“Half an hour,” he said. “And worth every second of it.”

She blushed. “You’re very kind.”

He pulled out her chair, and Sophie sat down. She was wearing a red velvet dress, cut with perfect simplicity.

Montfort drank in the beauty of her face, without staring. Her grey eyes were luminous; the handful of freckles, the fine lines around eyes and mouth, these were also attractive; hers was not a face that had experienced a great deal of fun, or pleasure. It was very serious, and yet quite innocent. She was expectant, he decided. Waiting, still waiting for something,

He calmly summoned up a vision of his Georgie, the only woman he had ever loved. She was still smiling, still beautiful to him, but the pain was fading.

He said to Sophie, “I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.”

Her head lifted, and she blushed, deeply.

“Come on, Hugh, don’t say things like that,” Sophie murmured.

“It’s perfectly true.”

“I know something about you,” Sophie replied, with a touch of spirit. “You’re not the only person who can do research. There are photographs of you in magazines with girlfriends, models—even film stars. Women in their mid-twenties with retroussé noses. Famous beauties. So it’s hardly the truth. I appreciate compliments, but you don’t need to lie.” She smiled. “Although I admit I took my time choosing the dress.”

He smiled back; it was amazing, the ease of it; he liked her, immensely.

“Is that what you think?” Hugh asked.

“It’s what everybody thinks. The press—everybody.”

“Then everybody’s wrong. Those women were not my girlfriends. I went on some dates, certainly.” He shrugged. “None of them worked. And as for the legendary attractiveness of these women, although I wouldn’t deny they were pretty—”

“What a concession.” I’m teasing him, Sophie thought, amazed at how relaxed she was.

“Some of them very pretty. Even beautiful. But none of them had that spark that raises a woman to what you are now.”

A waiter appeared, and Hugh ordered a bottle of Chablis.

“Beauty is not wholly on the inside, whatever the platitude may say. But it does take more than even features and a certain level of proportion in the figure. A pretty woman without a spark of grace is a cipher. And one possessing that spark, though in photographs she may be outshone by a model, in real life will always be the one who attracts an intelligent man.”

Sophie paused. “I think that’s the loveliest thing anybody’s ever said to me.”

Hugh grinned. “It’s funny, I never thought it through until seeing you. But it’s absolutely true. I wouldn’t trade one meal with you for a year in the company of fifty models.”

“And this is your first glass of wine?” Sophie asked.