“The duchess?”

She nodded.

“No grander than any other duchess.”

“George! You know that’s not what I’m asking.”

“Yes,” he said, taking pity on her, “she’s quite grand. But you will—” He stopped, looked at her. Really looked at her, and finally caught the way her eyes lacked their usual sparkle. “Are you nervous?”

She picked a piece of lint off her sleeve. “Don’t be silly.”

“Because—”

“Of course I’m nervous.”

That drew him up short. She was nervous? Billie?

“What?” she demanded, seeing the incredulity on his face.

He shook his head. For Billie to admit to nerves after all the things she’d done . . . all the things she’d done with a mad grin on her face . . . It was inconceivable.

“You jumped out of a tree,” he finally said.

“I fell out of a tree,” she returned pertly, “and what has that to do with the Duchess of Westborough?”

“Nothing,” he admitted, “except that it’s difficult to imagine you nervous about . . .” He felt his head shaking, slow, tiny movements, and a reluctant admiration rose within him. She was fearless. She had always been fearless. “About anything,” he finished.

Her lips pressed together. “Have you ever danced with me?”

He gaped at her. “What?”

“Have you ever danced with me?” she repeated, her voice edging toward impatience.

“Yes?” The word was drawn out, a question.

“No,” she said, “you haven’t.”

“That can’t be possible,” he said. Of course he’d danced with her. He’d known her all of her life.

She crossed her arms.

“You can’t dance?” he asked.

She shot him a look of pure irritation. “Of course I can dance.”

He was going to kill her.

“I’m not very good,” she continued, “but I’m good enough, I suppose. That’s not the point.”

George was fairly certain they had reached the point where there was no point.

“The point is,” Billie went on, “you have never danced with me because I don’t go to dances.”

“Perhaps you should.”

She scowled mightily. “I don’t glide when I walk, and I don’t know how to flirt, and the last time I tried to use a fan I poked someone in the eye.” She crossed her arms. “I certainly don’t know how to make a gentleman feel clever and strong and better than me.”

He chuckled. “I’m fairly certain the Duchess of Westborough is a lady.”

“George!”

He drew back, surprised. She was truly upset. “Forgive me,” he said, and he watched her carefully, warily even. She looked hesitant, picking nervously at the folds of her skirt. Her brow was knit not into a frown but into a rueful wrinkle. He had never seen her like this.

He did not know this girl.

“I don’t do well in polite company,” Billie said in a low voice. “I don’t—I’m not good at it.”

George knew better than to make another joke, but he did not know what sort of words she needed. How did one comfort a whirlwind? Reassure the girl who did everything well and then did it all backwards for fun? “You do perfectly well when you dine at Crake,” he said, even though he knew this wasn’t what she was talking about.