When he turned around he saw that she’d moved several steps closer. “Don’t you think you should wait for Andrew?” she asked.

He exhaled. Andrew. Of course.

“He’ll need help, won’t he? With his mount?”

Bloody hell. George exhaled. “I will wait.”

Billie caught her lower lip between her teeth. The right side. She only ever worried the right side, he realized.

“I can’t imagine what is taking him so long,” she said, glancing at the door.

George shrugged.

“Maybe he couldn’t find Thamesly.”

He shrugged again.

“Or perhaps my mother waylaid him. She can be a nuisance that way.”

He started to shrug for a third time, realized how inane he looked and instead opted for a who-can-guess sort of smile.

“Well,” Billie said, apparently out of suggestions. “Hmmm.”

George clasped his hands behind his back. Looked at the window. At the wall. But not at Billie. Anywhere but Billie.

He still wanted to kiss her.

She coughed. He managed to look at her feet.

This was awkward.

Insane.

“Mary and Felix arrive in two days,” she said.

He gave a shove to the part of his brain that knew how to make conversation. “Doesn’t everyone arrive in two days?”

“Well, of course,” Billie replied, sounding somewhat relieved to have an actual question to answer, “but they’re the only ones I care about.”

George smiled despite himself. How like her to throw a party and hate every minute of it. Although in truth she hadn’t had much choice; they all knew that the house party had been Lady Bridgerton’s idea.

“Has the guest list been finalized?” he asked. He knew the answer, of course; the guest list had been drawn up for days, and the invitations had gone out with swift messengers with orders to wait for replies.

But this was a silence that needed filling. She was no longer on the sofa with her book and he in the chair with the newspaper. They had no props, nothing but themselves, and every time he looked at her, his eyes fell to her lips, and nothing—nothing could have been more wrong.

Billie wandered aimlessly toward a writing desk and tapped her hand on the table. “The Duchess of Westborough is coming,” she said. “Mother is very pleased that she has accepted our invitation. I’m told it’s a coup.”

“A duchess is always a coup,” he said wryly, “and usually also a great bother.”

She turned and looked back at him. “Do you know her?”

“We’ve been introduced.”

Her expression turned rueful. “I imagine you’ve been introduced to everyone.”

He thought about that. “Probably,” he said. “Everyone who comes to London, at least.” Like most men of his station, George spent several months each year in the capital. He generally enjoyed it. He saw friends, he kept himself up-to-date on affairs of the state. Lately he’d been eyeing prospective brides; it had been a far more tedious endeavor than he had anticipated.

Billie caught her lip between her teeth. “Is she very grand?”