Sophie ignored the thump of her heart at that pronouncement. Luckily, a flutter of movement stole her attention as something moved in a patch of wildflowers just behind Mr. Kingsley. She stiffened and pressed a finger to her lips when Mr. Kingsley opened his mouth. Inching down, Sophie snatched the satchel and journal and crept towards the flowers, and Mr. Kingsley stared but said nothing as he inched alongside her. Stopping beside a vibrant patch of rosebay willowherb, Sophie sat slowly, her eyes fixed on the moth perched among the stalks.
“You beauty,” she whispered, fetching her drawing pencils and opening her watercolor journal to a fresh page.
“What is it?” asked Mr. Kingsley in hushed tones as he sat beside her.
“Deilephila porcellus.” But Sophie paused and rethought that pronouncement. “No, that isn’t correct.” Staring off to the side for a moment, she hunted through her memory. “Deilephila…elpenor. More commonly known as the elephant hawk-moth.”
“Elephant is right.” As though objecting to the tinge of mockery in the fellow’s tone, the moth’s wings buzzed, and Mr. Kingsley grimaced, dropping his voice before continuing, “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen such a large moth before. Though, in truth, I’ve never given moths much thought before.”
“Hawk moths are fascinating creatures,” said Sophie as her pencil scurried across the page to capture the insect. “Unlike most moths and butterflies, they beat their wings like a hummingbird or bee. It allows them to hover and maneuver as other moths cannot.”
The drawing took shape quickly, as her subject had the good sense to hold still. Of course, it helped that this species was nocturnal and the moth was likely to remain where he was unless they disturbed him again. Given the opportunity, Sophie retrieved her paint kit, watercolor brushes, and water jug, and began adding the much-needed color, for that was where the elephant hawk moth truly shined.
Streaks of pink and green covered the creature, blending into the brightly colored blossoms of the rosebay willowherb. Sophie had seen quite a few magnificent butterflies and moths before, but this little beauty was breathtaking. If only she could bring him home with her, but Mama had banned any insect collecting paraphernalia from the house party, leaving Sophie with no other recourse but to satisfy herself with appreciating and recording her find. Nothing more.
Mr. Kingsley shifted, leaning closer, and Sophie’s fingers fumbled with the brush, though she caught herself before she dropped a great splotch of pink in the wrong place.
“That is lovely,” he said. “You have quite the talent.”
Sophie glanced at him from over her shoulder. “I am middling at best.”
“No false modesty,” he replied with his eyes fixed on her creation. “My mother is an avid artist and raised me to appreciate it, and as someone who truly has a middling skill for it, I can attest that you are much better than that.”
Blinking at the compliment, Sophie knew not how to respond. “As you are the first to compliment it, I find it difficult to believe you.”
“That cannot be true,” replied Mr. Kingsley, his brows drawing taut.
Sophie turned her gaze back to her subject, forcing her attention to her painting. “I will concede that my governess praised them, but that is the extent of my fame.”
Mr. Kingsley did not reply, but he stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles, leaning back against his elbow. He gave a grunt that confirmed he’d heard her and did not believe her, but that was of no consequence, for it did not change the truth.
“It’s lucky we stumbled across it,” said Sophie, her brushstrokes moving clear and unflinching across the paper. “I am rarely in the country while butterflies and moths are most active, and there are not many townhouse gardens sizable enough to attract suitable specimens.”
A weighty silence followed, and Sophie couldn’t fathom why that innocuous statement troubled Mr. Kingsley so.
“And I stole away your opportunity to visit Mackleford Hall’s garden,” he said.
Sophie needn’t ask his meaning, for she knew it well enough. If reliant on her memory alone, she mightn’t have remembered the location of their failed excursion, but his note had kept such details fresh in her mind. If pressed, she could recite every word he’d written, but no one with sense would be so foolhardy as to reveal that little secret.
“A gentleman is hardly a gentleman if he cannot keep his word,” said Mr. Kingsley. “But I am grateful for the opportunity to beg your forgiveness in person.”
Pausing in her work, Sophie met his eyes. His brows were drawn low, and he dropped his gaze away.
“I do not know what kept you from escorting me that day, but I doubt it was a dereliction of duty,” said Sophie. “You do not seem the sort to throw someone over without good reason, so there is no need to harbor guilt over something so small.”
Mr. Kingsley did not meet her eyes again and there was a tension to his jaw and shoulders that belied his lazy posture on the ground, though he gave her a hesitant nod.
Slowly, his gaze rose to meet hers. “Might we continue as friends, then? Though we are not well acquainted, it is awkward to pretend we are strangers.”
Friends. That word held happy expectations Sophie would accept without reservation if not for the person asking it of her. It was foolish for her to harbor romantic fancies towards Mr. Oliver Kingsley, soon-to-be husband of Miss Victoria Caswell. Despite Sophie’s determination to dispel any sentiments greater than friendship, something pulled her towards him. Not love. Not precisely. But attraction and interest were imprudent emotions to feel towards a “friend.”
“Of course, Mr. Kingsley I would like that.” Sophie groaned at herself, though she knew there was no other response. Heartbreak was an acceptable risk if it allowed her the opportunity to spend a few hours in private conversation with Mr. Kingsley. His company was too enticing, and Sophie couldn’t recall the last time she’d been afforded such friendship; her parents’ circle of acquaintance did not boast many with whom Sophie wished to converse.
For his part, Mr. Kingsley appeared pleased and altogether unaffected by her declaration, giving her a bright nod before shifting positions so he might offer her his hand.
“Friends, then?”
Sophie scrunched her nose with a laugh at the highly ridiculous handshake, but as she was tramping about in the countryside sans bonnet or gloves alongside a gentleman with whom she could not fashion a romance despite her heart’s determination to do so, it seemed rather fitting to break even more with convention and take his hand in hers.
