But she would never let it show.

“I think you were trying to insult me,” she said, picking disdainfully through her words.

He stared at her, waiting for further comment.

She shrugged.

“But . . . ?” he prodded.

She shrugged again, pretending to look at her fingernails. Which of course meant that she did look at her fingernails, which were revoltingly filthy.

One more thing she didn’t have in common with the future Lady Kennard.

She counted silently to five, waiting for him to demand an explanation in that cutting way he’d perfected before he’d been old enough to shave. But he didn’t say a word, and finally she was the one to lose whatever asinine contest was simmering between them, and she lifted her head.

He wasn’t even looking at her.

Damn him.

And damn her, because she just couldn’t help herself. She knew that anyone with an ounce of restraint would have known when to hold her tongue, but no, she had to open her stupid, stupid mouth and say, “If you can’t muster the—”

“Don’t say it,” he warned.

“—generosity of spirit to—”

“I’m warning you, Billie.”

“Are you?” she shot back, “I rather think you’re threatening me.”

“I will do,” he nearly spat, “if you don’t shut—” He cut himself off with a muffled curse, snapping his head in the other direction.

Billie picked at a loose thread on her stocking, her mouth pressed into an angry, trembling pout. She shouldn’t have said anything. She’d known that even as she spoke, because as pompous and annoying as George Rokesby was, it was entirely her fault that he was stuck up on the roof, and she’d had no call to be so provoking.

But there was something about him—some special talent that only he possessed—that stripped her of years of experience and maturity and made her act like a bloody six-year-old. If he were anyone else—anyone else—she’d be lauded as the most reasonable and helpful female in the history of Christendom. Tales would be spread—once they’d got off the roof—of her bravery and wit. Billie Bridgerton . . . so resourceful, so reasonable . . . It’s what everyone said. It’s what everyone had reason to say, because she was resourceful, and she was reasonable.

Just not with George Rokesby.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

His head turned slowly, as if even his muscles could not believe what they’d heard.

“I said I’m sorry,” she repeated, louder this time. It felt like an antidote, but it was the right thing to do. But God help him if he made her say it again, because there was only so much of her pride she could swallow before she choked on it. And he ought to know that.

Because he was just the same.

His eyes met hers, and then they both looked down, and then after a few moments George said, “We are neither of us at our best just now.”

Billie swallowed. She thought maybe she ought to say something more, but her judgment had not done her any favors thus far, so instead she nodded, vowing that she was going to keep her mouth shut until—