Chapter 29 #2
Hugo stared at her for a moment then threw back his head and laughed—a real laugh, the kind that came from his belly and made his shoulders shake.
“You devious woman. And here I thought you were genuinely enjoying the music.”
“I enjoy Cassandra’s playing. The rest…” She shrugged delicately. “Well, friendship requires certain sacrifices.”
“Certain sacrifices,” Hugo repeated. “Is that what you call this marriage? A sacrifice?”
The question came out more serious than he’d intended, and Sybil’s laughter faded. She looked at him with those perceptive blue eyes, as though trying to read his thoughts.
“No,” she said quietly. “I don’t.”
Thank God for that.
“What do you call it, then?”
“An adventure.” The word surprised them both. “I know that sounds silly, but—”
“It doesn’t sound silly.”
“Doesn’t it? A spinster of twenty-eight calling marriage an adventure?”
“A spinster of twenty-eight who rescued children from burning buildings and challenged London society’s most formidable matrons.” Hugo reached out to touch her cheek. “I think you’re entitled to a few adventures.”
More than a few. I want to give you all the adventures you’ve missed.
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 music just 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.”
Beautiful all the time but especially when you’re happy.
The compliment made her blush, and Hugo found himself leaning closer without conscious thought.
“Hugo,” she whispered.
“Yes?”
“Are you going to kiss me?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Very much.”
So he did.
It was different from their previous kisses—softer, more playful. They were in no hurry, hidden away in their private sanctuary while the rain provided a gentle background sound.
Her lips felt like warmth as they moved against his.
When they finally broke apart, Sybil was smiling in a way that made Hugo’s chest tight.
“Better than chamber music?” she asked.
“Infinitely better.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Though I suppose we should head back before people start sending search parties.”
“Probably.” But neither of them moved.
“One more minute,” Hugo murmured.
“One more minute,” she agreed.
One more minute in paradise before we have to return to musical purgatory.
But as they sat there in the gathering darkness, listening to the rain and each other’s breathing, Hugo realized something that should have terrified him.
This is what happiness feels like. This quiet contentment, this sense of rightness.
This is what I’ve been missing all these years.
When they finally made their way back to the house, slipping in through the French doors like guilty conspirators, the quartet was just beginning their final piece. Anthea caught Sybil’s eye and raised an eyebrow at their slightly disheveled appearance, but she said nothing.
Hugo settled back into his chair, his hand finding Sybil’s. The music was still terrible—possibly worse than before—but somehow, he found he didn’t mind as much.
Because I know now what the alternative sounds like. Laughter and rain and the soft sigh she makes when I kiss her.
And that’s music I could listen to for the rest of my life.