“Please go on.” He gazed at her. “I mean it, I want to hear what you have to say.”

“Then I was going to ask if you, too, have been holding on to a fantasy image.”

“You mean about Georgiana?”

“Yes.”

“She was no fantasy.” He sighed. “If only you could have known her.”

“That’s not what I meant. I was asking if you have not connected with any other woman because of your wife. . . .”

“Yes.”

“Then the fantasy part is that to you, on some level, Georgiana was still alive.”

Hugh stared.

“I’m sorry.” Sophie drew back. “I knew I shouldn’t have said that. Now I’ve offended you.”

“No—you haven’t.” He paused. “You mean, I suppose, that I have been feeling as though another woman would be a betrayal; something that would only be true if my wife were still living.”

Sophie nodded.

“You’re right.” He sighed. “But I loved her so much, and so deeply, I didn’t want her to be gone.”

“I don’t think she is gone,” Sophie said.

“Ah, yes, you’re religious.”

“You?”

Hugh shook his head. “I’ve seen too much horror. And banality, and cynicism, which sometimes seem worse than horror. That doesn’t seem to fit in with a God.”

“Well, I won’t try to convert you. Don’t worry.”

“Feel free to try,” he said, lightly. “If anybody could make me believe . . . I think it might be you. You make me imagine that things are possible, things I had not hoped for.”

Sophie looked down.

“We hardly know each other,” she murmured.

“But it doesn’t feel like that, does it?”

“No.”

“I want to see you again,” he said. “Soon. Will you see me?”

Sophie lifted her head and smiled.

“Of course,” she said. “You know I will.”

Hugh took her hand in his and smiled gently at her. It was the strangest thing, he thought: he was happy.

They lingered over dessert and coffee; finally, he called for the bill. Neither of them wanted the meal to end.

“I should ring for Richard.”

“Your driver?”

“Yes, he’s parked a few streets away.”

“You could cancel him; let me walk you home. It can’t be two miles to the château.”

Sophie thought of the servants, and what Tom would say. “Better not.”

“Of course.” He was terrified of pushing her; the night had been perfect. Peter Stockton, Mayberry, his exploded career, all seemed trivial, completely insignificant. Seeing this woman again was all Hugh cared about.

“Dinner tomorrow?” he asked. “There are a thousand out-of-the-way places in Paris where nobody will ever find you.”

“Yes. Just call and let me know where.” Sophie frowned. “I hate having to hide,” she said.

“It won’t be long. Your meeting will take place soon.”

“I can’t wait. I’m sick of it.”