“I will not lie to you,” he said quietly. “I may not be able to answer your questions, but I will tell you no falsehoods.” He stepped forward, his eyes boring into hers as he made his vow. “Do you understand? I will never lie to you.”

She nodded, and he saw something change in her face. Her eyes grew softer, more concerned. “You’re hurt,” she said.

“Not very much.”

“But still . . .” She reached toward his face, her hand stopping an inch short of its destination. “Did someone hit you?”

He shook his head. He’d probably acquired the abrasion when he’d been persuaded to have a pint with Tallywhite. “I don’t remember, honestly,” he told her. “It was a very strange evening.”

Her lips parted, and he could tell she wanted to question him further, but instead she said, very softly, “You never danced with me.”

His eyes met hers. “I regret that.”

“I’d wanted . . . I’d hoped . . .” Her lips pressed together as she swallowed, and he realized he was holding his breath, waiting for her to continue. “I don’t think . . .”

Whatever it was, she could not bring herself to say it, and he realized that he needed to be as brave as she was.

“It was agony,” he whispered.

She looked up, startled.

He took her hand and kissed her palm. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to tell Freddie Coventry to go ahead and dance with you? What it felt like to watch him take your hand and whisper in your ear like he had a right to be near you?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I know it exactly.”

And then, in that moment, it all became clear. There was only one thing he could do.

He did the only thing he could do.

He kissed her.

Chapter 23

Billie wasn’t stupid. She had known, when she decided to wait for George in his bedroom, that this might happen. But it wasn’t why she had done it. It wasn’t why she had crept so silently into his room, turning the door handle with practiced ease so it slipped through the locking mechanism without a click. It wasn’t why she’d sat in his chair, listening for sounds of his return, and it wasn’t why she had stared at his bed the whole time, achingly aware that this was where he slept, where his body lay at his most vulnerable, where, should he take a wife, they would make love.

No, she told herself, she had come to his room because she needed to know where he’d gone, why he’d left her at Wintour House. And she was worried. She knew she would not sleep until he was home.

But she’d known this might happen.

And now that it was happening . . .

She could finally admit that she’d wanted it all along.

He pulled her against him, and she made no show of surprise, no feigned outrage. They were too honest with each other; they always had been, and she threw her arms around him, kissing him back with every fevered breath.