“Oh, goodness, I have to go home and tell Mother we’re engaged before she hears it from somebody else. Admiral Cockburn’s wife will make it the talk of the town by lunchtime.”

Benedict’s sleepy chuckle warmed her heart. “Would you like me to come with you? We could speak to her together.”

Georgie shook her head. “No, it’s all right. I’ll talk to her on my own first. You can come over for tea this afternoon. She should be over the shock by then.”

He tugged her back into his arms and kissed her thoroughly. “All right.” He left the bed and strode, unashamedly naked, over to a mahogany dressing chest, giving Georgie a wonderful view of his long back and firm buttocks. He opened the doors to reveal three sliding drawers below a space for hanging garments and selected a clean shirt for her to wear. It was too big, but it smelled of him.

Georgie grimaced as she pulled on the grimy breeches from the previous day. She couldn’t wait to have a bath. She padded over to join him and a forest-green garment caught her attention. “Is that your uniform?”

He stroked the jacket’s sleeve affectionately. “Yes. The Rifles.”

“Why isn’t it red, like the rest of the army?”

“The Rifles are sharpshooters. Snipers and skirmishers. We’re supposed to blend in. You have to admit that red is a ridiculous color for a soldier. It makes the perfect target.” He leaned over and reached inside a cut glass bowl, apparently searching for something. A muddle of assorted items swirled around haphazardly, and Georgie gasped as she caught sight of his campaign medals lying carelessly amongst the cufflinks and penknives.

“Why don’t you ever wear your medals?”

He let out a tired sigh. “Because I don’t deserve them.”

“What? Of course you do! You were at those battles, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“Then why—?”

He stared at the bowl as if struggling to find the words. “I suppose I still feel guilty, for making it through the war almost unscathed when so many of my friends didn’t. I didn’t earn those medals for anything other than staying alive. I couldn’t control whether a bullet hit me or the man next to me. I couldn’t change the trajectory of a shell. It was more dumb luck than skill.”

Georgie’s chest contracted at the pain in his voice.

He glanced over at her and met her eyes. “That’s why I work for Bow Street now. If I can foil plots like that one yesterday, maybe then I’ll have done something actually worthy of a mention in dispatches.”