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.