This was awkward.

Insane.

"Mary and Felix arrive in two days," she said.

He gave a shove to the part of his brain that knew how to make conversation. "Doesn't everyone arrive in two days?"

"Well, of course," Billie replied, sounding somewhat relieved to have an actual question to answer, "but they're the only ones I care about."

George smiled despite himself. How like her to throw a party and hate every minute of it. Although in truth she hadn't had much choice; they all knew that the house party had been Lady Bridgerton's idea.

"Has the guest list been finalized?" he asked. He knew the answer, of course; the guest list had been drawn up for days, and the invitations had gone out with swift messengers with orders to wait for replies.

But this was a silence that needed filling. She was no longer on the sofa with her book and he in the chair with the newspaper. They had no props, nothing but themselves, and every time he looked at her, his eyes fell to her lips, and nothing nothing could have been more wrong.

Billie wandered aimlessly toward a writing desk and tapped her hand on the table. "The Duchess of Westborough is coming," she said. "Mother is very pleased that she has accepted our invitation. I'm told it's a coup."

"A duchess is always a coup," he said wryly, "and usually also a great bother."

She turned and looked back at him. "Do you know her?"

"We've been introduced."

Her expression turned rueful. "I imagine you've been introduced to everyone."

He thought about that. "Probably," he said. "Everyone who comes to London, at least." Like most men of his station, George spent several months each year in the capital. He generally enjoyed it. He saw friends, he kept himself up-to-date on affairs of the state. Lately he'd been eyeing prospective brides; it had been a far more tedious endeavor than he had anticipated.

Billie caught her lip between her teeth. "Is she very grand?"

"The duchess?"

She nodded.

"No grander than any other duchess."

"George! You know that's not what I'm asking."

"Yes," he said, taking pity on her, "she's quite grand. But you will -" He stopped, looked at her. Really looked at her, and finally caught the way her eyes lacked their usual sparkle. "Are you nervous?"

She picked a piece of lint off her sleeve. "Don't be silly."

"Because -"

"Of course I'm nervous."

That drew him up short. She was nervous? Billie?

"What?" she demanded, seeing the incredulity on his face.

He shook his head. For Billie to admit to nerves after all the things she'd done... all the things she'd done with a mad grin on her face... It was inconceivable.

"You jumped out of a tree," he finally said.

"I fell out of a tree," she returned pertly, "and what has that to do with the Duchess of Westborough?"

"Nothing," he admitted, "except that it's difficult to imagine you nervous about..." He felt his head shaking, slow, tiny movements, and a reluctant admiration rose within him. She was fearless. She had always been fearless. "About anything," he finished.

Her lips pressed together. "Have you ever danced with me?"

He gaped at her. "What?"

"Have you ever danced with me?" she repeated, her voice edging toward impatience.

"Yes?" The word was drawn out, a question.

"No," she said, "you haven't."

"That can't be possible," he said. Of course he'd danced with her. He'd known her all of her life.

She crossed her arms.

"You can't dance?" he asked.

She shot him a look of pure irritation. "Of course I can dance."

He was going to kill her.

"I'm not very good," she continued, "but I'm good enough, I suppose. That's not the point."

George was fairly certain they had reached the point where there was no point.

"The point is," Billie went on, "you have never danced with me because I don't go to dances."

"Perhaps you should."

She scowled mightily. "I don't glide when I walk, and I don't know how to flirt, and the last time I tried to use a fan I poked someone in the eye." She crossed her arms. "I certainly don't know how to make a gentleman feel clever and strong and better than me."

He chuckled. "I'm fairly certain the Duchess of Westborough is a lady."

"George!"

He drew back, surprised. She was truly upset. "Forgive me," he said, and he watched her carefully, warily even. She looked hesitant, picking nervously at the folds of her skirt. Her brow was knit not into a frown but into a rueful wrinkle. He had never seen her like this.

He did not know this girl.

"I don't do well in polite company," Billie said in a low voice. "I don't I'm not good at it."

George knew better than to make another joke, but he did not know what sort of words she needed. How did one comfort a whirlwind? Reassure the girl who did everything well and then did it all backwards for fun? "You do perfectly well when you dine at Crake," he said, even though he knew this wasn't what she was talking about.

"That doesn't count," she said impatiently.

"When you're in the village..."

"Really? You're going to compare the villagers to a duchess? Besides, I've known the villagers all my life. They know me."

He cleared his throat. "Billie, you are the most confident, competent woman I know."

"I drive you mad," she said plainly.

"True," he agreed, although that madness had been taking on a disturbingly different hue lately. "But," he continued, trying to get his words in the proper order, "you are a Bridgerton. The daughter of a viscount. There is no reason why you cannot hold your head high in any room in the land."

She let out a dismissive snort. "You don't understand."

"Then make me." To his great surprise, he realized that he meant it.

She didn't answer right away. She wasn't even looking at him. She was still leaning on the table, and her eyes seemed locked on her hands. She glanced up, briefly, and it occurred to him that she was trying to determine if he was sincere.

He was outraged, and then he wasn't. He wasn't used to having his sincerity questioned, but then again, this was Billie. They had a long history of needling one another, of searching for the perfect weak spot, tiny and undefended.

But it was changing. It had changed, just over this past week. He didn't know why; neither of them had changed.

His respect for her was no longer so grudging. Oh, he still thought she was beyond headstrong and reckless in the extreme, but underneath all that, her heart was true.

He supposed he'd always known that. He'd just been too busy being aggravated by her to notice.

"Billie?" He spoke softly, his voice a gentle prod.

She looked up, one corner of her mouth twisting forlornly. "It's not a case of holding my head high."

He made sure to keep any hint of impatience out of his voice when he asked, "Then what is the problem?"

She looked at him for a long moment, lips pressed together, before saying, "Did you know that I was presented at court?"

"I thought you didn't have a Season."

"I didn't" Billie cleared her throat "after that."

He winced. "What happened?"

She did not quite look at him when she said, "I may have set someone's dress on fire."

He nearly lost his footing. "You set someone's dress on fire?"

She waited with exaggerated patience, as if she'd been through this conversation before and knew exactly how long it was going to take to get through it.

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "You set someone's dress on fire."

"It wasn't on purpose," she snipped.

"Well," he said, impressed despite himself, "I suppose if anyone was going to -"

"Don't say it," she warned.

"How did I not hear of this?" he wondered.

"It was a very small fire," she said, somewhat primly.

"But still..."

"Really?" she demanded. "I set someone's dress on fire, and your biggest question is how you missed the gossip?"

"I apologize," he said immediately, but then he could not help but ask (somewhat gingerly), "Are you inviting me to inquire how you set this dress on fire?"

"No," she said irritably, "and it's not why I brought it up."

His first inclination was to tease her further, but then she sighed, and the sound was so tired and disconsolate that his mirth slid away. "Billie," he said, his voice as gentle as it was sympathetic, "you can't -"

But she did not let him finish. "I don't fit the mold, George."

No, she didn't. And hadn't he been thinking the same thing just a few days earlier? If Billie had gone to London for a Season with his sister it would have been an unmitigated disaster. All the things that made her wonderful and strong would have been her downfall in the rarefied world of the ton.

They would have used her for target practice.

They weren't all cruel, the lords and ladies of high society. But the ones who were... Their words were their weapons, and they wielded them like bayonets.

"Why are you telling me this?" he suddenly asked.

Her lips parted, and a flash of pain shot through her eyes.

"I mean, why me?" he said quickly, lest she think he didn't care enough to listen. "Why not Andrew?"

She didn't say anything. Not right away. And then- "I don't know. I don't... Andrew and I don't talk about such things."

"Mary will be here soon," he said helpfully.

"For the love of God, George," she nearly spat, "if you don't want to talk to me, you can just say so."

"No," he said, grabbing her wrist before she could whirl away. "That's not what I meant. I'm happy to talk with you," he assured her. "I'm happy to listen. I just thought you'd rather have someone who..."

She stared at him, waiting. But he could not bring himself to say the words that had been on the tip of his tongue.

Someone who cares.

Because it was hurtful. And it was petty. And most of all, it wasn't true.

He did care.

He cared... quite a lot.