“I do?” he mocked.
“What on earth is going on here?” Lady Manston had exploded. “I know the two of you have never been close, but there is no call for this sort of behavior. Good God, one would think the both of you were three years old.”
And that was that. Both Billie and George were shamed into silence, and Lady Manston went off to pen a note to Lady Bridgerton, explaining that Billie had graciously agreed to accompany her to town.
Naturally, Lady Bridgerton had thought this a splendid idea.
Billie had thought she’d spend her days taking in the sights, perhaps attending the theater, but the day after their arrival, Lady Manston had received an invitation to a ball being given by a dear, dear friend, and much to Billie’s surprise, she had decided to accept.
“Are you certain you’re up to it?” Billie had asked. (At that point she had not thought that she was going to be roped in to attending as well, so it had to be said, her motives were purely altruistic.)
“My son is not dead,” Lady Manston said, surprising Billie with her bluntness. “I am not going to act as if he is.”
“Well, no, of course not, but —”
“Besides,” Lady Manston said, giving no indication that she had heard Billie speak, “Ghislaine is a dear, dear friend, and it would be impolite to decline.”
Billie had frowned, looking down at the sizable stack of invitations that had mysteriously appeared in the delicately scalloped porcelain dish resting atop Lady Manston’s writing table. “How does she even know you’re here in London?”
Lady Manston shrugged as she perused the rest of her invitations. “I expect she heard it from George.”
Billie smiled tightly. George had reached London two days before the ladies. He’d ridden the whole way on horseback, lucky dog. Since her arrival, however, she’d seen him precisely three times. Once at supper, once at breakfast, and once in the drawing room when he came in for a brandy while she was reading a book.
He’d been perfectly polite, if a little distant. She supposed this could be forgiven; as far as she could tell he was busy trying to obtain news of Edward, and she certainly did not want to distract him from his objective. Still she had not thought that “no consequences” would mean “Oh, I’m sorry, is that you on the sofa?”
She didn’t think that he had been unaffected by their kiss. She didn’t have much – oh, very well, any – experience with men, but she knew George, and she knew that he had wanted her every bit as much as she wanted him.
And she had. Oh, how she had.
She still did.
Every time she closed her eyes she saw his face, and the crazy thing was, it wasn’t the kiss she relived endlessly in her mind. It was the moment right before it, when her heart beat like a hummingbird and her breath ached to mingle with his. The kiss had been magical, but the moment before, the split second when she knew…
She’d been transformed.
He had awakened something inside of her she had not even known existed, something wild and selfish. And she wanted more.
Problem was, she had no idea how to get it. If ever there were a time to develop feminine wiles, this was probably it. But she was entirely out of her element here in London. She knew how to act back in Kent. Maybe she wasn’t her mother’s ideal version of womanhood, but when she was at home, at Aubrey or Crake, she knew who she was. If she said something strange or did something out of the ordinary it didn’t matter, because she was Billie Bridgerton, and everyone knew what that meant.
She knew what it meant.
But here, in this formal town home, with its unfamiliar servants and pursed-lipped matrons coming to call, she was adrift. She second-guessed every word.
And now Lady Manston wanted to attend a ball?
“Ghislaine’s daughter is eighteen, I believe,” Lady Manston mused, flipping over the invitation and glancing at the back. “Maybe nineteen. Certainly of an age to marry.”
Billie held her tongue.
“A lovely girl. So pretty and genteel.” Lady Manston looked up with a wide, devious smile. “Shall I insist that George be my escort? It’s high time he started looking for a wife.”
“I’m sure he will be delighted,” Billie said diplomatically. But in her head she was already painting Ghislaine’s beautiful daughter with horns and a pitchfork.
“And you shall attend as well.”
Billie looked up, alarmed. “Oh, I don’t think —”
“We’ll have to get you a dress.”
“It’s really not —”
“And shoes, I would imagine.”
“But Lady Manston, I —”
“I wonder if we can get away without a wig. They can be difficult to manage if you’re not used to wearing them.”
“I really don’t like wearing wigs,” Billie said.
“Then you won’t have to,” Lady Manston declared, and it was only then that Billie realized just how deftly she’d been manipulated.
That had been two days earlier. Two days and five fittings. Six, counting this one.