George saw red. He'd just bloody kissed her and he was fairly certain her eyes had been closed.

"George?" his mother inquired.

"What?" he bit off.

"You made a noise."

"I cleared my throat," he lied. Had Billie been thinking of Edward when she kissed him? No, she wouldn't do that. Or would she? How would he know? And could he blame her? If she had been thinking of Edward, it wasn't anything she'd done on purpose.

Which somehow made it even worse.

He watched as Billie spoke quietly with his mother. Was she in love with Edward? No, she couldn't be. Because if she was, Edward would never have been so foolish as to not return the affection. And if that were the case, they'd be married by now.

Besides, Billie had said she had not been kissed. And Billie didn't lie.

Edward was a gentleman maybe even more of one than George, after the events of today but if he was in love with Billie, there was no way he'd have left for America without kissing her.

"George?"

He looked up. His mother was regarding him with some concern. "You don't look well," she said.

"I don't feel well," he said curtly.

His mother drew back ever-so-slightly, the only indication of her surprise. "I don't imagine any of us does," she said.

"I wish I could go to London," Billie said.

George snapped to attention. "Are you joking?" Good God, that would be a disaster. If he was worried about his mother being a distraction...

She drew back, visibly offended. "Why would I be joking?"

"You hate London."

"I've only been the once," she said stiffly.

"What?" Lady Manston exclaimed. "How is that possible? I know you didn't have a Season, but it's barely even a full day's ride."

Billie cleared her throat. "There was some hesitation on the part of my mother after what happened at my presentation at court."

Lady Manston cringed a little, then made a full recovery with a brightly declared: "Well, that settles it, then. We cannot live in the past."

George regarded his mother with a slow dose of dread. "Settles what, exactly?"

"Billie must go to London."

Chapter 18.

A.

nd so it was that less than one week later Billie found herself stripped down to her unmentionables with two seamstresses jabbering on in French while they jabbed her with pins and needles.

"I could have used one of my gowns from home," she told Lady Manston for what was probably the fifth time.

Lady Manston did not even look up from the book of fashion plates she was perusing. "No, you couldn't."

Billie sighed as she stared out at the richly brocaded fabrics that draped the walls of the fancy dress shop that had become her second home here in London. It was very exclusive, she'd been told; the discreet sign hanging above the door said merely Mme. Delacroix, tailoress, but Lady Manston referred to the petite French dynamo as Crossy, and Billie had been told to do the same.

Normally, Lady Manston said, Crossy and her girls would come to them, but they hadn't much time to get Billie properly fitted and kitted, and in this instance it seemed more efficient to visit the shop.

Billie had tried to protest. She wasn't coming to London for a Season. It wasn't even the right time of year. Well, it would be soon, but it wasn't yet. And they absolutely had not traveled to London to attend parties and balls. Truth be told, Billie wasn't entirely certain why she was there. She had been utterly shocked when Lady Manston made her announcement, and it must have shown on her face.

"You just said you wished to go," Lady Manston had said, "and I will confess I am not being entirely unselfish. I wish to go, and I require a companion."

George had protested, which, under the circumstances, Billie had found sensible and insulting, but his mother was unstoppable.

"I can't bring Mary," she said firmly. "She's far too ill, and I doubt Felix would permit it in any case." At that she had looked over to Billie. "He's very protective."

"Quite so," Billie had mumbled... rather stupidly, in her opinion. But she couldn't think of anything else to say. Honestly, she never felt less sure of herself than in the face of an indomitable society matron, even one she'd known since birth. Most of the time Lady Manston was her beloved neighbor, but every now and then the Leader of Society shone through, issuing orders and directing people, and generally just being an expert on everything. Billie had no idea how to assert herself. It was the same way with her own mother.

But then George had jettisoned sensible and gone completely over to insulting.

"Forgive me, Billie," he'd said (while looking at his mother), "but she would be a distraction."

"A welcome one," Lady Manston said.

"Not to me."

"George Rokesby!" His mother was instantly incensed. "You apologize this minute."

"She knows what I meant," he said.

At that, Billie could not keep her mouth shut. "I do?"

George turned back to Billie with an expression of vague irritation. And clear condescension. "You don't really want to go to London."

"Edward was my friend, too," she said.

"There is no 'was' about it," George snapped.

She wanted to smack him. He was deliberately misunderstanding her. "Oh, for heaven's sake, George, you know what I meant."

"I do?" he mocked.

"What on earth is going on here?" Lady Manston had exploded. "I know the two of you have never been close, but there is no call for this sort of behavior. Good God, one would think the both of you were three years old."

And that was that. Both Billie and George were shamed into silence, and Lady Manston went off to pen a note to Lady Bridgerton, explaining that Billie had graciously agreed to accompany her to town.

Naturally, Lady Bridgerton had thought this a splendid idea.

Billie had thought she'd spend her days taking in the sights, perhaps attending the theater, but the day after their arrival, Lady Manston had received an invitation to a ball being given by a dear, dear friend, and much to Billie's surprise, she had decided to accept.

"Are you certain you're up to it?" Billie had asked. (At that point she had not thought that she was going to be roped in to attending as well, so it had to be said, her motives were purely altruistic.) "My son is not dead," Lady Manston said, surprising Billie with her bluntness. "I am not going to act as if he is."

"Well, no, of course not, but -"

"Besides," Lady Manston said, giving no indication that she had heard Billie speak, "Ghislaine is a dear, dear friend, and it would be impolite to decline."

Billie had frowned, looking down at the sizable stack of invitations that had mysteriously appeared in the delicately scalloped porcelain dish resting atop Lady Manston's writing table. "How does she even know you're here in London?"

Lady Manston shrugged as she perused the rest of her invitations. "I expect she heard it from George."

Billie smiled tightly. George had reached London two days before the ladies. He'd ridden the whole way on horseback, lucky dog. Since her arrival, however, she'd seen him precisely three times. Once at supper, once at breakfast, and once in the drawing room when he came in for a brandy while she was reading a book.

He'd been perfectly polite, if a little distant. She supposed this could be forgiven; as far as she could tell he was busy trying to obtain news of Edward, and she certainly did not want to distract him from his objective. Still she had not thought that "no consequences" would mean "Oh, I'm sorry, is that you on the sofa?"

She didn't think that he had been unaffected by their kiss. She didn't have much oh, very well, any experience with men, but she knew George, and she knew that he had wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.

And she had. Oh, how she had.

She still did.

Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face, and the crazy thing was, it wasn't the kiss she relived endlessly in her mind. It was the moment right before it, when her heart beat like a hummingbird and her breath ached to mingle with his. The kiss had been magical, but the moment before, the split second when she knew...

She'd been transformed.

He had awakened something inside of her she had not even known existed, something wild and selfish. And she wanted more.

Problem was, she had no idea how to get it. If ever there were a time to develop feminine wiles, this was probably it. But she was entirely out of her element here in London. She knew how to act back in Kent. Maybe she wasn't her mother's ideal version of womanhood, but when she was at home, at Aubrey or Crake, she knew who she was. If she said something strange or did something out of the ordinary it didn't matter, because she was Billie Bridgerton, and everyone knew what that meant.

She knew what it meant.

But here, in this formal town home, with its unfamiliar servants and pursed-lipped matrons coming to call, she was adrift. She second-guessed every word.

And now Lady Manston wanted to attend a ball?

"Ghislaine's daughter is eighteen, I believe," Lady Manston mused, flipping over the invitation and glancing at the back. "Maybe nineteen. Certainly of an age to marry."

Billie held her tongue.

"A lovely girl. So pretty and genteel." Lady Manston looked up with a wide, devious smile. "Shall I insist that George be my escort? It's high time he started looking for a wife."

"I'm sure he will be delighted," Billie said diplomatically. But in her head she was already painting Ghislaine's beautiful daughter with horns and a pitchfork.

"And you shall attend as well."

Billie looked up, alarmed. "Oh, I don't think -"

"We'll have to get you a dress."

"It's really not -"

"And shoes, I would imagine."

"But Lady Manston, I -"

"I wonder if we can get away without a wig. They can be difficult to manage if you're not used to wearing them."

"I really don't like wearing wigs," Billie said.

"Then you won't have to," Lady Manston declared, and it was only then that Billie realized just how deftly she'd been manipulated.

That had been two days earlier. Two days and five fittings. Six, counting this one.

"Billie, hold your breath for a moment," Lady Manston called out.

Billie squinted over at her. "What?" It was bloody difficult to focus on anything other than the two seamstresses currently yanking her about. She'd heard that most dressmakers faked their French accents so as to seem more sophisticated, but these two seemed to be genuine. Billie couldn't understand a word they were saying.

"She doesn't speak French," Lady Manston said to Crossy. "I'm not sure what her mother was thinking." She glanced back up at Billie. "Your breath, darling. They need to tighten your corset."

Billie looked at Crossy's two assistants, waiting patiently behind her, corset laces in hand. "It requires two people?"

"It's a very good corset," Lady Manston said.

"Ze best," Crossy confirmed.

Billie sighed.

"No, in," Lady Manston directed. "Breathe in."

Billie obeyed, sucking in her stomach so that the two seamstresses could do some sort of choreographed crossways yank that resulted in Billie's spine curving in an entirely new manner. Her hips jutted forward, and her head seemed remarkably far back on her neck. She wasn't quite certain how she was meant to walk like this.

"This isn't terribly comfortable," she called out.

"No." Lady Manston sounded unconcerned. "It won't be."

One of the ladies said something in French and then pushed Billie's shoulders forward and her stomach back. "Meilleur?" she asked.

Billie cocked her head to the side, then twisted her spine a bit each way. It was better. Yet another aspect of genteel femininity she'd had no idea how to navigate: corset wearing. Or rather, "good" corset wearing. Apparently the ones she'd been wearing were far too permissive.

"Thank you," she said to the seamstress, then cleared her throat. "Er, merci."

"For you, ze corset should not be too uncomfortable," Crossy said, coming over to inspect her handiwork. "Your stomach is lovely and flat. The problem we have is your breasts."

Billie looked up in alarm. "My -"

"Very little meat to them," Crossy said, shaking her head sadly.

It was embarrassing enough to have one's breasts discussed like chicken wings, but then Crossy actually grabbed her. She looked over at Lady Manston. "We need to push them up more, don't you think?"