His mother just flicked him A Look. “Sybilla,” she said, turning to Billie, “I know you did not come to London with the intention of looking for a husband, but surely you see the convenience of it now that you’re here. You’ll never find so many eligible gentlemen in one place in Kent.”

“I don’t know,” Billie murmured over her tea, “it’s chock-full when all of the Rokesbys are home.”

George looked up sharply just as his mother burst out in a trill of laughter. “Too true, Billie,” she said with a warm smile (apparently forgetting that she meant to call her Sybilla), “but alas, I have only the one home right now.”

“Two,” George said incredulously. Apparently if one never went away, one wasn’t counted as being home.

His mother’s brows rose. “I was speaking of you, George.”

Well, now he felt like a fool.

He stood. “I will call Billie what she wishes to be called. And I will see you at Wintour House as promised, when the ball is underway. If you will excuse me, I have much to attend to.”

He didn’t actually, but he didn’t think he could listen to another word of his mother’s on the topic of Billie’s debut.

The sooner they all got this wretched day over with the better.

BILLIE WATCHED HIM walk away, and she wasn’t going to say anything, honestly she wasn’t, but even as she dipped her spoon into her porridge, she heard herself call out, “Wait!”

George paused at the door.

“Just a quick word,” she said, hastily setting down her napkin. She had no idea what that quick word might be, but something was there inside of her, and it obviously needed to get out. She turned back to Lady Manston. “Pray excuse me. I’ll be but a moment.”

George stepped out of the small dining room and into the hall to afford them a spot of privacy.

Billie cleared her throat. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

Good question. She wasn’t sorry. “Actually,” she said, “it’s thank you.”

“You’re thanking me,” he said softly.

“For standing up for me,” she said. “Calling me Billie.”

His mouth curved into a wry half-smile. “I don’t think I could call you Sybilla if I tried.”

She returned the expression in kind. “I’m not sure I would answer if it came from any voice other than my mother’s.”

He studied her face for a moment, then said, “Don’t let my mother turn you into someone you’re not.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s possible at this late stage. I’m far too set in my ways.”

“At the grand age of three-and-twenty?”

“It’s a very grand age when you’re an unmarried female,” she retorted. Maybe she shouldn’t have said it; there were too many not-quite marriage proposals in their history. (One, Billie thought, was too many. Two practically marked her as a freak of nature.)

But she didn’t regret saying it. She couldn’t regret it. Not if she wanted to turn one of those almost-proposals into something real.