Because of Miss Bridgerton

George gave her a look of mild disdain. “I don’t think she wants to be Billie Billington, Mother.”

Billie choked down a laugh. “Oh, my, I hadn’t even thought.”

“Good.”

“She’s Sybilla now, anyway,” his mother said, demonstrating her talent for hearing only what she wished to. “And Sybilla Billington has rather a nice ring to it.”

George looked at Billie and said, “It doesn’t.”

She pressed her lips together, looking highly amused.

“His surname is Wycombe,” Lady Manston said. “Just so you know.”

George rolled his eyes. His mother was a menace. He held out his arm. “Shall we, Billie?”

Billie nodded and turned so they were facing in the same direction.

“If you see Ashbourne’s son…”

But George had already led Billie away.

“I don’t know what Ashbourne’s son looks like,” Billie said. “Do you?”

“Bit of a paunch,” George lied.

“Oh.” Billie frowned. “I can’t imagine why she’d think of him for me, then. She knows I’m very active.”

George made a murmuring noise that was meant to convey his agreement and continued his slow promenade along the perimeter of the ballroom, enjoying the proprietary sensation of her hand on his arm.

“There was quite a line of carriages to get in,” Billie said. “I told your mother we should just get out and walk, since the weather is so fine, but she was having none of it.”

George chuckled. Only Billie would make such a suggestion.

“Honestly,” she grumbled, “you would have thought I’d asked if we could stop off and see the King for a cup of tea on the way.”

“Well, seeing as the palace is quite across town…” George teased.

She elbowed him in the ribs. But lightly, so no one would see.

“I am glad you did not wear a wig,” he said to her. Her hair had been styled elaborately, as was the fashion, but it was her own, and only lightly powdered. He liked that the rich chestnut color shone through; it was Billie without artifice, and if there was one thing that defined her, it was that she had no artifice.

He wanted her to enjoy her time in London, but he did not want her to be changed by it.

“Dreadfully unfashionable, I know,” she said, touching the long lock of hair that had been left to drape over her shoulder, “but I managed to convince your mother that there was a good chance I would step too close to a sconce and set myself on fire.”

George turned sharply.

“Given my history being presented at court,” she said, “it was not as unreasonable as it sounds.”

He tried not to laugh. He really did.

“Oh, please do,” she said. “It has taken me this long to be able to make a joke of it. We might as well be amused.”

“What did happen?” he asked. “Or don’t I want to know?”

“Oh, you want to know,” she said with an impertinent sideways look. “Trust me. You definitely want to know.”

He waited.

“But you won’t find out now,” she declared. “A woman must have her secrets, or so your mother keeps telling me.”

“Somehow I don’t think setting fire to the Court of St. James was the sort of secret she had in mind.”

“Considering how fervently she wishes me to be seen as a young lady of grace and refinement, I think it might be exactly what she had in mind.” She glanced over at him with an arch expression. “Lady Alexandra Fortescue-Endicott would never accidentally set someone on fire.”

“No, if she did it, I imagine it would be purposeful.”

Billie snorted back a laugh. “George Rokesby, that’s a terrible thing to say. And probably not true.”

“You don’t think so?”

“Much as it pains me to admit it, no. She’s not that evil. Or clever.”

He paused for a moment, then asked, “It was an accident, wasn’t it?”

She gave him a look.

“Of course it was,” he said, but he didn’t sound nearly as certain as he ought.

“Kennard!”

At the sound of his name, George looked reluctantly away from Billie. Two university friends of his – Sir John Willingham and Freddie Coventry – were making their way through the crowd. They were both perfectly pleasant, utterly respectable, and exactly the sort of gentlemen his mother would wish him to introduce to Billie.

George found that he rather wished to hit one of them. It didn’t matter which. Either would do, so long as he could aim for the face.

“Kennard,” Sir John said, approaching with a grin. “It’s been an age. I wouldn’t have thought you’d be in town yet.”

“Family business,” George said noncommittally.

Sir John and Freddie both nodded and said something along the lines of just so, and then they both looked over at Billie with clear expectation.

George forced a smile and turned to Billie. “May I present Sir John Willingham and Mr. Frederick Coventry.” There were murmurs all around, and then he said, “Gentlemen, this is Miss Sybilla Bridgerton of Aubrey Hall in Kent.”

“Kent, you say,” Freddie exclaimed. “Are you neighbors, then?”