“If it makes any difference,” Billie said quietly, “I already think of you as family.”

“Oh, I know that, dear. I feel the same way. I’ve just always thought it would be wonderful to make it official. But no matter. There is always Georgiana.”

Billie cleared her throat. “She’s very young yet.”

Lady Manston smiled devilishly. “So is Nicholas.”

The look on Billie’s face came so close to horror George almost laughed. He probably would have done if he hadn’t been fairly certain his own face held the same expression.

“I see that I have shocked you,” his mother said. “But any mother will tell you—it’s never too early to plan for the future.”

“I would not recommend mentioning this to Nicholas,” George murmured.

“Or Georgiana, I’m sure,” his mother said, pouring herself yet another cup of tea. “Would you like a cup, Billie?”

“Ehrm . . . yes, thank you.”

“Oh, and that’s another thing,” Lady Manston said as she put a splash of milk in Billie’s teacup. “We need to stop calling you Billie.”

Billie blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

In went the tea, and then Lady Manston held the cup out and said, “Starting today we will use your given name. Sybilla.”

Billie’s mouth hung open for a brief—but noticeable—moment before she said, “That’s what my mother calls me when she’s cross.”

“Then we shall begin a new, happier tradition.”

“Is this really necessary?” George asked.

“I know it will be difficult to remember,” Lady Manston said, finally setting the cup down near Billie’s plate, “but I think it’s for the best. As a name, Billie is so, well . . . I don’t know that I would call it mannish, but I don’t think it accurately represents how we wish to portray you.”

“It accurately represents who she is,” George practically growled.

“Goodness. I had no idea you would feel so strongly about this,” his mother said, peering over at him with a flawlessly innocent expression. “But of course, it’s not up to you.”

“I would prefer to be called Billie,” Billie said.

“I’m not sure it’s up to you, either, dear.”

George’s fork came down heavily on his plate. “Who the devil is it up to, then?”

His mother regarded him as if he had asked just the stupidest question. “Me.”

“You,” he said.

“I know how these things work. I’ve done this before, you know.”

“Didn’t Mary find her husband in Kent?” George reminded her.

“Only after she gained her polish in London.”

Good God. His mother had gone mad. It was the only explanation. She could be tenacious, and she could be exacting when it came to society and etiquette, but never had she managed to weave the two together with such complete irrationality.

“Surely it doesn’t matter,” Billie said. “Won’t most everyone be calling me Miss Bridgerton, anyway?”

“Of course,” Lady Manston conceded, “but they will hear us speaking with you. It’s not as if they won’t know your Christian name.”

“This is the most asinine conversation,” George grumbled.