Billie wouldn’t have been surprised if she had an entire tea service hiding down there.

And then. And then! She’d put her hand on George’s forearm like she owned it. Even Billie wouldn’t have dared such a familiar gesture in such a formal setting. She leaned in her chair, trying to get a look at George’s face. He could not be happy about this.

“Are you all right?”

She turned. Andrew was regarding her with an expression that hovered somewhere between suspicion and concern.

“I’m fine,” she said in a clipped voice. “Why?”

“You’re about to fall in my lap.”

She lurched upright. “Don’t be absurd.”

“Has Sir Reginald broken wind?” Andrew murmured.

“Andrew!”

He gave her an unrepentant smirk. “It was either that or you’ve developed a new fondness for me.”

She glared at him.

“I do love you, Billie,” he drawled, “but not that way.”

She rolled her eyes because . . . Well, because. Andrew was a wretch. He had always been a wretch. And she didn’t love him that way, either.

But he didn’t have to be quite so mean-spirited about it.

“What do you think of Lady Alexandra?” she whispered.

“Which one is she?”

“The one who is crawling over your brother,” she said impatiently.

“Oh, that one.” Andrew sounded like he was trying not to laugh.

“He looks very unhappy.”

Andrew tipped his head as he regarded his brother. Unlike Billie, he did not have a gargantuan fruit display to contend with. “I don’t know,” he mused. “He doesn’t look like he minds.”

“Are you blind?” Billie hissed.

“Not that I’m aware.”

“He—Oh, never mind. You’re of no use.”

Billie leaned again, this time toward Sir Reggie. He was talking with the woman on his left, so hopefully he wouldn’t notice.

Lady Alexandra’s hand was still on George’s arm.

Billie’s jaw clenched. He could not be happy about this. George was a very private person. She looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of his face, but he was saying something to Lady Alexandra, something perfectly pleasant and polite.

He didn’t look the least bit perturbed.

She fumed.

And then he looked up. He must have caught her looking at him because he leaned to his right just far enough to catch her eye.

His brows rose.

She flicked her gaze toward the ceiling and turned back to Sir Reggie, even though he was still speaking to the duchess’s niece.

She waited for a moment, but he seemed in no rush to return his attention to her, so she picked up her fork and knife and cut her meat into ever-tinier pieces.

Maybe George liked Lady Alexandra. Maybe he’d court her, and maybe they’d get married and have a flock of little Rokesby babies, all blue-eyed and plump-cheeked.

If that was what George wanted, that was what he should do.

But why did it seem so very wrong? And why did it hurt so much just to think about it?

Chapter 13

By one o’clock the following afternoon, George was remembering why he disliked house parties. Or rather, he was remembering that he disliked house parties.