Toast and marmalade. He shook his head. He was an idiot.

And he had fallen in love with Billie Bridgerton.

There it was. Plain as day. He almost laughed. He would have laughed, if the joke weren’t on him.

If he’d fallen in love with someone else—someone new, whose presence did not fill such a wealth of his memories—would it have been so clear? With Billie the emotion was such an about-face, such a complete departure from a lifetime of comparing her to a pebble in his shoe. He couldn’t help but see it, shining in his mind like bright starry promise.

Was she in love with Edward? Maybe. His mother seemed to think so. She had not said as much, of course, but his mother had a remarkable talent for making sure her opinions were precisely known without ever actually stating them explicitly.

Still, it had been enough to render him insanely jealous.

In love with Billie. It was just the maddest thing.

He let out a long, pent-up breath and started walking again toward his room. He had to pass by her door, past that tantalizing flicker of light. He slowed, because he couldn’t not.

And then the door opened.

“George?” Billie’s face peered out. She was still in her day clothes but her hair was down, draped over her shoulder in a long, thick braid. “I thought I heard someone,” she explained.

He managed a close-lipped smile as he bowed. “As you see.”

“I was having supper,” she said, motioning back into the room. “Your mother was tired.” She gave a sheepish smile. “I was tired. I’m not very good at shopping. I had no idea it would involve quite so much standing still.”

“Standing still is always more tiring than walking.”

“Yes!” she said, quite animatedly. “I’ve always said that.”

George started to speak, but then a memory sparked through his mind. It was when he’d been carrying her, after that debacle with the cat on the roof. He’d been trying to describe that odd feeling of when one’s leg goes weak and bends for no reason.

Billie had understood perfectly.

The irony was that his leg hadn’t gone weak. He’d been making it up to cover for something. He didn’t even remember what.

But he remembered the moment. He remembered that she’d understood.

Mostly he’d remembered how she’d looked at him, with a little smile that said that she was happy to be understood.

He looked up. She was watching him with an expression of faint expectation. It was his turn to speak, he remembered. And since he couldn’t very well say what he was thinking, he went for the obvious.

“You’re still dressed,” he said.

She glanced down briefly at her frock. It was the one she’d been wearing when he kissed her. Flowers. It suited her. She should always be in flowers.

“I thought I might go back down after I finish eating,” she said. “Perhaps find something to read in the library.”