Sucking in a deep breath, Sophie let it out in a flagellating sigh. There was no good to be had in attempting to catch the eye of a gentleman whose eye was well and truly caught by another. And there was some semblance of peace to be found in embracing that knowledge. The opportunity for her and him had passed, and now, they could meet as friends. Nothing more.
Movement from the doorway caught her attention, but it was yet another pair her parents’ age, and Sophie’s shoulders fell. They rose again when a younger set appeared at their heels, and Sophie spied a young lady with a plump shape that echoed the older lady’s figure. There, on the young lady’s arm, was Mr. Oliver Kingsley.
Sophie’s breath caught in her lungs, holding her still as she watched him lead the young lady—whom she supposed was his sister—into the parlor. Time had brought a maturity to his features that suited him, but otherwise, Mr. Kingsley remained unaltered from the last time she’d seen him. He shared his sister’s and mother’s hair, which looked merely brown at first glance, but when the candlelight caught it just right, a hint of reddish highlight stood out among the dark tresses. And he had his father’s broad shoulders and English pale complexion that defied coloring from the sun.
Mr. Kingsley strode forward, and Sophie fought to keep her hands steady as he approached. But he stopped at Miss Caswell’s side, and the lady took his arm as they shared a few whispered words and a laugh. Sophie wrung her hands, and she tucked them behind her where they could fidget in peace.
And then Mr. Kingsley’s gaze lifted to survey the room. His eyes settled on her, and Sophie smiled. She couldn’t help herself. The joy of seeing him in the flesh once more was too great to hide. But his gaze slid over her without recognition.
Sophie’s chest squeezed tighter, threatening to crush her heart. It was so silly. Why couldn’t she be a rational, reasonable person for once? They’d passed an evening together five years ago, and there was no reason the gentleman should recall it. Mr. Kingsley was engaging and admirable. Doubtless, he didn’t want for company. That evening meant nothing to him.
Then his eyes darted back to her, widening as his lips pulled into a slanted smile.
Mr. Kingsley moved as though to join her, but the butler appeared in the doorway and announced dinner, dispersing the waiting crowd as each gentleman searched for the lady whom Mrs. Nelson had requested he escort. Sophie sighed, but she had long ago learned to hide her disappointment behind a calm, collected mask of affability. Young Mr. Peter Dosett claimed her, leading her into the dining room as Sophie ignored the sight of Miss Caswell on Mr. Kingsley’s arm. Or attempted to ignore.
“It seems so strange that our paths would cross in the country,” said Mr. Dosett as he assisted Sophie to her seat.
“Does it?”
Mr. Dosett took his seat and sent her a wry smile. “From what your brother was telling me, it sounds as though your family spends most of your time in London, and it is rare for me to abandon Town. When our social circles overlap as they do, it is odd that we should meet in an unfamiliar and out of the way place.”
“I would hardly call Essex out of the way, but I grasp your meaning,” said Sophie, glancing at the dishes arrayed around her. With an overabundance of options, scents, and flavors, it was all one expected from a fine dinner party. The Nelsons’ cook had done her master and mistress justice, for it was enticing to both the eye and the palette, each dish begging to be admired before consumed to the last morsel.
“Any place an hour out of Town is out of the way,” said Mr. Dosett, helping to fill Sophie’s plate before his own. “Nothing happens in the country. And if it does, there is hardly anyone around to enjoy it. Society is so terribly lacking.”
Glancing this way and that, Mr. Dosett affected the look that all notorious gossips learn at an early age. It feigned a begrudging demeanor, as though the information was being pulled from them, to mask the eager delight they found in exposing every lurid detail.
“Just before I left, I heard the most titillating detail about Mrs. Bertram Deville,” he said.
As much as Sophie wished to dispel Mr. Dosett’s eagerness to divulge his story, there was nothing to be done about the matter. To tell him she knew nothing of Mrs. Deville would only encourage him to elaborate on the entire history of the Deville family. If Sophie admitted she had no interest in the subject, Mr. Dosett would only attempt to convince her of the merit of gossip by expounding on all the tidbits he’d gathered.
Humans weren’t empathetic creatures. Though they may think themselves sympathetic or understanding, people rarely acknowledged that differences in opinion exist. People may give allowances for minor discrepancies, but it was inconceivable that others believed differently. Surely it was only due to a lack of education, and if the other only saw the entire picture—as they, themselves, did—the other would believe the same.
‘Twas better to remain silent rather than invite long lectures focused on convincing her of the merit of an uninteresting subject.
And so Mr. Dosett expounded on the little bits of hearsay and “they say” about Mrs. Deville. No matter that Sophie had no context for the gossip he was bestowing, Mr. Dosett’s words flowed freely as she picked at her dinner and cast glances at Mr. Kingsley.
He and Miss Caswell were sitting on the other side of the table, affording Sophie a prime view of the pair as they ate and talked and leaving her focused on every detail of their expressions and movements. Regardless of how forcefully she told herself to ignore him, her eyes were drawn back again and again. There was a vast difference between engaged and almost engaged…
It had been five years since their prior acquaintance, and that acquaintance wasn’t long enough to give Sophie insight into the subtleties of his character and the little movements that might betray him. And if Sophie were honest with herself, Mr. Kingsley looked quite pleased with his situation, which lightened her heart even as it sank. Certainly, she didn’t begrudge his happiness—even if Sophie wished she’d inspired it.
But that was when Sophie reminded herself of her resolution to meet him as friends and nothing more.
*
Oliver had believed a mind was capable of only one thought at a time, giving each its due before moving on to the next, but tonight challenged that assumption. He was aware not only of his conversation with Miss Caswell but also of the young lady who sat down the table from him, casting furtive glances in his direction whenever her dining companions were not looking.
Certainly, his conversation was not quite as poignant or well thought out as it might otherwise have been, but Oliver was pleased he was able to feign his full attention while his thoughts raced with the implications.
Miss Sophie was here. Or Miss Banfield, as she ought to be called now. She’d haunted his thoughts for so many years, and now she was here in the flesh. If he were a superstitious man, Oliver might think it an ill portent for her to reappear during this integral time in his courtship with Miss Caswell. But that was silliness, and Oliver would not allow himself to be swept up in it.
Even if his eyes kept turning to her of their own accord.
*
Contrary to the popular adage, appearance was not everything. Even a pristine one could be ruined with the wrong whispers in the wrong ears, but Victoria knew enough of the world to know that it had power. People rarely delved past the surface, and if presented properly, a well-maintained facade could convey a wealth of information.
Victoria wrapped herself in calm; it was an old and familiar friend. Her heart may be constricting, her stomach roiling, and her body thrumming with a desire to flee Essex, but no one looking at her would sense such unease—even if her feigned peace was pushed to the breaking point.
