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.