one place in Kent.”
“I don’t know,” Billie murmured over her tea, “it’s chock-full when all of the Rokesbys are home.”
George looked up sharply just as his mother burst out in a trill of laughter. “Too true, Billie,” she said with a warm smile (apparently forgetting that she meant to call her Sybilla), “but alas, I have only the one home right now.”
“Two,” George said incredulously. Apparently if one never went away, one wasn’t counted as being home.
His mother’s brows rose. “I was speaking of you, George.”
Well, now he felt like a fool.
He stood. “I will call Billie what she wishes to be called. And I will see you at Wintour House as promised, when the ball is underway. If you will excuse me, I have much to attend to.”
He didn’t actually, but he didn’t think he could listen to another word of his mother’s on the topic of Billie’s debut.
The sooner they all got this wretched day over with the better.
BILLIE WATCHED HIM walk away, and she wasn’t going to say anything, honestly she wasn’t, but even as she dipped her spoon into her porridge, she heard herself call out, “Wait!”
George paused at the door.
“Just a quick word,” she said, hastily setting down her napkin. She had no idea what that quick word might be, but something was there inside of her, and it obviously needed to get out. She turned back to Lady Manston. “Pray excuse me. I’ll be but a moment.”
George stepped out of the small dining room and into the hall to afford them a spot of privacy.
Billie cleared her throat. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
Good question. She wasn’t sorry. “Actually,” she said, “it’s thank you.”
“You’re thanking me,” he said softly.
“For standing up for me,” she said. “Calling me Billie.”
His mouth curved into a wry half-smile. “I don’t think I could call you Sybilla if I tried.”
She returned the expression in kind. “I’m not sure I would answer if it came from any voice other than my mother’s.”
He studied her face for a moment, then said, “Don’t let my mother turn you into someone you’re not.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s possible at this late stage. I’m far too set in my ways.”
“At the grand age of three-and-twenty?”
“It’s a very grand age when you’re an unmarried female,” she retorted. Maybe she shouldn’t have said it; there were too many not-quite marriage proposals in their history. (One, Billie thought, was too many. Two practically marked her as a freak of nature.)
But she didn’t regret saying it. She couldn’t regret it. Not if she wanted to turn one of those almost-proposals into something real.
And she did. She’d been up half the night—well, twenty minutes at least—berating herself for her practically ensuring that he would not ask her to marry him. If she’d had a hair shirt (and any inclination for useless gestures), she’d have donned it.
George’s brow furrowed, and of course her mind whipped into triple-speed. Was he wondering why she’d made a comment about her near-spinster status? Trying to decide how to respond? Debating her sanity?
“She did help me pick out a lovely gown for this evening,” she blurted out.
“My mother?”
Billie nodded, then summoned a mischievous smile. “Although I did bring a pair of my breeches to town just in case I needed to shock her.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “Did you really?”
“No,” she admitted, her heart suddenly lighter now that he’d laughed, “but just the fact that I pondered it means something, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.” He looked down at her, his eyes so blue in the morning light, and his humor was replaced by something more serious. “Please allow me to apologize for my mother. I don’t know what’s come over her.”
“I think perhaps she feels”—Billie frowned for a moment, choosing the best word—“guilty.”
“Guilty?” George’s face betrayed his surprise. “Whatever for?”
“That neither of your brothers ever offered for me.” Another thing she probably should not have said. But as it happened, Billie did think that Lady Manston felt this way.
And when George’s expression slid from curiosity to something that might have been jealousy . . . well, Billie could not help but feel a little pleased.
“So I think she’s trying to make it up to me,” she said gamely. “It’s not as if I was waiting for one of them to ask me, but I think she thinks I was, so now she wants to introduce me—”
“Enough,” George practically barked.
“I beg your pardon?”
He cleared his throat. “Enough,” he said in a much more evenly tempered voice. “It’s ridiculous.”
“That your mother feels this way?”
“That she thinks introducing you to a pack of useless fops is a sensible idea.”
Billie took a moment to enjoy this statement, then said, “She means well.”
George scoffed audibly at this.
“She does,” Billie insisted, unable to suppress a smile. “She just wants what she thinks is best for me.”
“What she thinks.”
“Well, yes. There’s no convincing her otherwise. It’s a Rokesby trait, I’m afraid.”
“You may have just insulted me.”
“No,” she said, maintaining an impressively straight face.
“I’ll let it pass.”
“Very kind of you, sir.”
He rolled his eyes at her impertinence, and once again, Billie felt more at ease. Perhaps this wasn’t how the more refined ladies flirted, but it was all she knew how to do.
And it seemed to be working. Of that she was certain.
Maybe she did have a touch of feminine intuition after all.
Chapter 21
Later that night
At the Wintour Ball
Ninety minutes in, and still he had not seen Tallywhite.
George tugged at his cravat, which he was certain his valet had tied far more tightly than usual. There was nothing out of the ordinary about Lady Wintour’s Spring Soirée; in fact, he’d have gone so far as to say that it was so ordinary as to be dull, but he could not shake the odd, prickly sensation that kept c
rawling up his neck. Everywhere he turned, it felt like someone was looking at him strangely, watching him with far more curiosity than his appearance should warrant.
Clearly, it was all in his imagination, which led to a most salient point—that clearly, he was not cut out for this sort of thing.
He’d timed his arrival carefully. Too early, and he would draw unwanted attention. Like most single men of his age, he usually spent a few hours at his club before fulfilling his social obligations. If he showed up at the ball on the dot of eight, it would look strange. (And he would have to spend the next two hours making conversation with his nearly deaf great-aunt, who was as legendary for her punctuality as she was for her fragrant breath.)
But he didn’t want to follow his usual schedule, either, which involved arriving well after the party was underway. It would be too difficult to spot Tallywhite in such a crush, or worse, he could miss him altogether.
So after careful consideration, he stepped into the Wintour ballroom approximately one hour after the designated starting time. It was still unfashionably early, but there were enough people milling about for George to remain unobtrusive.
Not for the first time, he wondered if perhaps he was overthinking this whole thing. It seemed an awful lot of mental preparation for the task of uttering a line from a nursery rhyme.
A quick check of the time told him that it was nearly ten, which meant that if Billie had not already arrived, she would do so soon. His mother had been aiming for nine-thirty, but he’d heard numerous grumblings about the lengthy line of carriages queued up outside Wintour House. Billie and his mother were almost certainly stuck in the Manston coach and four, waiting for their turn to alight.
He didn’t have much time if he wanted to get this taken care of before they arrived.
His expression carefully bored, he continued to move about the room, murmuring the appropriate greetings as he brushed past acquaintances. A footman was circulating with glasses of punch, so he took one, barely moistening his lips as he peered out at the ballroom over the rim of the glass. He did not see Tallywhite, but he did see—damn it, was that Lord Arbuthnot?
Why the hell was he asking George to deliver a message when he could bloody well have done it himself?
But maybe there were reasons why Arbuthnot could not be seen with Tallywhite. Maybe there was someone else here, someone who could not be permitted to know that the two men were working together. Or maybe Tallywhite was the one in the dark. Maybe he didn’t know that Arbuthnot was the one with the message.
Or . . .
Maybe Tallywhite did know that Arbuthnot was his contact, and the whole thing was a plan to test George so that they could use him for future endeavors. Maybe George had just accidentally embarked upon a career in espionage.
He looked down at the punch in his hand. Maybe he needed . . . No, he definitely needed something with a higher degree of alcohol.
“What is this rot?” he muttered, setting the glass back down.
And then he saw her.
He stopped breathing. “Billie?”
She was a vision. Her gown was of the deepest crimson, the color an unexpectedly vibrant choice for an unmarried miss, but on Billie it was perfection. Her skin was like milk, her eyes sparkled, and her lips . . . He knew she did not color them—Billie would never have patience for that sort of thing—but somehow they looked richer, as if they’d absorbed some of the ruby brilliance of her gown.
He had kissed those lips. He had tasted her and adored her, and he wanted to worship her in ways she’d likely never dreamed possible.
It was odd, though; he had not heard her being announced. He was too far from the entrance, or maybe he had simply been too enmeshed in his own thoughts. But there she was, standing next to his mother, so beautiful, so radiant that he could not see anyone else.
Suddenly the rest of the world seemed like such a chore. He didn’t want to be here at this dance, with people he didn’t want to talk to and messages he didn’t particularly wish to deliver. He didn’t want to dance with young ladies he didn’t know, and he didn’t want to make polite conversation with people he did. He just wanted Billie, and he wanted her all to himself.
He forgot about Tallywhite. He forgot about pease, porridge, and pudding, and he stalked across the room with such single-minded purpose that the crowds seemed to melt from his path.
And somehow, amazingly, the rest of the world had not yet noticed her. She was so beautiful, so uncommonly alive and real in this room full of waxen dolls. She would not go undiscovered for long.
But not yet. Soon he would have to fight the throngs of eager young gentlemen, but for now, she was still his alone.
She was nervous, though. It wasn’t obvious; he was sure he was the only one who could tell. With Billie, you had to know her. She was standing proud, back straight and head high, but her eyes were flitting about, glancing through the crowd.
Looking for him?
He stepped forward.
“George!” she said delightedly. “Er, I mean, Lord Kennard. How lovely and”—she gave him a hidden smile—“unsurprising to see you.”
“Miss Bridgerton,” he murmured, bowing over her hand.
“George,” his mother said, nodding her head in greeting.
He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Mother.”
“Doesn’t Billie look beautiful?”
He nodded slowly, unable to take his eyes from her. “Yes,” he said, “she looks . . . beautiful.” But it wasn’t the right word. It was far too prosaic. Beauty wasn’t the fierce intelligence that gave her eyes depth, and it wasn’t the wit behind her smile. She was beautiful, but she wasn’t only beautiful, and that was why he loved her.
“I hope that you have saved your first dance for me,” he said.
Billie looked over at his mother for confirmation.
“Yes, you may dance your first with George,” she said with an indulgent smile.
“There are so many rules,” Billie said sheepishly. “I couldn’t remember if for some reason I was meant to save you for later.”
“Have you been here long?” Lady Manston asked.
“An hour or so,” George replied. “My errand took less time than I’d anticipated.”
“It was an errand?” she said. “I thought it was a meeting.”
If George hadn’t been so entranced with Billie, he might have had the wherewithal to muster irritation at this. His mother was clearly fishing for information, or at the very least, attempting to scold him retroactively. But he just couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Billie was looking up at him with shining eyes.
“You really do look beautiful,” he said.
“Thank you.” She smiled awkwardly, and his gaze fell to her hands, which were nervously riffling against the folds of her skirt. “You look very handsome as well.”
Beside them, Lady Manston was beaming.
“Would you care to dance?” he blurted.
“Now?” She smiled adorably. “Is there music?”
There wasn’t. It was some testament to how foolish in love he’d become that he did not even feel embarrassed. “Perhaps a turn about the room,” he suggested. “The musicians will begin again shortly.”
Billie looked to Lady Manston, who gave her approval with a wave. “Go,” she said, “but stay well within sight.”
George was jolted out of his dreamy haze for long enough to shoot his mother an icy look. “I would not dream of doing anything to compromise her reputation.”
“Of course not,” she said airily. “I want to make sure she’s seen. There are many eligible gentlemen here tonight. More than I expected.”
George grabbed Billie’s arm.
“I saw the Billington heir,” Lady Manston continued, “and you know, I don’t think he’s too young.”
George gave her a look of mild disdain. “I don’t think she wants to be Billie Billington, Mother.”
Billie choked down a laugh. “Oh, my, I hadn’t even thought.”<
br />
“Good.”
“She’s Sybilla now, anyway,” his mother said, demonstrating her talent for hearing only what she wished to. “And Sybilla Billington has rather a nice ring to it.”
George looked at Billie and said, “It doesn’t.”
She pressed her lips together, looking highly amused.
“His surname is Wycombe,” Lady Manston said. “Just so you know.”
George rolled his eyes. His mother was a menace. He held out his arm. “Shall we, Billie?”
Billie nodded and turned so they were facing in the same direction.
“If you see Ashbourne’s son . . .”
But George had already led Billie away.
“I don’t know what Ashbourne’s son looks like,” Billie said. “Do you?”
“Bit of a paunch,” George lied.
“Oh.” Billie frowned. “I can’t imagine why she’d think of him for me, then. She knows I’m very active.”
George made a murmuring noise that was meant to convey his agreement and continued his slow promenade along the perimeter of the ballroom, enjoying the proprietary sensation of her hand on his arm.
“There was quite a line of carriages to get in,” Billie said. “I told your mother we should just get out and walk, since the weather is so fine, but she was having none of it.”
George chuckled. Only Billie would make such a suggestion.
“Honestly,” she grumbled, “you would have thought I’d asked if we could stop off and see the King for a cup of tea on the way.”
“Well, seeing as the palace is quite across town . . .” George teased.
She elbowed him in the ribs. But lightly, so no one would see.
“I am glad you did not wear a wig,” he said to her. Her hair had been styled elaborately, as was the fashion, but it was her own, and only lightly powdered. He liked that the rich chestnut color shone through; it was Billie without artifice, and if there was one thing that defined her, it was that she had no artifice.
He wanted her to enjoy her time in London, but he did not want her to be changed by it.