The truth would probably have been closer to a gale-force temper tantrum, but, happily, no one had ever had to find out.
He leaned into the mirror again, trying another configuration - lichen-spray clipped to the flat of his lapel, hairpin making an ugly black line across his gold silk, no, he'd have to get a better fastener, that wouldn't do - and raised one hand to wave impatiently as she spoke. Go back a second. "Wait, hold on. When did you -" He tried shoving the thing into the slit fob pocket just under his ribs, but that just looked stupid. When had marriage gotten tossed into the mix? Had he missed some stunt, some interview? He knew he hadn't; he might have had a lot to deal with, but that part of things he was on top of, no question, because his foremost concern was always their public face. He knew what the cameras saw, and when they saw it, because otherwise he couldn't do any of his job, and if she was going around improvising moves like marriage proposals without telling him, they were going to have a talk. But ... that was wrong. He wouldn't have missed it. She wouldn't have done it. "What," he said, his fingers frozen around the ornament at his breast, his gaze shifting to her reflection and the tangle of her hair he'd plucked it from. "Like - what, like actually?"