“If they are going to risk their lives for King and Country,” she said softly, “we should make it a good King and Country.”

Their eyes met, and Billie smiled. Just a little. And they didn’t speak. Because they didn’t need to. Until finally she said, “They’re going to be up with your food soon,” she said.

He quirked a brow. “Are you trying to be rid of me?”

“I’m trying to protect my reputation,” she retorted. “And yours.”

“If you recall, I did ask you to marry me.”

“No, you didn’t,” she scoffed. “You said, ‘of course I’ll marry you’,”—this she said in a remarkable impression of a distempered crone—“which is not the same thing at all.”

He eyed her thoughtfully. “I could get down on one knee.”

“Stop teasing me, George. It’s very unkind of you.” Her voice wobbled, and he felt something tight, squeezing in his chest. His lips parted, but she pushed herself off the edge of her bed and walked over to her window, crossing her arms as she stared out into the night.

“It’s not something you joke about,” she said, but her words were oddly formed, round and wide, almost as if they were coming from somewhere deep in her throat.

He came quickly to his feet. “Billie, I’m sorry. You must know I would never—”

“You should go.”

He paused.

“You should go,” she said, more forcefully this time. “They’ll be here with your dinner at any moment.”

It was a dismissal, clear and sensible. It was a kindness, really. She was stopping him from making a fool of himself. If she wanted him to propose, wouldn’t she have taken the bait he’d so casually dangled?

“As you wish,” he said, executing a polite bow even though she was not facing him. He saw her nod, and then he left the room.

OH, DEAR GOD, what had she done?

He could have proposed to her. Right then and there. George.

And she had stopped him. Stopped him because—bloody hell, she didn’t know why. Hadn’t she spent the entire day in a blue haze, wondering why he was avoiding her and how she might get him to kiss her again?

Wouldn’t marriage ensure future kisses? Wasn’t it precisely what she needed to achieve her (admittedly unladylike) goals?

But he’d been sitting there, sprawled out in the desk chair like he owned the place (which she supposed he did, or rather, would), and she couldn’t tell if he meant it. Was he teasing her? Having a spot of fun? George had never been cruel; he wouldn’t purposefully hurt her feelings, but if he thought she regarded the whole thing as a joke, then he might feel permitted to treat it as such . . .

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.