Georgiana elbowed Billie. “Does that mean what I think it means?”

Billie gave her a lopsided grimace and a shrug—code universal for I-haven’t-a-clue. Was Mary pregnant? And if so, why on earth did her mother know this before she did?

Georgiana leaned slightly in, whispering out the corner of her mouth. “She doesn’t look—”

“Well, if she is,” Billie cut in, whispering out the corner of her mouth, “she can’t be very far along.”

“Billie!” Mary exclaimed, hurrying over to greet her good friend with a hug.

Billie leaned forward, speaking in a low voice. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

Mary didn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “I don’t know how your mother knows,” she said.

“Did you inform your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s your answer.”

Mary laughed, her Rokesby-blue eyes crinkling just the way George’s did when he—

Billie blinked. Just one moment . . . What the devil was that about? Since when did George have the right to plague her thoughts? Perhaps they were getting on somewhat better than they had done in the past, but still, he was not a welcome distraction.

Mary, she reminded herself. She was talking to Mary. Or rather, Mary was talking to her.

“It is so good to see you,” Mary was saying. She clasped both of Billie’s hands in her own.

Billie felt something warm and tingly behind her eyes. She’d known she was missing Mary, but she hadn’t realized how very much until now. “I agree,” she said, working hard to keep the choke of emotion out of her voice. It wouldn’t do to turn into a watering pot in the front drive.

It wouldn’t do to turn into a watering pot, period. Goodness, her mother would probably send for the physician before the first tear reached her chin. Billie Bridgerton was not a crier.

She did not cry. What could be the use of it?

She swallowed, and somehow this reclaimed her equilibrium enough to smile at Mary and say, “Letters just aren’t the same.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Especially with you as a correspondent.”

“What?” Billie’s mouth fell open. “That’s not true. I am a brilliant letter-writer.”

“When you write,” Mary retorted.

“I send you a letter every two—”

“Every three.”

“—every three weeks,” Billie finished, keeping her voice filled with enough outrage to masque the fact that she had changed her story. “Without fail.”

“You really should come to visit,” Mary said.

“You know I can’t,” Billie replied. Mary had been inviting her for a visit for over a year, but it was so difficult for Billie to get away. There was always something that needed to be done around the estate. And truly, didn’t it make more sense for Mary to come to Kent, where she already knew everyone?

“You can,” Mary insisted, “you just won’t.”

“Perhaps in the winter,” Billie said, “when there isn’t as much to do in the fields.”

Mary’s brows rose doubtfully.

“I would have visited last winter,” Billie insisted, “but there was no point. You had already decided to come home for Christmas.”