She rolled her eyes at the obvious lie.

"Kennard," Freddie Coventry said, returning to their sides as Sir John wandered off, "I do believe the orchestra is retaking their positions. You had best lead Miss Bridgerton to the dance floor or I shall have to accuse you of shady dealings." He leaned toward Billie and said with faux confidentiality, "It will not do for him to claim your first dance and then keep you here among the wallflowers."

She laughed, but only a little, and to George's ears it did not sound quite true. "He would never do that," she said, "if for no other reason than his mother would have his head."

"Oh-ho!" Freddie chortled. "So that's how it is."

George smiled tightly. He wanted to throttle Billie for emasculating him so efficiently in front of his friends, but he was still very much aware of Arbuthnot, just a few feet away, presumably angling for a moment alone.

Freddie's voice dropped to a murmuring tease. "I don't think he's going to dance with you."

Billie looked over at George, and when his eyes met hers, he felt like he'd found his entire world. He bowed and held out his arm, because bloody hell, he'd been waiting for this moment for what felt like years.

But of course that was when Arbuthnot finally arrived. "Kennard," he said, his genial greeting exactly what one might expect from a man to the son of a friend. "Good to see you here. What brings you to town?"

"A dance with Miss Bridgerton," Freddie drawled, "but he doesn't seem quite able to lead her to the floor."

Arbuthnot chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure he's not as incapable as that."

George couldn't decide which of them he wanted to kill first.

"Perhaps I should dance with you," Billie said to Freddie.

Forget the gentlemen. He'd kill Billie first. What the hell was she thinking? This was forward, even for her. Ladies did not ask gentlemen to dance, especially when their acquaintance was of five minutes' duration.

"A lady who speaks her mind," Freddie said. "How perfectly refreshing. I see why Lord Kennard speaks so highly of you."

"He speaks of me?"

"Not to him," George bit off.

"Well, he should," Freddie said with a flirtatious waggle of his brows. "You would certainly be a more interesting topic than our last conversation, which I believe was about oatmeal."

George was fairly certain this was not true, but there seemed no way to protest without seeming childish.

"Ah, but I find oats fascinating," Billie said, and George almost laughed, because he was the only one who knew that she wasn't joking. Her father's recent successes at harvest was a testament to that.

"A truly singular female," Freddie applauded.

The orchestra began to make the groaning noises that always preceded the actual music, and Billie glanced over at George, waiting for him to repeat his bow and lead her into the dance.

But before he could do so, he heard Lord Arbuthnot clear his throat. George knew what he had to do.

"I give her over to you, Coventry," he said with a bit of a bow. "Since you are so eager for her company."

He tried not to meet Billie's eyes, but he couldn't quite manage it, and when his gaze passed over her face, he saw that she was shocked. And angry.

And hurt.

"Her next shall be yours," Freddie said with good cheer, and George's heart twisted just a bit as he watched him lead her off to dance.

"I am sorry to deprive you of the company of the lovely Miss Bridgerton," Lord Arbuthnot said after a moment, "but I am sure there was more purpose to your time in town than a dance."

There was no one else in their small circle of conversation now that Billie had trotted off with Freddie Coventry, but Arbuthnot clearly wished for circumspection, so George said, "This and that. Family business."

"Isn't that always the case?" He tilted his head toward George. "It's damned exhausting, it is, being the head of the family."

George thought of his father. "I am most fortunate that this particular privilege is not yet mine."

"True, true." Arbuthnot took a large swallow of the drink he was holding, a drink that looked considerably more substantial than the ridiculous punch George had been served earlier that evening. "But you will be soon enough, and we can't pick our families, can we?"

George wondered if Arbuthnot was employing double-speak. If so, it was another indication that he was not cut out for a life of mysterious messages and secret meetings. He decided to take Arbuthnot's words at face value and said, "If we could, I daresay I would have picked my own."

"Well, that's a lucky man for you."

"I think so."

"And how fares your evening? Successful?"

"I suppose it depends on how one measures success."

"Is that so?" Arbuthnot said, sounding slightly irritated.

George felt no sympathy. He was the one who had started this layered conversation. He could damn well let George have a little fun with it, too. He looked Arbuthnot in the eye and said, "Alas, we come to these events in search of something, do we not?"

"You are rather philosophical for a Tuesday."

"Normally I save my great thinking for Monday nights and Thursday afternoons," George snapped.

Lord Arbuthnot looked at him with sharp surprise.

"I haven't found what I'm looking for," George said. Good God, the double-speak was giving him vertigo.

Arbuthnot's eyes narrowed. "Are you certain?"

"As I can be. It's rather a crush in here."

"That is most disappointing."

"Indeed."

"Perhaps you should dance with Lady Weatherby," Lord Arbuthnot said softly.

George turned sharply. "I beg your pardon?"

"Have you been introduced? I assure you she is a woman without equal."

"We have met," George confirmed. He'd known Sally Weatherby back when she was Sally Sandwick, the older sister of one of his friends. She had married and buried a husband in the intervening years and only recently had moved from full mourning to half. Luckily for her, she wore lavender quite well.

"Weatherby was a good man," Arbuthnot said.

"I did not know him," George said. He'd been quite a bit older, and Sally was his second wife.

"I worked with him from time to time," Arbuthnot said. "A good man. A very good man."

"It has been years since I spoke with Lady Weatherby," George said. "I don't know if I'll have anything to say to her."

"Oh, I imagine you'll think of something."

"I imagine I will."

"Ah, I see my wife over there," Lord Arbuthnot said. "She's doing that thing with her head that either means she needs my assistance or she's about to die."

"You must go to her, then," George said. "Clearly."

"I suppose she'll need my assistance either way," Arbuthnot said with a shrug. "Godspeed to you, son. I hope your evening proves fruitful."

George watched as Lord Arbuthnot made his way across the room, then turned to carry out his mission.

It seemed it was time to dance with Sally Weatherby.

Chapter 22.

M.

r. Coventry was an accomplished dancer, but Billie could give him no more than a fraction of her attention as he led her through the intricate steps of a cotillion. George had finished talking with the older gentleman, and now he was bowing before a lady of such staggering beauty it was a wonder all the people around her didn't need to shade their eyes from her miraculous glow.

Something seething and green churned within her, and the evening, once so magical, soured.

Billie knew that she shouldn't have asked Mr. Coventry to dance. Lady Manston would have had an apoplexy if she'd been there. She probably still would, once the gossip reached her. And it would. Billie might have avoided London for years, but she knew enough to realize that this would be all over the ballroom within minutes.

And all over town by the next morning.

She would be branded as overly forward. They would say she was chasing Mr. Coventry, that she was desperate for reasons no one quite knew, but she must have a wicked secret because why else would she throw over centuries of convention and ask a gentleman to dance?

And then someone would remember that unfortunate incident at court a few years earlier. Dreadful thing, really, they'd all cluck. Miss Philomena Wren's dress had caught on fire of all things, and by the time anyone knew what was happening, there was a pile of young ladies moored helplessly on the floor, unable to move against the awkward weight of their wide-hipped skirts. Wasn't Miss Bridgerton there? Hadn't she been on top of Miss Wren?

Billie had to clench her jaw just to keep from growling. If she had been on top of Philomena Wren, it had only been to put out the fire, but no one would ever mention that.

That Billie had also been the cause of the fire was still a closely held secret, thank heavens. But honestly, how could a lady be expected to move in full court dress? Court protocol demanded gowns with panniers far wider than anything women wore in day-to-day life. Billie normally had a wonderful sense of where her body stood in space she was the least clumsy person she knew. But who wouldn't have had difficult maneuvering in a contraption that had her hips jutting out nearly three feet in either direction? And more to the point, what idiot had thought it a good idea to leave a lit candle in a room populated with misshapen ladies?

The edge of her dress had been so far from her actual body that Billie hadn't even felt it when she'd knocked into the candle. Miss Wren hadn't felt it, either, when her dress began to smolder. And she never did, Billie thought with satisfaction, because she'd been sensible enough to leap atop the other girl, smothering the flame before it reached her skin.

And yet when all was said and done, no one seemed to recall that Billie had saved Miss Wren from death and disfigurement. No, her mother was so horrified by the entire situation that they'd abandoned their plans for Billie's London Season. Which, Billie had tried to remind herself, was what she'd wanted all along. She'd been fighting against a Season for years.

But she hadn't wanted to win her point because her parents were ashamed of her.

With a sigh, she forced her attention back to the cotillion she was apparently dancing with Mr. Coventry. She couldn't recall doing so, but she seemed to have taken the correct steps and not trod on any toes. Luckily she had not had to make too much conversation; it was the sort of dance that separated a lady from her partner as often as it brought them together.

"Lady Weatherby," Mr. Coventry said when he was near enough to speak.

Billie looked up with sharp surprise; she was quite certain Mr. Coventry knew her name. "I beg your pardon?"

They stepped apart, and then back together. "The woman Lord Kennard is dancing with," Mr. Coventry said. "Weatherby's widow."

"She's a widow?"

"Recently so," Mr. Coventry confirmed. "Just out of blacks."

Billie clenched her teeth, trying to keep her expression pleasant. The beautiful widow was very young, probably not more than five years Billie's senior. She was exquisitely dressed in what Billie now knew was the latest style, and her complexion was that perfect alabaster Billie could never achieve without arsenic cream.

If the sun had ever touched Lady Weatherby's perfect cheeks, Billie would eat her hat.

"She'll need to remarry," Mr. Coventry said. "Didn't give old Weatherby an heir, so she's living off the largesse of the new Lord Weatherby. Or more to the point..."

Again, the cotillion pulled them apart, and Billie nearly screamed with frustration. Why did people think it was a good idea to conduct important conversations while dancing? Did no one care about the timely impartation of information?

She stepped forward, back into Mr. Coventry's conversational sphere, and said, "More to the point...?"

He smiled knowingly. "She must rely on the good graces of the new Lord Weatherby's wife."

"I am sure she will enjoy Lord Kennard's company," Billie said diplomatically. It wasn't going to fool Mr. Coventry; he knew perfectly well that Billie was jealous to the teeth. But she had to at least try to put on a show of indifference.

"I shouldn't worry," Mr. Coventry said.

"Worry?"

Once again, Billie had to wait for her answer. She stepped daintily around another lady, all the while cursing the cotillion. Wasn't there a new dance on the Continent that kept a lady and gentleman together for the entire song? It was being decried as scandalous, but honestly, could no one else see how very sensible it was?

"Kennard was not pleased to relinquish you to my care," Mr. Coventry said when he could. "If he has asked Lady Weatherby to dance, it is nothing more than tit for tat."

But that was not George's way. His humor might be sly, but his behavior never was. He would not ask one lady to dance for no purpose other than to make another jealous. He might have felt some pique, he might be furious with Billie for embarrassing him in front of his friends, but if he was dancing with Lady Weatherby, it was because he wanted to.

Billie felt suddenly sick. She shouldn't have tried to manipulate the situation earlier by saucily saying that she ought to dance with Mr. Coventry. But she had been so frustrated. The evening had all been going so well. When she had first seen George, resplendent in his evening clothes, she'd almost stopped breathing. She'd tried to tell herself that he was the same man she knew in Kent, wearing the same coat and shoes, but here in London, among the people who ran the country and quite possibly the world, he looked different.

He belonged.

There was an air of gravity around him, of quiet confidence and utter assurance of his place. He had this entire life that she knew nothing about, one with parties and balls and meetings at White's. Eventually he would take his seat in parliament, and she would still be the reckless Billie Bridgerton. Except that in a few years reckless would give way to eccentric. And after that it was all downhill to crazy.

No, she thought firmly. That was not what was going to happen. George liked her. He might even love her a little. She'd seen it in his eyes, and she'd felt it in his kiss. Lady Weatherby could never - Billie's eyes widened. Where was Lady Weatherby?

And more to the point, where was George?

Five hours later George finally tiptoed through the front door of Manston House, tired, frustrated, and above all, ready to throttle Lord Arbuthnot.

When the general had asked him to deliver a message, George had thought How simple this will be. He was already planning to attend the Wintour Ball, and Robert Tallywhite was precisely the sort of person with whom he might have an idle conversation. All in all, it would be ten minutes from his day, and he would be able to lay his head down that night knowing that he had done something for King and Country.

He had not anticipated that his evening would involve following Sally Weatherby to The Swan With No Neck, a somewhat unsavory pub halfway across town. It was there that he had finally found Robert Tallywhite, who appeared to be amusing himself by tossing darts at a tricorn hat pinned rather gruesomely to a wall.