She smiled indulgently, allowing him to think aloud.

"I don't wish I'd taken a commission."

She drew back, her surprise evident in the way her chin tucked into her neck.

"My place is here," he said.

Her eyes lit with something that might have been pride. "You sound as if you're only just realizing it."

"No," he mused. "I've always known that."

"You hadn't accepted it?" she prodded.

He chuckled wryly. "No, I had definitely accepted it. I just think I hadn't let myself..." He looked up, straight into her lovely brown eyes and paused for a moment as he realized what he wanted to say. "I hadn't let myself like it."

"And now you do?"

His nod was quick and firm. "I do. If I don't -" He stopped, corrected himself. "If we don't care for the land and its people, what are Edward and Andrew even fighting for?"

"If they are going to risk their lives for King and Country," she said softly, "we should make it a good King and Country."

Their eyes met, and Billie smiled. Just a little. And they didn't speak. Because they didn't need to. Until finally she said, "They're going to be up with your food soon," she said.

He quirked a brow. "Are you trying to be rid of me?"

"I'm trying to protect my reputation," she retorted. "And yours."

"If you recall, I did ask you to marry me."

"No, you didn't," she scoffed. "You said, 'of course I'll marry you'," this she said in a remarkable impression of a distempered crone "which is not the same thing at all."

He eyed her thoughtfully. "I could get down on one knee."

"Stop teasing me, George. It's very unkind of you." Her voice wobbled, and he felt something tight, squeezing in his chest. His lips parted, but she pushed herself off the edge of her bed and walked over to her window, crossing her arms as she stared out into the night.

"It's not something you joke about," she said, but her words were oddly formed, round and wide, almost as if they were coming from somewhere deep in her throat.

He came quickly to his feet. "Billie, I'm sorry. You must know I would never -"

"You should go."

He paused.

"You should go," she said, more forcefully this time. "They'll be here with your dinner at any moment."

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.

G.

eorge 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. "You 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."