“I’m sure she can find something to wear in Mary’s wardrobe,” Andrew said dismissively. “She didn’t take everything with her when she got married, did she?”

“No,” Billie said, her voice muffled against George’s chest. It was funny, that, how one could feel sound through one’s body. “She left quite a bit behind.”

“That settles it, then,” Andrew said. “You’ll come for supper, you’ll spend the night, and all will be right with the world.”

George gave him a slow look over his shoulder.

“I’ll stay for supper,” Billie agreed, moving her head so that her voice slid out into the air instead of George’s body, “but then I’ll go home with my family. I’d much rather sleep in my own bed, if you don’t mind.”

George stumbled.

“You all right?” Andrew queried.

“It’s nothing,” George muttered. And then, for no reason he could discern, he was compelled to add, “Just one of those things when one of your legs goes weak for a moment and bends a bit.”

Andrew gave him a curious look. “Just one of those things, eh?”

“Shut up.”

Which only made Andrew laugh.

“I have those,” Billie said, looking up at him with a little smile. “When you’re tired and you don’t even realize it. And your leg surprises you.”

“Exactly.”

She smiled again, a smile of kinship, and it occurred to him—although not, he realized with some surprise, for the first time—that she was actually rather pretty.

Her eyes were lovely—a deep shade of brown that was always warm and welcoming, no matter how much ire might lie in their depths. And her skin was remarkably fair for one who spent as much time out of doors as she did, although she did sport a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks. George couldn’t remember if they’d been there when she was young. He hadn’t really been paying attention to Billie Bridgerton’s freckles.

He hadn’t really been paying attention to her at all, or at least he’d been trying not to. She was—and always had been—rather difficult to avoid.

“What are you looking at?” she asked.

“Your freckles.” He saw no reason to lie.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “They’re there.”

Her lips pursed, and he thought that would be the end of the conversation. But then she said, somewhat abruptly, “I don’t have very many of them.”

His brows rose.

“Sixty-two,” she said.

He almost stopped walking. “You counted?”

“I had nothing else to do. The weather was beastly, and I couldn’t go outside.”

George knew better than to inquire about embroidery, or watercolors, or any of a dozen other indoor pursuits commonly taken up by ladies of his acquaintance.

“Probably a few more now,” Billie admitted. “It’s been a prodigiously sunny spring.”

“What are we talking about?” Andrew asked. He’d got a bit ahead of them and they’d only just caught up.

“My freckles,” Billie said.

He blinked. “My God, you are boring.”

“Or bored,” Billie countered.

“Or both.”

“Must be the company.”