"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."

"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.

"Dreadfully unfashionable, I know," she said, touching the long lock of hair that had been left to drape over her shoulder, "but I managed to convince your mother that there was a good chance I would step too close to a sconce and set myself on fire."

George turned sharply.

"Given my history being presented at court," she said, "it was not as unreasonable as it sounds."

He tried not to laugh. He really did.

"Oh, please do," she said. "It has taken me this long to be able to make a joke of it. We might as well be amused."

"What did happen?" he asked. "Or don't I want to know?"

"Oh, you want to know," she said with an impertinent sideways look. "Trust me. You definitely want to know."

He waited.

"But you won't find out now," she declared. "A woman must have her secrets, or so your mother keeps telling me."

"Somehow I don't think setting fire to the Court of St. James was the sort of secret she had in mind."

"Considering how fervently she wishes me to be seen as a young lady of grace and refinement, I think it might be exactly what she had in mind." She glanced over at him with an arch expression. "Lady Alexandra Fortescue-Endicott would never accidentally set someone on fire."

"No, if she did it, I imagine it would be purposeful."

Billie snorted back a laugh. "George Rokesby, that's a terrible thing to say. And probably not true."

"You don't think so?"

"Much as it pains me to admit it, no. She's not that evil. Or clever."

He paused for a moment, then asked, "It was an accident, wasn't it?"

She gave him a look.

"Of course it was," he said, but he didn't sound nearly as certain as he ought.

"Kennard!"

At the sound of his name, George looked reluctantly away from Billie. Two university friends of his Sir John Willingham and Freddie Coventry were making their way through the crowd. They were both perfectly pleasant, utterly respectable, and exactly the sort of gentlemen his mother would wish him to introduce to Billie.

George found that he rather wished to hit one of them. It didn't matter which. Either would do, so long as he could aim for the face.

"Kennard," Sir John said, approaching with a grin. "It's been an age. I wouldn't have thought you'd be in town yet."

"Family business," George said noncommittally.

Sir John and Freddie both nodded and said something along the lines of just so, and then they both looked over at Billie with clear expectation.

George forced a smile and turned to Billie. "May I present Sir John Willingham and Mr. Frederick Coventry." There were murmurs all around, and then he said, "Gentlemen, this is Miss Sybilla Bridgerton of Aubrey Hall in Kent."

"Kent, you say," Freddie exclaimed. "Are you neighbors, then?"

"We are indeed," Billie said prettily. "I have known Lord Kennard all of my life."

George fought a scowl. He knew she could not use his Christian name in such a milieu, but it still grated to be referred to so formally.

"You are a lucky man indeed," Freddie said, "to have such loveliness so close to home."

George stole a glance at Billie to see if she was as appalled by the sugary compliment as he was, but she was still smiling placidly, looking for all the world like a sweet-tempered, gentle debutante.

He snorted. Sweet-tempered and gentle? Billie? If they only knew.

"Did you say something?" she asked.

He matched her smile with one of his own, equally bland. "Just that I am indeed lucky."

Her brows rose. "How odd that I might have missed a sentence of such length."

He gave her a sideways look.

Which she returned with a secret smile.

He felt something settle within himself. All was right with the world again. Or at least all was right with this moment. The world was a bloody mess, but right here, right now, Billie was smiling secretly...

And he was content.

"May I claim a dance, Miss Bridgerton?" Sir John asked Billie.

"And me as well," Freddie immediately put in.

"Of course," she said, again so prettily that George wanted to gag. She didn't sound like herself.

"She has already promised her first to me," he cut in. "And the supper set."

Billie regarded him with some surprise, since she had not promised him the supper set, but she did not contradict.

"Nevertheless," Freddie said with smooth amusement, "there are more than two dances at a ball."

"I should be delighted to dance with both of you," Billie said. She looked about the room as if in search of something. "I don't believe there are dance cards this evening..."

"We can survive well enough without them," Freddie said. "All we must remember is that when you are done with Kennard here, you will dance with me."

Billie gave a friendly smile and a regal nod.

"And then you're on to Sir John," Freddie noted. "But I'll warn you, he's an atrocious dancer. You'll want to watch your toes."

Billie laughed at that, full and throaty, and once again she became so incandescently beautiful that George was half-tempted to throw a blanket over her, just to stop anyone else from wanting her.

He should not begrudge her this moment in the sun. He knew that. She deserved to be adored and feted, to have her much-deserved moment as the belle of the ball. But by God, when she smiled at Sir John or Freddie, it looked as if she actually meant it.

Who smiled like that without actually meaning it? Did she have any idea what a smile like that could lead to? The two gentlemen were going to think she was interested. George had a sudden vision of bouquets filling the front hall of Manston House, of young gentlemen queuing up for the privilege of kissing her hand.

"Is something wrong?" Billie asked quietly. Sir John and Freddie had been distracted by another acquaintance and had turned slightly away, so her words were for George alone.

"Of course not," he said, but his voice was somewhat more clipped than usual.

Her brow pleated with concern. "Are you certain? You -"

"I'm fine," he snapped.

Her brows rose. "Clearly."

He scowled.

"If you don't want to dance with me..." she began.

"That's what you think this is?"

"So there is something!" Her expression was so triumphant; she really ought to have had a Pall Mall mallet in her hand to complete the look.

"For the love of God, Billie," he muttered, "it's not a competition."

"I don't even know what it is."

"You shouldn't be smiling like that at other gentlemen," he said in a hushed voice.

"What?" She drew back, and he wasn't sure if it was out of disbelief or outrage.

"It will give them the wrong impression."

"I thought the whole purpose was for me to attract gentlemen," she practically hissed.

Outrage, then. And quite a lot of it.

George had just enough presence of mind not to blurt out the spectacularly inane, "Yes, but not too much attention." Instead he warned, "Do not be surprised if they come calling tomorrow."

"Again, isn't that the point?"

George had no answer, because there was no answer. He was being an idiot, that much was clear to both of them.

Good God, how had the conversation deteriorated to this?

"Billie, look," he said, "I simply -"

He frowned. Arbuthnot was making his way over.

"You simply..." Billie prompted.

He shook his head, and she was smart enough to know that the motion had nothing to do with her. She followed his gaze over toward Arbuthnot, but the older gentleman had stopped to talk with someone else.

"Who are you looking at?" she asked.

He turned back and fixed his full attention on her. "No one."