“Ah, well. That’s the exercise. You’re walking, riding all the time here. Frankly, I think you could do with fattening up a little.”

He glanced ahead. “Here we are.”

“Did you make reservations? I suppose if it’s got a Michelin star, it must be very crowded.”

“Usually is,” Hugh agreed mildly. He parked, and went round to help her out of the car. A quick glance inside confirmed that Paul hadn’t let him down.

“Thank you.” Sophie closed the door. “What beautiful music.”

“That’s his daughter, Brona. She plays with the London Symphony. She’s back here on holiday.” Now that the moment had arrived, Hugh’s nerves had returned. “Come on in.”

The door swung open, and Begala, a thin man with sparkling eyes and a broad smile, was standing there.

“Ah, Hugh, it’s yourself. And Mrs. Massot. Nice to see you here, ma’am. If you’ll follow me, your table’s ready.”

Sophie smiled and walked in through the oak porch. And gasped.

The floor of the small restaurant was completely empty, apart from a single table for two set in the center of the room. An antique silver candlestick was placed on a white cloth of delicate Irish linen; it was mirrored by hundreds of small candles placed all over the room. The walls had been hung with green silk, and there were huge vases of flowers everywhere, along with arrangements of berries and twigs—the scent of roses, all colours, rioting against the dark green backdrop, was pervasive. Wearing a dress of red velvet, Brona, sitting unobtrusively in a corner, was plucking a lilting melody from her fine golden harp; a silver ice bucket filled with crushed ice held a magnum of Krug.

“Hugh.” Her heart jumped into her mouth. “What’s going on?”

Begala smiled, and melted discreetly away.

“Supper,” Hugh said, grinning. “Why don’t you sit down. You’re shivering . . . are you cold?”

Sophie shook her head. “Nervous,” she whispered.

“Strangely enough, me too. Let’s have some champagne.”

He pulled back her chair, poured her a glass; then, changing his mind, took her trembling hand in his and sank to one knee.

“Sophie, the more I know you, the more I love you,” Hugh said, simply. “I admired you before I ever met you; I was struck the first time I saw you; and now I miss you if you even leave the room.”

A tear rolled down Sophie’s cheek. But she smiled.

“My darling.” Hugh kissed her hand. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes—oh, thank God! I love you, Hugh. I love you so much.” And he got up and gathered her in his arms and kissed the life out of her.