"You, of course. Do say you'll come and stay with us. It will be so much more fun to have everyone under one roof."

"That hardly seems necessary," George said.

"Indeed," Billie agreed. For the love of God, they lived only three miles apart.

George gave her a look.

"Oh, please," she said impatiently. "You can't possibly take offense."

"I can," Andrew said with a grin. "In fact I think I will, just for the fun of it."

"Mary and Felix," Lady Bridgerton said. "We cannot possibly have a celebration without them."

"It would be nice to see Mary," Billie admitted.

"What about the Westboroughs?" Lady Manston asked.

George groaned. "Surely that ship has sailed, Mother. Didn't you just tell me that Lady Frederica has become engaged?"

"Indeed." His mother paused, delicately lifting her soupspoon to her lips. "But she has a younger sister."

Billie let out a choked laugh, then quickly schooled her face into a frown when George threw her a furious scowl.

Lady Manston's smile grew positively terrifying. "And a cousin."

"Of course she does," George said under his breath.

Billie would have expressed some sort of sympathy, but of course that was the moment her own mother chose to say, "We shall have to find some nice young men, too."

Billie's eyes widened in horror. She should have known that her turn was coming. "Mother, don't," she cautioned.

Cautioned? Ordered was more like it.

Not that this had any effect on her mother's enthusiasm. "We'll be uneven if we don't," she said briskly. "Besides, you're not getting any younger."

Billie closed her eyes and counted to five. It was either that or go for her mother's throat.

"Doesn't Felix have a brother?" Lady Manston asked.

Billie bit her tongue. Lady Manston knew perfectly well that Felix had a brother. Felix Maynard was married to her only daughter. Lady Manston had likely known the names and ages of his every first cousin before the ink was dry on the betrothal papers.

"George?" his mother prompted. "Doesn't he?"

Billie stared at Lady Manston in fascinated amazement. Her single-minded determination would do an army general proud. Was it some kind of inborn trait? Did females spring from the womb with the urge to match men and women into neat little pairs? And if so, how was it possible that she'd been skipped?

Because Billie had no interest in matchmaking, for herself or anyone else. If that made her some kind of strange, unfeminine freak, so be it. She would much rather be out on her horse. Or fishing at the lake. Or climbing a tree.

Or anything, really.

Not for the first time Billie wondered what her Heavenly Father had been thinking when she'd been born a girl. She was clearly the least girlish girl in the history of England. Thank heavens her parents had not forced her to make her debut in London when Mary had done so. It would have been miserable. She would have been a disaster.

And no one would have wanted her.

"George?" Lady Manston said again, impatience sharpening the edge of her voice.

George started, and Billie realized he'd been looking at her. She couldn't begin to imagine what he had seen on her face... what he'd thought he'd seen there.

"He does," George confirmed, turning toward his mother. "Henry. He's two years younger than Felix, but he's -"

"Excellent!" Lady Manston exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

"But he's what?" Billie asked. Or rather, pounced. Because this was her potential mortification they were talking about.

"Nearly engaged," George told her. "Or so I've heard."

"It doesn't count until it's official," his mother said airily.

Billie stared at her in disbelief. This, from the woman who had been planning Mary's wedding from the first time Felix had kissed her hand.

"Do we like Henry Maynard?" Lady Bridgerton asked.

"We do," Lady Manston confirmed.

"I thought she wasn't even sure he had a brother," Billie said.

Beside her, George chuckled, and she felt his head draw close to hers. "Ten pounds says she knew every last detail of his current courtship before she even mentioned his name," he murmured.

Billie's lips flickered with a hint of a smile. "I would not take that bet."

"Smart girl."

"Always."

George chuckled, then stopped. Billie followed his gaze across the table. Andrew was watching them with an odd expression, his head tilted at the slightest of angles and his brow pleated into a thoughtful frown.

"What?" she said, while the mothers continued their plans.

Andrew shook his head. "Nothing."

Billie scowled. She could read Andrew like the back of her hand. He was up to something. "I don't like his expression," she murmured.

"I never like his expression," George said.

She glanced at him. How odd this was, this silly little kinship with George. It was usually Andrew with whom she was sharing muttered quips. Or Edward. But not George.

Never George.

And while she supposed this was a good thing there was no reason she and George had to be at constant loggerheads it still made her feel strange. Off-balance.

Life was better when it puttered along without surprises. It really was.

Billie turned to her mother, determined to escape this growing sense of unease. "Do we really have to have a party? Surely Andrew can feel celebrated and adored without a twelve-course meal and archery on the lawn."

"Don't forget the fireworks and a parade," Andrew said. "And I might want to be carried in on a litter."

"You want to encourage this?" Billie asked, gesturing to him with an exasperated hand.

George snorted into his soup.

"Will I be permitted to attend?" Georgiana asked.

"Nothing in the evening," her mother said, "but certainly some of the afternoon entertainments."

Georgiana sat back with a cat-in-the-cream smile. "Then I think it's an excellent idea."

"Georgie," Billie said.

"Billie," Georgiana mocked.

Billie's lips parted in surprise. Was the entire world tipping on its axis? Since when did her younger sister talk back to her like that?

"It's settled, Billie," her mother said in a tone that brooked no dissent. "We are having a party, and you will attend. In a dress."

"Mother!" Billie cried out.

"I don't think it's an unreasonable demand," her mother said, glancing about the table for confirmation.

"I know how to behave at a house party." Good Lord, what did her mother think she would do? Come to dinner with riding boots under her gown? Race the hounds through the drawing room?

She knew the rules. She did. And she didn't even mind them under the right circumstances. That her own mother thought her so inept... And that she would say so in front of all the people Billie cared most about...

It hurt more than she could ever have imagined.

But then the strangest thing happened. George's hand found hers and squeezed. Under the table, where no one could see. Billie jerked her head to look at him she couldn't help it but he'd already let go and was saying something to his father about the price of French brandy.

Billie stared at her soup.

What a day.

Later that evening, after the men had gone off to have their port and the ladies were congregated in the drawing room, Billie stole away to the library, wanting nothing more than a spot of peace and quiet.

Although she wasn't really sure if it counted as stealing away when she was required to beg a footman to carry her there.

Still, she'd always liked the library at Crake House. It was smaller than the one they had at Aubrey Hall, and it felt less imposing. Almost cozy. Lord Manston had a habit of falling asleep on the soft leather sofa, and as soon as Billie settled into the cushions she understood why. With a fire in the grate and a knitted blanket thrown over her legs, it was the perfect place to rest her eyes until her parents were ready to return home.

She wasn't sleepy, though. Just weary. It had been a long day, and her entire body ached from her fall, and her mother had been spectacularly insensitive, and Andrew hadn't even noticed that she wasn't feeling well, and George had, and then Georgiana had gone and turned into someone she didn't recognize, and - And, and, and. It was all ands this evening, and the sum of it all was exhausting.

"Billie?"

She let out a softly startled shriek as she lurched into a more upright position. George was standing in the open doorway, his expression made unreadable by the dim, flickering candlelight.

"Sorry." She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a moment to catch her breath. "You surprised me."

"My apologies. It was not my intention." He leaned against the doorjamb. "Why are you here?"

"I needed a bit of quiet." She still could not see his face clearly, but she could well imagine his bemused countenance, so she added, "Even I need quiet every now and again."

He smiled faintly. "You don't feel cooped up?"

"Not at all." She tipped her head, acknowledging the riposte.

He took a moment to consider this, then said, "Would you like me to leave you to your solitude?"

"No, it's all right," Billie said, surprising herself with her statement. George's presence was oddly calming, in a way Andrew's or her mother's or really any of the others' never were.

"You're in pain," he said, finally stepping into the room.

How had he known? Nobody else had. But then again, George had always been uncomfortably observant. "Yes," she said. There was little point pretending otherwise.

"A great deal?"

"No. But more than a little."

"You should have rested this evening."

"Perhaps. But I enjoyed myself, and I think it was worth it. It was lovely to see your mother so happy."

George's head cocked to the side. "You thought she was happy?"

"Didn't you?"

"To see Andrew, perhaps, but in some ways his presence only serves to remind her that Edward is not here."

"I suppose. I mean, of course she'd rather have two sons home, but the reminder of Edward's absence is surely outweighed by the joy of Andrew's presence."

George's lips pressed into a wry, one-sided curve. "She did have two sons home."

Billie stared at him for a moment before- "Oh! I'm so sorry. Of course she did. I was just thinking of the sons who aren't normally at home. I... Good God, I'm really sorry." Her face was burning. Thank heavens the candlelight hid her blush.

He shrugged. "Think nothing of it."

She couldn't, though. No matter how even his mien, she couldn't help but think she'd hurt his feelings. Which was mad; George Rokesby did not care enough for her good opinion to be bothered by anything she said.

But still, there had been something in his expression...

"Does it bother you?" she asked.

He came further into the room, stopping by the shelf where the good brandy was kept. "Does what bother me?"