"No..."

Something warm and lovely unfurled in his chest. This could never mean nothing. And she knew it.

"It just means..." She swallowed, her lips trembling as they pressed together. "... that there are no consequences."

He brushed his lips against her cheek. "No consequences," he softly repeated.

"None."

"I could kiss you again..." His hand stole around to the small of her back, but he exerted only the barest of pressure. She could step away at any moment. She could remove herself from his embrace, cross the room, and leave. He needed her to know this. He needed to know that she knew this. There would be no recriminations, no telling herself that she had been swept away by his passion.

If she was swept away by passion, it would be her own.

His lips touched her ear. "I could kiss you again," he repeated.

She gave a little nod. A tiny nod. But he felt it. "Again," she whispered.

His teeth found her earlobe, gently nipping. "And again."

"I think -"

"What do you think?" He smiled against her skin. He couldn't quite believe how utterly delightful this was. He'd known kisses of passion, of raw, primal hunger and overwhelming lust. This was all that, but there was something more.

Something joyful.

"I think..." She swallowed. "I think you should kiss me again." She looked up, her eyes remarkably clear. "And I think you should shut the door."

George had never moved so fast in his life. He had half a mind to shove a chair under the door handle just to keep the damned thing closed.

"This still doesn't mean nothing," she said as his arms wrapped around her.

"Absolutely not."

"But no consequences."

"None."

"You don't have to marry me."

"I don't have to, no."

But he could. The thought flicked across his mind with warm surprise. He could marry her. There was no reason why not.

His sanity, perhaps. But he had a feeling he'd lost that the first moment his lips had touched hers.

She stood on her tiptoes, tilting her face to his. "If you're my first kiss," she said, her lips curving with subtle mischief, "then you might as well be my second."

"Maybe your third," he said, capturing her mouth with his.

"It's important to know," she said, getting just those four words out between kisses.

"To know?" His mouth moved to her neck, causing her to arch provocatively in his arms.

She nodded, gasping as one of his hands moved along her rib cage. "How to kiss," she clarified. "It's a skill."

He felt himself smile. "And you like to be skilled."

"I do."

He kissed her neck, then her collarbone, giving thanks to the current bodice styles, round and deep, baring creamy skin from her shoulders to the top swell of her breasts. "I predict great things for you."

Her only response was a gasp of surprise. About what, he wasn't quite sure perhaps his tongue, flicking out along the sensitive skin peeking out from the lacy edge of her dress. Or maybe it was his teeth, nipping gently along the side of her neck.

He didn't dare tumble her onto the chaise; he did not trust himself that far. But he did nudge her until she was leaning against the sofa, lifting her the scant few inches required to set her atop the back.

And God love her, but Billie knew instinctively what to do. Her legs parted, and when he rucked up her skirts, she wrapped herself around him. Maybe it was just for balance, but as he pressed himself against her, he didn't care. Her skirt was still in the way, as were his breeches, but he felt her. He was hard, exquisitely so, and he pressed against her, his body knowing where it wanted to go. She was a country girl; she had to know what this meant, but she was lost in the same passion, and she pulled him closer, her legs tightening around his hips.

Dear God, at this rate he was going to spend himself like a green boy.

He took a breath. "It's too much," he gasped, forcing himself to pull away.

"No," was all she said, but her hands moved to his head, allowing him to kiss her even as he put a little distance between their bodies.

And so he kissed her. He kissed her endlessly. He kissed her carefully, skirting the edge of his own desire, all too aware how close he was to the brink of reason.

And he kissed her tenderly, because this was Billie, and somehow he knew that no one ever thought to be tender with her.

"George," she said.

He lifted his lips from hers, just a bit, just a breath. "Hmmm."

"We have to... we have to stop."

"Mmmm," he agreed. But he didn't stop. He could have done; he had a grip on his passion now. But he didn't want to.

"George," she said again. "I hear people."

He drew back. Listened.

Swore.

"Open the door," Billie hissed.

He did. With alacrity. Nothing sparked suspicion like a closed door. He looked at her. "You might..." He cleared his throat and made a motion near his head. "You might want to..."

He was no expert on ladies' coiffures, but he was fairly certain her hair did not look as it should.

Billie blanched and frantically smoothed her hair, her nimble fingers tugging on pins and then jamming them back into place. "Better?"

He grimaced. There was a spot behind her right ear where a chestnut lock looked as if it was sprouting from her head.

They heard a voice from the hall. "George?"

His mother. Good God.

"George!"

"In the drawing room, Mother," he called back, heading to the doorway. He could stall her in the hall for a few seconds at least. He turned back to Billie, sharing one last urgent glance. She took her hands from her hair and held them out, as if to say, "Well?"

It would have to do.

"Mother," he said, stepping into the hall. "You're up."

She offered her cheek, which he dutifully kissed. "I can't stay in my room forever."

"No, although surely you are allowed time to -"

"Grieve?" she interrupted. "I refuse to grieve. Not until we receive more definite news."

"I was going to say 'rest,'" he told her.

"I've done that."

Well done, Lady Manston, he thought. Funny how his mother still managed to surprise him with her resilience.

"I was thinking," his mother began, walking past him into the drawing room. "Oh, hello, Billie, I did not realize you were here."

"Lady Manston." Billie bobbed a curtsy. "I was hoping I might be of some assistance."

"That is very kind of you. I'm not sure what can be done, but your company is always appreciated." Lady Manston's head tilted to the side. "Is it very windy out?"

"What?" Billie's hand flew self-consciously to her hair. "Oh. Yes, a bit. I forgot my bonnet."

They all looked at the bonnet she'd left on a table.

"What I meant to say was that I forgot to put it on," Billie said with a nervous chuckle that George dearly hoped his mother did not detect. "Or rather, truthfully, I didn't forget. The air was so very fine."

"I won't tell your mother," Lady Manston said with an indulgent smile.

Billie nodded her thanks, and then an awkward silence fell over the room. Or maybe it wasn't awkward at all. Maybe George only thought it was awkward, because he knew what Billie was thinking, and he knew what he was thinking, and it seemed impossible somehow that his mother could be thinking of anything else.

But apparently she was, because she looked at him with a smile he knew was forced, and asked, "Have you given further thought to going to London?"

"Some," he replied. "I know a few people at the War Office."

"George was thinking of traveling to London to make inquiries," his mother said to Billie.

"Yes, he'd told me. It's an excellent idea."

Lady Manston gave a tiny nod and turned back to George. "Your father knows people as well, but..."

"I can go," George said swiftly, saving his mother the pain of having to describe her husband's current state of incapacitation.

"You probably know the same people," Billie said.

George glanced over. "Just so."

"I believe I will go with you," his mother said.

"Mother, no, you should stay home," George immediately said. "Father will need you, and it will be easier for me to do what needs to be done on my own."

"Don't be silly. Your father doesn't need anything but news of his son, and I can't do anything to further that cause from here."

"And you will in London?"

"Probably not," she admitted, "but at least there is a chance."

"I'm not going to be able to accomplish anything if I'm worried about you."

His mother raised one perfectly arched brow. "Then don't worry."

He grit his teeth. There was no arguing with her when she was like this, and the truth was, he wasn't even sure why he didn't want his mother to come with him. Just this strange, niggling feeling that some things were best done alone.

"It will all work out," Billie said, trying to smooth over the tension between mother and son. George shot her a look of gratitude, but he didn't think she saw it. She was more like her own mother than anyone gave her credit for, he realized. She was a peacemaker, in her own inimitable way.

He watched as she took one of his mother's hands in hers. "I know that Edward will come home to us," she said with a light squeeze.

A warm, almost homey sense of pride swirled through him. And he could have sworn he could feel her, giving his hand a squeeze as well.

"You're such a dear, Billie," his mother said. "You and Edward were always so close."

"My best friend," Billie said. "Well, besides Mary, of course."

George crossed his arms. "Don't forget Andrew."

She glanced over at him with a frown.

Lady Manston leaned forward and kissed Billie on the cheek. "What I wouldn't give to see you and Edward together one more time."

"And you shall," Billie said firmly. "He will be home if not soon, then at least eventually." She gave an excellent approximation of a reassuring smile. "We will be together again. I know it."

"We will all be together again," George said peevishly.

Billie gave him another frown, this one considerably more remonstrative.

"I keep seeing his face," his mother said. "Every time I close my eyes."

"I do, too," Billie admitted.