But with George . . . she just hadn’t known if he’d meant it. And then what if she’d said yes? What if she’d said that she’d love for him to get down on one knee and pledge his eternal devotion . . .

And then found out he was joking?

Her face flamed just thinking of it.

She didn’t think he would tease about such a thing. But then again, this was George. He was the eldest son of the Earl of Manston, the noble and honorable Lord Kennard. If he were going to propose to a lady, he would never do it slapdash. He’d have the ring, and he’d have the poetic words, and he certainly wouldn’t leave it up to her to decide if he ought to do it on bended knee.

Which meant he couldn’t have meant it, right? George would never be so unsure of himself.

She flopped on her bed, pressing both hands against her chest, trying to quell her racing heart. She used to hate that about George—his unshakable confidence. When they were children he always knew better than the rest of them. About everything. It had been the most annoying thing, even if now she realized that at five years their senior, he probably had known better about everything. There was no way the rest of them were going to catch up until they reached adulthood.

And now . . . Now she loved his quiet confidence. He was never brash, never boastful. He was just . . . George.

And she loved him.

She loved him, and—OH DEAR GOD, SHE HAD JUST STOPPED HIM FROM ASKING HER TO MARRY HIM.

What had she done?

And more importantly, how could she undo it?

Chapter 20

George 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?”