“That much I’d surmised,” he said, tugging at his cravat. If it bothered her that he was disrobing in front of her, that was her own problem, he decided. She was the one who had taken up residence in his bedroom.

“What happened to you?” she demanded. “One moment you were foisting me off on poor Mr. Coventry —”

“I wouldn’t pity him too much,” George griped. “He did get my dance.”

“You gave him your dance.”

George kept working at his neckcloth, finally freeing it with one final yank. “I did not see that I had much choice,” he said, tossing the now limp strip of linen on a chair.

“What do you mean by that?”

He paused, glad that he happened to be facing away from her. He had been thinking of Lord Arbuthnot, but of course Billie did not know – and could not know – of their dealings. “I could hardly do otherwise,” he said, his eyes fixed on a random spot on the wall, “given that you’d asked him to dance.”

“I did not precisely ask him.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Splitting hairs, Billie.”

“Very well,” she said, crossing her arms, “but I don’t see that I had much choice, either. The music was starting and you were just standing there.”

There was nothing to be gained by pointing out that he had been about to lead her to the dance floor when Lord Arbuthnot had arrived, so he held his tongue. They stared at each other for a long, heavy moment.

“You should not be here,” George finally said. He sat down to pull off his boots.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

He watched her intently, fiercely. What did she mean by that?

“I was worried about you,” she said.

“I can take care of myself.”

“So can I,” she countered.

He nodded his touché, then turned his attention to his cuffs, pushing back the fine Belgian lace so that his fingers could work the buttons through their loops.

“What happened tonight?” he heard her say.

He closed his eyes, well aware that she could not see his expression. It was the only reason he allowed himself a weary sigh. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“The beginning will do.”

He looked over at her, unable to stop the wry smile that flitted across his lips. How very like her that statement was. But he just shook his head and said in a tired voice, “Not tonight.”

She crossed her arms.

“For the love of God, Billie, I’m exhausted.”

“I don’t care.”

That took him off guard, and for a moment he could only stare, blinking like some idiot owl.

“Where were you?” she demanded.

And because the truth was always best when possible, he told her, “At a pub.”

Her head jerked back with surprise, but her voice was cool when she said, “You smell like it.”

That earned her a grim chuckle. “I do, don’t I?”

“Why were you at a pub? What could you possibly have been doing that was more important than —” She stopped herself with a horrified gasp, clasping her hand to her mouth.

He could not answer her, so he said nothing. There was nothing in the world that was more important than she was. But there were things more important than dancing with her, no matter how much he wished it were otherwise.

His brother was missing. Maybe tonight’s absurd errand had nothing to do with Edward. Hell, George was certain it did not. How could it? Edward was lost in the wilds of Connecticut, and he was here in London, reciting nursery rhymes with a madman.

But he had been asked by his government to carry out this task, and more importantly, he had given his word that it would be done.

George would feel no compunction in refusing Lord Arbuthnot should he come with another fool’s errand. He had not the temperament to follow orders blindly. But he had agreed this time, and he had followed through.

The silence in the room grew thick, and then Billie, who had turned away from him, hugging her arms to her body, said in a very small voice, “I should go to bed.”

“Are you crying?” he asked, coming quickly to his feet.

“No,” came her too-quick reply.

He could not bear it. He took a step forward without even realizing it. “Don’t cry,” he said.

“I’m not crying!” she choked out.

“No,” he said gently. “Of course you’re not.”

She dragged the back of her hand inelegantly across her nose. “I don’t cry,” she protested, “and I certainly don’t cry because of you.”

“Billie,” he said, and before he knew it, she was in his arms. He held her against his heart, and he stroked her back while her tears dropped one by one from her eyes.

She cried delicately, which seemed somehow unexpected. Billie had never done anything by half measure, and if she were going to cry, he would have thought she’d have done so with great big sobs.

And that was when he realized – she had been speaking true. She didn’t cry. He had known her for twenty-three years, and he had never seen her shed a tear. Even when she’d hurt her ankle and had had to climb down that ladder on her own, she had not cried. For a moment she’d looked as if she might, but then she had steeled her shoulders, and swallowed her pain, and got on with it.

But she was crying now.

He had made her cry.

“I am so sorry,” he murmured into her hair. He didn’t know what he could have done differently, but that didn’t seem to matter. She was crying, and every sniffle held the sound of his own heart breaking.




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