It was what Andrew would have done. Not that Andrew would ever have kissed her, or that she’d have wanted him to, but if for some reason they’d been joking about marriage, absolutely he’d have said something ridiculous about getting down on one knee.
But with George… she just hadn’t known if he’d meant it. And then what if she’d said yes? What if she’d said that she’d love for him to get down on one knee and pledge his eternal devotion…
And then found out he was joking?
Her face flamed just thinking of it.
She didn’t think he would tease about such a thing. But then again, this was George. He was the eldest son of the Earl of Manston, the noble and honorable Lord Kennard. If he were going to propose to a lady, he would never do it slapdash. He’d have the ring, and he’d have the poetic words, and he certainly wouldn’t leave it up to her to decide if he ought to do it on bended knee.
Which meant he couldn’t have meant it, right? George would never be so unsure of himself.
She flopped on her bed, pressing both hands against her chest, trying to quell her racing heart. She used to hate that about George – his unshakable confidence. When they were children he always knew better than the rest of them. About everything. It had been the most annoying thing, even if now she realized that at five years their senior, he probably had known better about everything. There was no way the rest of them were going to catch up until they reached adulthood.
And now… Now she loved his quiet confidence. He was never brash, never boastful. He was just… George.
And she loved him.
She loved him, and – OH DEAR GOD, SHE HAD JUST STOPPED HIM FROM ASKING HER TO MARRY HIM.
What had she done?
And more importantly, how could she undo it?
Chapter 20
George was always the first in his family to come down to breakfast, but when he stepped into the informal dining room the following morning, his mother was already at the table, sipping a cup of tea.
There was no way this was a coincidence.
“George,” she said immediately upon seeing him, “we must speak.”
“Mother,” he murmured, stepping over to the sideboard to fix his plate. Whatever it was she was het up over, he was not in the mood. He was tired and he was cranky. He might have only almost proposed marriage the night before, but he had most definitely been rejected.
It was not the stuff dreams were made of. Nor a good night’s sleep.
“As you know,” she said, jumping right into it, “tonight is Lady Wintour’s ball.”
He spooned some coddled eggs onto his plate. “I assure you it has not slipped my mind.”
Her lips tightened, but she did not take him to task for his sarcasm. Instead she waited with heavy patience until he joined her at the table.
“It is about Billie,” she said.
Of course it was.
“I am very concerned about her.”
So was he, but he doubted it was for the same reasons. He pasted a bland smile on his face. “What is the problem?”
“She is going to need all the help she can get tonight.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he scoffed, but he knew what she meant. Billie was not meant for London. She was a country girl, through and through.
“She lacks confidence, George. The vultures will see this instantly.”
“Do you ever wonder why we choose to socialize with these vultures?” he mused.
“Because half of them are really doves.”
“Doves?” He stared at her in disbelief.
She waved a hand. “Perhaps carrier pigeons. But that is not the point.”
“I would never be so lucky.”
She gave him just enough of a look to make it clear that while she had heard this, she was graciously choosing to ignore it. “Her success is in your hands.”
He knew he would regret encouraging her to expand upon this point, but he could not stop himself from saying, “I beg your pardon?”
“You know as well as I do that the surest way to ensure a debutante’s success is for an eligible gentleman – such as yourself – to pay her attention.”
For some reason, this irritated him greatly. “Since when is Billie a debutante?”
His mother stared at him as if he were an idiot. “Why else do you think I brought her to London?”
“I believe you said you wished for her company?” he countered.
His mother waved that away as the nonsense she clearly saw it to be. “The girl needed some polish.”
No, George thought, she didn’t. He jabbed his fork into his sausage with far too much force. “She’s perfectly fine the way she is.”
“That is very gracious of you, George,” she replied, inspecting her muffin before deciding to add an additional dab of butter, “but I assure you, no lady wishes to be ‘perfectly fine.’”
He fixed a patient expression on his face. “Your point, Mother?”
“Merely that I need you to do your part this evening. You must dance with her.”
She made it sound as if he thought it a chore. “Of course I’ll dance with her.” It would be awkward as hell, all things considered, but even so, he could not help but look forward to it. He’d been longing to dance with Billie since that morning back at Aubrey Hall when she’d looked up at him, planted her hands on her hips, and demanded, “Have you ever danced with me?”
At the time, he couldn’t believe that he’d never done so. After all those years as neighbors, how could he not have danced with her?
But now he couldn’t believe that he’d ever thought he had. If he had danced with Billie, music washing over them as he placed his hand on her hip… It was not something he could forget.