“That doesn’t count,” she said impatiently.

“When you’re in the village . . .”

“Really? You’re going to compare the villagers to a duchess? Besides, I’ve known the villagers all my life. They know me.”

He cleared his throat. “Billie, you are the most confident, competent woman I know.”

“I drive you mad,” she said plainly.

“True,” he agreed, although that madness had been taking on a disturbingly different hue lately. “But,” he continued, trying to get his words in the proper order, “you are a Bridgerton. The daughter of a viscount. There is no reason why you cannot hold your head high in any room in the land.”

She let out a dismissive snort. “You don’t understand.”

“Then make me.” To his great surprise, he realized that he meant it.

She didn’t answer right away. She wasn’t even looking at him. She was still leaning on the table, and her eyes seemed locked on her hands. She glanced up, briefly, and it occurred to him that she was trying to determine if he was sincere.

He was outraged, and then he wasn’t. He wasn’t used to having his sincerity questioned, but then again, this was Billie. They had a long history of needling one another, of searching for the perfect weak spot, tiny and undefended.

But it was changing. It had changed, just over this past week. He didn’t know why; neither of them had changed.

His respect for her was no longer so grudging. Oh, he still thought she was beyond headstrong and reckless in the extreme, but underneath all that, her heart was true.

He supposed he’d always known that. He’d just been too busy being aggravated by her to notice.

“Billie?” He spoke softly, his voice a gentle prod.

She looked up, one corner of her mouth twisting forlornly. “It’s not a case of holding my head high.”

He made sure to keep any hint of impatience out of his voice when he asked, “Then what is the problem?”

She looked at him for a long moment, lips pressed together, before saying, “Did you know that I was presented at court?”

“I thought you didn’t have a Season.”

“I didn’t”—Billie cleared her throat—“after that.”

He winced. “What happened?”

She did not quite look at him when she said, “I may have set someone’s dress on fire.”

He nearly lost his footing. “You set someone’s dress on fire?”

She waited with exaggerated patience, as if she’d been through this conversation before and knew exactly how long it was going to take to get through it.

He stared at her, dumbfounded. “You set someone’s dress on fire.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” she snipped.

“Well,” he said, impressed despite himself, “I suppose if anyone was going to—”

“Don’t say it,” she warned.

“How did I not hear of this?” he wondered.

“It was a very small fire,” she said, somewhat primly.

“But still . . .”

“Really?” she demanded. “I set someone’s dress on fire, and your biggest question is how you missed the gossip?”