Such a bruise indicated a remarkable tolerance for pain, and George feared that this might correspond with a remarkable ability to deliver pain. So when old Violet Eye told him to sit down and drink up, George did as he was told.

He then spent the next two hours having a breathtakingly convoluted and inane conversation with Tallywhite and his henchmen. (Sally had disappeared immediately upon delivering him to the unfortunate neckless Swan.) They discussed the weather and the rules of cricket and relative merits of Trinity College versus Trinity Hall at Cambridge. They had then moved on to the health benefits of salt water, the difficulty of obtaining proper ice in summer, and whether the high cost of pineapples would affect the popularity of oranges and lemons.

By one in the morning, George suspected that Robert Tallywhite was not entirely sane, and by two he was certain of it. At three, he finally managed to take his leave, but not before “accidentally” taking an elbow to the ribs from one of Tallywhite’s large friends. There was also a scrape on his left cheekbone, the provenance of which George could not quite recall.

Worst of all, he thought as he trudged up the stairs at Manston House, he had abandoned Billie. He knew this night had been important to her. Hell, it had been important to him. God only knew what she thought of his behavior.

“George.”

He stumbled in surprise as he entered his room. Billie was standing dead center in her dressing gown.

Her dressing gown.

It was only loosely belted, and he could see the fine peach silk of her nightdress peeking out from underneath. It looked very thin, almost sheer. A man could run his hands over such silk and feel the heat of skin burning through. A man might think he had the right to do so, with her standing a mere six feet from his bed.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Her lips tightened at the corners. She was angry. In fact, he might go so far as to say she was breathtakingly furious. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

“That much I’d surmised,” he said, tugging at his cravat. If it bothered her that he was disrobing in front of her, that was her own problem, he decided. She was the one who had taken up residence in his bedroom.

“What happened to you?” she demanded. “One moment you were foisting me off on poor Mr. Coventry—”

“I wouldn’t pity him too much,” George griped. “He did get my dance.”

“You gave him your dance.”

George kept working at his neckcloth, finally freeing it with one final yank. “I did not see that I had much choice,” he said, tossing the now limp strip of linen on a chair.

“What do you mean by that?”

He paused, glad that he happened to be facing away from her. He had been thinking of Lord Arbuthnot, but of course Billie did not know—and could not know—of their dealings. “I could hardly do otherwise,” he said, his eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall, “given that you’d asked him to dance.”