“Rabbits,” she corrected. “Rabbits have so plagued my country house that last summer I ordered them at every meal.”

He gave a bark of laughter. “Your muff is the size of a healthy child because your lawns are overrun by rabbits?”

“My muff is enormously fashionable,” she said, but there was a gleam of humor deep in her eyes. “I don’t care for waste.”

Hugo tucked that fact away in his mind. It was an excellent trait for a duchess, of course. He picked up his tricorne and leaned forward, about to put it over her head so it would keep the snow from drifting onto her pile of hair.

“No need,” she said. She reached back and pulled forward a wide hood, big enough that it went up and over her hair before falling down to frame her head in a border of fluffy white fur.

He cleared his throat. It wouldn’t be appropriate to kiss her again, just because she looked so adorable dressed for winter. “The good news is that the wind has let up,” he told her instead. “But snow is still falling.”

“I’m almost ready.”

He jammed the tricorne onto his head, leaving his damp wig on the coach seat. Ophelia tucked her book into an inside pocket of her cloak and tied the ribbons under her chin. He unhooked the lantern that lit the inside of the vehicle and pushed open the door.

Outside, the snow was swirling in the air, and the sounds of London had receded, muffled as if the air itself had thickened, each breath turning to a thousand flakes.

Bisquet had positioned the mounting block before the carriage door, precisely as if the vehicle wasn’t listing to one side. Ophelia took Hugo’s hand and stepped out of the carriage as gracefully as a cat hopping from a chair. She looked at the mound of snow surrounding the mounting block and laughed again.

“My slippers aren’t suited for this weather.” She held out a foot, and Hugo looked down at an impossibly small foot clad in cream silk with fashionable flaps crossed in front, and the whole embroidered with sprigs of flowers.

“I won’t let you touch the ground,” he promised.

They stood in a pool of light lit by the torch Bisquet had left behind, its light protected from the snow by a neat little tin hat. Hugo hooked the lantern that usually hung inside next to the torch. He hadn’t let go of her hand. They both wore gloves, but he still loved curling his fingers around hers.

God, I’ve fallen so deep, he thought suddenly, with a moment of blinding clarity. Then he shook it off because his lady was standing in falling snow.

Laughing. She was looking about with obvious joy, and laughing.