Billie had never disliked her younger sister; but at the same time, she hadn’t found her very interesting. Most of the time, she’d forgotten she was even there. There were nine years between them. Really, what could they possibly have had in common?

But then everyone else went away, and now Georgiana was finally growing close enough to adulthood to become interesting.

It was George’s turn to speak, but he did not seem to have noticed this fact, and the silence stretched for long enough to be vaguely unsettling.

“George?” Billie murmured. He was looking at her in the oddest manner. As if she were a puzzle—no, not that. As if he were thinking, quite deeply, and she just happened to be in the way of his eyes.

“George?” she repeated. “Are you all—”

He looked up suddenly. “You should be nicer to her.” And then, as if he hadn’t just said the most appalling thing, he motioned to the brandy. “Would you like a glass?”

“Yes,” Billie said, even though she was well aware that most ladies would have refused, “and what on earth do you mean, I should be nicer to her? When have I ever been unkind?”

“Never,” he agreed, splashing a bit of liquid into a glass, “but you ignore her.”

“I do not.”

“You forget about her,” he amended. “It amounts to the same thing.”

“Oh, and you pay so much attention to Nicholas.”

“Nicholas is at Eton. I can hardly shower him with attention from here.”

He handed her a brandy. She noticed her glass was considerably less full than his had been.

“I don’t ignore her,” Billie muttered. She didn’t like being scolded, especially by George Rokesby. Especially when he was right.

“It’s all right,” he said, surprising her with his sudden kindness. “I’m sure it’s different when Andrew isn’t home.”

“What does Andrew have to do with anything?”

He turned to her with an expression that hovered somewhere between surprised and amused. “Really?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Maddening man.

George took a long sip, and then—without even turning toward her—he managed to give her a condescending look. “He should just marry you and be done with it.”

“What?” Her surprise was unfeigned. Not that she might marry Andrew. She’d always thought she’d one day marry him. Or Edward. She didn’t really care which; it was all the same to her. But that George was actually speaking of it in such a manner . . .

She didn’t like it.

“I’m sure you’re aware,” she said, quickly regaining her composure, “that Andrew and I have no understanding.”

He waved that off with a roll of his eyes. “You could do worse.”

“So could he,” she retorted.

George chuckled. “True enough.”

“I’m not going to marry Andrew,” she said. Not yet, anyway. But if he asked . . .

She would probably say yes. It was what everyone expected.

George took a sip of his brandy, watching her enigmatically over the rim of his glass.