Rarely one at the center of a party, even a small one like this, Combeferre leaned against the edge of the sofa, sipping his wine. He was finding something truly delightful in seeing Sybil bustle about, acting as hostess. If she had reserved any anxieties from the day’s preparations, the signs were as hidden as the burnt pastries sitting at the bottom of the trash bin. Now she exuded the warmth and brightness he knew - and adored - so well, and damn it all, he was having trouble keeping his eyes off her.

You are utterly ridiculous, he told himself, and shook his head ruefully, hoping that no one else (mostly friends of Sybil’s he had not yet met, for goodness sake) noticed quite how obviously his attention was being directed.