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Billie looked over at George, and when his eyes met hers, he felt like he’d found his entire world. He bowed and held out his arm, because bloody hell, he’d been waiting for this moment for what felt like years.
But of course that was when Arbuthnot finally arrived. “Kennard,” he said, his genial greeting exactly what one might expect from a man to the son of a friend. “Good to see you here. What brings you to town?”
“A dance with Miss Bridgerton,” Freddie drawled, “but he doesn’t seem quite able to lead her to the floor.”
Arbuthnot chuckled. “Oh, I’m sure he’s not as incapable as that.”
George couldn’t decide which of them he wanted to kill first.
“Perhaps I should dance with you,” Billie said to Freddie.
Forget the gentlemen. He’d kill Billie first. What the hell was she thinking? This was forward, even for her. Ladies did not ask gentlemen to dance, especially when their acquaintance was of five minutes’ duration.
“A lady who speaks her mind,” Freddie said. “How perfectly refreshing. I see why Lord Kennard speaks so highly of you.”
“He speaks of me?”
“Not to him,” George bit off.
“Well, he should,” Freddie said with a flirtatious waggle of his brows. “You would certainly be a more interesting topic than our last conversation, which I believe was about oatmeal.”
George was fairly certain this was not true, but there seemed no way to protest without seeming childish.
“Ah, but I find oats fascinating,” Billie said, and George almost laughed, because he was the only one who knew that she wasn’t joking. Her father’s recent successes at harvest was a testament to that.
“A truly singular female,” Freddie applauded.
The orchestra began to make the groaning noises that always preceded the actual music, and Billie glanced over at George, waiting for him to repeat his bow and lead her into the dance.
But before he could do so, he heard Lord Arbuthnot clear his throat. George knew what he had to do.
“I give her over to you, Coventry,” he said with a bit of a bow. “Since you are so eager for her company.”
He tried not to meet Billie’s eyes, but he couldn’t quite manage it, and when his gaze passed over her face, he saw that she was shocked. And angry.
And hurt.
“Her next shall be yours,” Freddie said with good cheer, and George’s heart twisted just a bit as he watched him lead her off to dance.
“I am sorry to deprive you of the company of the lovely Miss Bridgerton,” Lord Arbuthnot said after a moment, “but I am sure there was more purpose to your time in town than a dance.”
There was no one else in their small circle of conversation now that Billie had trotted off with Freddie Coventry, but Arbuthnot clearly wished for circumspection, so George said, “This and that. Family business.”
“Isn’t that always the case?” He tilted his head toward George. “It’s damned exhausting, it is, being the head of the family.”
George thought of his father. “I am most fortunate that this particular privilege is not yet mine.”
“True, true.” Arbuthnot took a large swallow of the drink he was holding, a drink that looked considerably more substantial than the ridiculous punch George had been served earlier that evening. “But you will be soon enough, and we can’t pick our families, can we?”
George wondered if Arbuthnot was employing double-speak. If so, it was another indication that he was not cut out for a life of mysterious messages and secret meetings. He decided to take Arbuthnot’s words at face value and said, “If we could, I daresay I would have picked my own.”
“Well, that’s a lucky man for you.”
“I think so.”
“And how fares your evening? Successful?”
“I suppose it depends on how one measures success.”
“Is that so?” Arbuthnot said, sounding slightly irritated.
George felt no sympathy. He was the one who had started this layered conversation. He could damn well let George have a little fun with it, too. He looked Arbuthnot in the eye and said, “Alas, we come to these events in search of something, do we not?”
“You are rather philosophical for a Tuesday.”
“Normally I save my great thinking for Monday nights and Thursday afternoons,” George snapped.
Lord Arbuthnot looked at him with sharp surprise.
“I haven’t found what I’m looking for,” George said. Good God, the double-speak was giving him vertigo.
Arbuthnot’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain?”
“As I can be. It’s rather a crush in here.”
“That is most disappointing.”
“Indeed.”
“Perhaps you should dance with Lady Weatherby,” Lord Arbuthnot said softly.
George turned sharply. “I beg your pardon?”
“Have you been introduced? I assure you she is a woman without equal.”
“We have met,” George confirmed. He’d known Sally Weatherby back when she was Sally Sandwick, the older sister of one of his friends. She had married and buried a husband in the intervening years and only recently had moved from full mourning to half. Luckily for her, she wore lavender quite well.
“Weatherby was a good man,” Arbuthnot said.
“I did not know him,” George said. He’d been quite a bit older, and Sally was his second wife.
“I worked with him from time to time,” Arbuthnot said. “A good man. A very good man.”