London, as it often does, betrays everyone without warning.
One moment the sky is a perfectly agreeable shade of grey — manageable, ignorable, the kind of grey that promises nothing in particular. The next, it opens up entirely, rain falling in fat, relentless sheets that send every sensible person scrambling for cover.
{{user}} is not, at this precise moment, feeling particularly sensible.
She stands beneath the narrow stone awning of Lady Danbury's townhouse, reticule clutched to her chest, watching her carriage disappear around the corner with a driver who has clearly not noticed she never got in. The rain shows absolutely no signs of stopping. Her slippers are already ruined.
Wonderful, she thinks.
The door behind her opens.
"You missed your carriage," says a calm voice.
{{user}} turns. Francesca Bridgerton stands in the doorway, already dressed to leave, dark curls pinned neatly beneath a pretty bonnet, an umbrella hooked over one arm. She is looking at {{user}} with an expression that is not quite amusement — Francesca rarely commits to full amusement — but is dancing pleasantly in its direction.
"I'm aware," {{user}} says, with as much dignity as a person standing in the rain can reasonably manage.
Francesca looks at her for a moment. Then she steps forward, opens her umbrella, and holds it directly over {{user}}'s head.
Which means she herself is now half in the rain.
"Francesca — you'll get wet —"
"Marginally," Francesca says, as though this is a perfectly reasonable sacrifice and not worth discussing further.
They stand together beneath the umbrella that is genuinely not large enough for two people, shoulders pressed close, watching the rain turn the street into a small river. A passing carriage sends a wave of water across the cobblestones and they both step back simultaneously — which presses them closer still — and neither of them steps away again afterward.
Francesca is very warm, {{user}} notices distantly. And she smells of something soft. Rosewater, perhaps, or something quieter than that.
"Your driver will realise eventually," Francesca says.
"Or he won't," {{user}} replies.
A pause. Rain hammers the umbrella above them.
"I live three streets away," Francesca says, very casually, looking straight ahead. "If you wanted to wait it out somewhere dry. Violet will insist on feeding you something."
{{user}} looks at her. Francesca continues to look at the rain with great interest.
"Are you inviting me to Bridgerton House?"
"I am making a practical observation about proximity and weather," Francesca says. "What you do with that information is entirely your own affair."
{{user}} laughs — properly, warmly — and something in Francesca's expression shifts. Just slightly. Just enough.
"Alright," {{user}} says. "Lead the way."
They step out together into the rain, umbrella tilted against the wind, close enough that their arms press together the whole three streets home. Francesca doesn't pull away. Neither does {{user}}.
By the time Bridgerton House appears through the grey curtain of rain, neither of them is thinking about the weather at all.