eorge was always the first in his family to come down to breakfast, but when he stepped into the informal dining room the following morning, his mother was already at the table, sipping a cup of tea.
There was no way this was a coincidence.
“George,” she said immediately upon seeing him, “we must speak.”
“Mother,” he murmured, stepping over to the sideboard to fix his plate. Whatever it was she was het up over, he was not in the mood. He was tired and he was cranky. He might have only almost proposed marriage the night before, but he had most definitely been rejected.
It was not the stuff dreams were made of. Nor a good night’s sleep.
“As you know,” she said, jumping right into it, “tonight is Lady Wintour’s ball.”
He spooned some coddled eggs onto his plate. “I assure you it has not slipped my mind.”
Her lips tightened, but she did not take him to task for his sarcasm. Instead she waited with heavy patience until he joined her at the table.
“It is about Billie,” she said.
Of course it was.
“I am very concerned about her.”
So was he, but he doubted it was for the same reasons. He pasted a bland smile on his face. “What is the problem?”
“She is going to need all the help she can get tonight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, but he knew what she meant. Billie was not meant for London. She was a country girl, through and through.
“She lacks confidence, George. The vultures will see this instantly.”
“Do you ever wonder why we choose to socialize with these vultures?” he mused.
“Because half of them are really doves.”
“Doves?” He stared at her in disbelief.
She waved a hand. “Perhaps carrier pigeons. But that is not the point.”
“I would never be so lucky.”
She gave him just enough of a look to make it clear that while she had heard this, she was graciously choosing to ignore it. “Her success is in your hands.”
He knew he would regret encouraging her to expand upon this point, but he could not stop himself from saying, “I beg your pardon?”
“You know as well as I do that the surest way to ensure a debutante’s success is for an eligible gentleman – such as yourself – to pay her attention.”
For some reason, this irritated him greatly. “Since when is Billie a debutante?”
His mother stared at him as if he were an idiot. “Why else do you think I brought her to London?”
“I believe you said you wished for her company?” he countered.
His mother waved that away as the nonsense she clearly saw it to be. “The girl needed some polish.”
No, George thought, she didn’t. He jabbed his fork into his sausage with far too much force. “She’s perfectly fine the way she is.”
“That is very gracious of you, George,” she replied, inspecting her muffin before deciding to add an additional dab of butter, “but I assure you, no lady wishes to be ‘perfectly fine.’”
He fixed a patient expression on his face. “Your point, Mother?”
“Merely that I need you to do your part this evening. You must dance with her.”
She made it sound as if he thought it a chore. “Of course I’ll dance with her.” It would be awkward as hell, all things considered, but even so, he could not help but look forward to it. He’d been longing to dance with Billie since that morning back at Aubrey Hall when she’d looked up at him, planted her hands on her hips, and demanded, “Have you ever danced with me?”
At the time, he couldn’t believe that he’d never done so. After all those years as neighbors, how could he not have danced with her?
But now he couldn’t believe that he’d ever thought he had. If he had danced with Billie, music washing over them as he placed his hand on her hip… It was not something he could forget.
And he wanted it. He wanted to take her hand in his and dance her down the line, to step and dip, and feel her innate grace. But more than that, he wanted her to feel it. He wanted her to know that she was every bit as womanly and elegant as the rest, that she was perfect in his eyes, not just ‘perfectly fine,’ and if he could only — “George!”
He looked up.
“Kindly pay attention,” his mother said.
“My apologies,” he murmured. He had no idea how long he’d been lost in his own thoughts, although generally speaking, with his mother even a second or two of woolgathering was not to be tolerated.
“I was saying,” she said somewhat peevishly, “that you must dance with Billie twice.”
“Consider it done.”
Her eyes narrowed; she was clearly suspicious at the ease at which she was getting her way. “You must also be sure to allow at least ninety minutes to elapse between dances.”
He rolled his eyes and did not bother to hide it. “As you wish.”
Lady Manston stirred a bit of sugar into her tea. “You must appear attentive.”
“But not too attentive?”
“Don’t mock me,” she warned.