They stood there in the gathering dusk, the distant sounds of London traffic mixing with the faint strains of music from the house behind them. Hugo became aware of how close they were standing, how the moonlight caught the gold in Sybil’s hair.
“We should go back,” she whispered, but she didn’t move.
“Should we?”
“People will wonder where we’ve gone.”
“Let them wonder.” Hugo’s thumb traced the curve of her jaw. “I’d rather be here with you than listen to musical torture.”
“Even if it means missing the rest of the concert?”
“Especially if it means missing the rest of the concert.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “I’d endure far worse than bad musicjust to spend time with you, Sybil. But I’d much prefer to spend it somewhere I can actually hear myself think.”
She looked up at him with something that might have been wonder. “You really mean that.”
“I really do.” He was about to kiss her when the first drops of rain began to fall. “Damn.”
“Language, Your Grace,” she teased, but she was already looking around for shelter.
“There.” Hugo pointed to a small gazebo half-hidden by climbing roses. “Come on.”
They ran for it hand in hand, laughing like children as the spring shower opened up in earnest. By the time they reached the gazebo, they were both breathless and slightly damp.
“Well,” Sybil said, settling onto the wooden bench that circled the interior, “this is cozy.”
“Better than listening to Lady Catherine murder another composer.” Hugo sat beside her, close enough that their thighs touched. “Though I suppose we’ll have to go back eventually.”
“Eventually,” she agreed. “But not yet.”
Not yet.
The rain drummed softly on the gazebo roof, creating a private world around them. Hugo found himself studying his wife’s profile and the way the dim light caught her features.
“What are you thinking?” she asked, catching him staring.
“That I’m a very lucky man.”
“Even trapped in a gazebo during a rainstorm?”
“Especially trapped in a gazebo during a rainstorm. With you.” He reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers. “This is much better than the alternative.”
“What alternative?”
“Sitting in that music room, wondering how many more pieces they intend to… perform. Watching Lord Pemberton make eyes at my daughter. Trying not to wince every time someone hits a wrong note.”
Sybil laughed. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I? Because I’m fairly certain Lady Margaret just played three different keys simultaneously during that Haydn piece.”
“It was ambitious,” Sybil admitted.
“It was ambitious, the way the French Revolution was ambitious. Loud, chaotic, and ultimately catastrophic.”
That made her laugh so hard she snorted which only made Hugo grin wider.
“You shouldn’t make me laugh like that,” she protested. “It’s undignified.”
“I like you undignified. You’re beautiful when you laugh.”
