Billie’s mouth hung open for a brief – but noticeable – moment before she said, “That’s what my mother calls me when she’s cross.”

“Then we shall begin a new, happier tradition.”

“Is this really necessary?” George asked.

“I know it will be difficult to remember,” Lady Manston said, finally setting the cup down near Billie’s plate, “but I think it’s for the best. As a name, Billie is so, well… I don’t know that I would call it mannish, but I don’t think it accurately represents how we wish to portray you.”

“It accurately represents who she is,” George practically growled.

“Goodness. I had no idea you would feel so strongly about this,” his mother said, peering over at him with a flawlessly innocent expression. “But of course, it’s not up to you.”

“I would prefer to be called Billie,” Billie said.

“I’m not sure it’s up to you, either, dear.”

George’s fork came down heavily on his plate. “Who the devil is it up to, then?”

His mother regarded him as if he had asked just the stupidest question. “Me.”

“You,” he said.

“I know how these things work. I’ve done this before, you know.”

“Didn’t Mary find her husband in Kent?” George reminded her.

“Only after she gained her polish in London.”

Good God. His mother had gone mad. It was the only explanation. She could be tenacious, and she could be exacting when it came to society and etiquette, but never had she managed to weave the two together with such complete irrationality.

“Surely it doesn’t matter,” Billie said. “Won’t most everyone be calling me Miss Bridgerton, anyway?”

“Of course,” Lady Manston conceded, “but they will hear us speaking with you. It’s not as if they won’t know your Christian name.”

“This is the most asinine conversation,” George grumbled.

His mother just flicked him A Look. “Sybilla,” she said, turning to Billie, “I know you did not come to London with the intention of looking for a husband, but surely you see the convenience of it now that you’re here. You’ll never find so many eligible gentlemen in one place in Kent.”

“I don’t know,” Billie murmured over her tea, “it’s chock-full when all of the Rokesbys are home.”

George looked up sharply just as his mother burst out in a trill of laughter. “Too true, Billie,” she said with a warm smile (apparently forgetting that she meant to call her Sybilla), “but alas, I have only the one home right now.”

“Two,” George said incredulously. Apparently if one never went away, one wasn’t counted as being home.

His mother’s brows rose. “I was speaking of you, George.”

Well, now he felt like a fool.

He stood. “I will call Billie what she wishes to be called. And I will see you at Wintour House as promised, when the ball is underway. If you will excuse me, I have much to attend to.”

He didn’t actually, but he didn’t think he could listen to another word of his mother’s on the topic of Billie’s debut.

The sooner they all got this wretched day over with the better.

Billie watched him walk away, and she wasn’t going to say anything, honestly she wasn’t, but even as she dipped her spoon into her porridge, she heard herself call out, “Wait!”

George paused at the door.

“Just a quick word,” she said, hastily setting down her napkin. She had no idea what that quick word might be, but something was there inside of her, and it obviously needed to get out. She turned back to Lady Manston. “Pray excuse me. I’ll be but a moment.”

George stepped out of the small dining room and into the hall to afford them a spot of privacy.

Billie cleared her throat. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

Good question. She wasn’t sorry. “Actually,” she said, “it’s thank you.”

“You’re thanking me,” he said softly.

“For standing up for me,” she said. “Calling me Billie.”

His mouth curved into a wry half-smile. “I don’t think I could call you Sybilla if I tried.”

She returned the expression in kind. “I’m not sure I would answer if it came from any voice other than my mother’s.”

He studied her face for a moment, then said, “Don’t let my mother turn you into someone you’re not.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s possible at this late stage. I’m far too set in my ways.”

“At the grand age of three-and-twenty?”

“It’s a very grand age when you’re an unmarried female,” she retorted. Maybe she shouldn’t have said it; there were too many not-quite marriage proposals in their history. (One, Billie thought, was too many. Two practically marked her as a freak of nature.)

But she didn’t regret saying it. She couldn’t regret it. Not if she wanted to turn one of those almost-proposals into something real.

And she did. She’d been up half the night – well, twenty minutes at least – berating herself for her practically ensuring that he would not ask her to marry him. If she’d had a hair shirt (and any inclination for useless gestures), she’d have donned it.

George’s brow furrowed, and of course her mind whipped into triple-speed. Was he wondering why she’d made a comment about her near-spinster status? Trying to decide how to respond? Debating her sanity?