Or teaching her to ride and hunt. With Billie as their mother, his daughters would surely insist upon learning all the same skills as their brothers. And while he’d spent his childhood thoroughly annoyed by Billie’s insistence upon keeping up with the boys, when it came to his daughters…
If they wanted to hunt and fish and shoot a pistol like a marksman…
They would hit the bull’s-eye every time.
Although he might draw the line at jumping hedges at the age of six. Surely even Billie would now accept that that had been absurd.
Billie would be the best mother, he thought as he walked down the hall to the small dining room. Her children would not be trotted out once a day for her inspection. She would love them the way her own mother loved her, and she would laugh and tease and teach and scold, and they would be happy.
They would all be happy.
George grinned. He was already happy. And it was only going to get better.
His mother was already at the breakfast table when he entered the room, glancing at a recently ironed newspaper as she buttered her toast.
“Good morning, George.”
He leaned down and kissed her proffered cheek. “Mother.”
She looked at him over the rim of her teacup, one of her elegant brows set into a perfect arch. “You seem in an exceptional mood this morning.”
He gave her a questioning glance.
“You were smiling when you entered the room,” she explained.
“Oh.” He shrugged, trying quell the bubbles of joy that had had him nearly hopping down the stairs. “Can’t explain, I’m afraid.”
Which was the truth. He certainly couldn’t explain it to her.
She regarded him for a moment. “I don’t suppose it would have something to do with your untimely departure last evening.”
George paused briefly in the act of spooning eggs onto his plate. He had forgotten that his mother would surely require an explanation for his disappearance. His presence at the Wintour Ball was the one thing she’d asked of him…
“Your presence at the Wintour Ball was the one thing I asked of you,” she said, her voice sharpening with each word.
“I beg your forgiveness, Mother,” he said. He was in far too good a mood to spoil it by quibbling. “It won’t happen again.”
“It is not my forgiveness you must obtain.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, “I would like to have it.”
“Well,” she said, momentarily flustered by his unexpected contrition, “it is up to Billie. I insist that you apologize to her.”
“Already done,” George said unthinkingly.
She looked up sharply. “When?”
Damn.
He took a breath, then returned to fixing his plate. “I saw her last night.”
“Last night?”
He shrugged, feigning disinterest. “She was up when I came in.”
“And when, pray tell, did you come in?”
“I’m not entirely certain,” George said, subtracting a few hours. “Midnight?”
“We did not get home until one.”
“Then it must have been later,” he said equably. It was amazing what an excellent mood could do for one’s patience. “I was not paying attention.”
“Why was Billie up and about?”
He plopped four pieces of bacon onto his plate and sat down. “That I do not know.”
Lady Manston’s mouth clamped into a frown. “I do not like this, George. She must take more care for her reputation.”
“I’m sure it’s fine, Mother.”
“At the very least,” she continued, “you should know better.”
Time to tread carefully. “I beg your pardon?”
“The instant you saw her, you should have gone to your room.”
“I thought it behooved me to use the time to apologize.”
“Hmmph.” His mother did not have a ready response to that. “Still.”
George smiled blandly and got down to the work of cutting his meat. A few moments later he heard footsteps coming toward them, but they sounded far too heavy to be Billie’s.
Indeed, when a body filled the doorway a moment later, it belonged to the butler. “Lord Arbuthnot is here to see you, Lord Kennard.”
“This time in the morning?” Lady Manston said with surprise.
George set his napkin down with a tight-jawed frown. He had anticipated that he would need to speak with Arbuthnot about the events of the previous night, but now?
George knew just enough about Lord Arbuthnot’s dealings to know that they were inherently flavored with secrets and danger. It was unacceptable that he would bring his business to Manston House, and George would have no compunction telling him so.
“He is a friend of Father’s,” George said as he stood. “I will see what he needs.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
“No, no. I’m sure that will be unnecessary.”
George made his way to the drawing room, his mood growing blacker with every step. Arbuthnot’s appearance this morning could mean only one of two things. First, that something had gone wrong after George had departed the Swan the night before and now he was in danger. Or worse, held responsible.
The more likely possibility, George thought grimly, was that Arbuthnot wanted something from him. Another message relayed, probably.
“Kennard!” Lord Arbuthnot said jovially. “Excellent work last night.”
“Why are you here?” George demanded.
Arbuthnot blinked at his bluntness. “I needed to speak with you. Is that not why a gentleman usually calls upon another?”