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.

“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…”