She hadn’t understood a word of it, but she’d figured it must be complimentary, so she’d nodded and smiled, and even blinked a few times the way she’d seen other ladies do when they were trying to act particularly feminine.

No one could say she wasn’t trying her best.

The one fly in the proverbial ointment was George. Or rather George’s predicament. She felt desperately sorry for him.

Lady Alexandra had seemed like a perfectly pleasant sort of lady when they had been introduced in the drive, but the moment she arrived in the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks, the little shrew had latched on to George like a barnacle.

Billie was appalled. She knew the man was rich and handsome and going to be an earl, but did the grasping little wench need to be quite so obvious about it?

Poor George. Was this what he’d had to contend with every time he went to London? Perhaps she ought to have had more compassion for him. At the very least she should have taken a peek into the dining room before the guests filed in to check on the seating arrangement. She could have saved him from a full evening of Lady Alexandra Four-handed-Endicott.

Blergh. She could come up with something better than that.

Formidable… For-heaven’s-sake… For-the-last-time…

Fine. She couldn’t come up with something better. But really, the woman might as well have had four hands with the way she kept clutching on to George in the drawing room.

At dinner she was even worse. It was difficult to see George across the table with her mother’s monstrous fruit epergne blocking the way, but she had a clear view of Lady Alexandra, and it had to be said – the lady was displaying a highly impractical expanse of bosom.

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

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

Or maybe he just disliked this house party. Between the Northwick-besotted Fortescue-Endicott girls, Lord Reggie of the snow white teeth, and Ned Berbrooke, who had accidentally spilled port all over George’s boots the previous night, he was ready to crawl back to Crake House.

It was only three miles away. He could do it.