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.”