“Miss Sophie, then,” he murmured, and all fortitude fled her at the warmth in his tone. “And where does Miss Sophie hail from?”
And so began their conversation in earnest, broken by the occasional dance steps that pulled them apart. Yet each time they came back together, their conversation continued as though there’d been no interruption.
“Your family sounds wonderful,” she said as they came to stand side by side, waiting on the others in their set to complete their steps. “I envy you.”
Mr. Kingsley’s brows pulled together. “Though I adore my younger sister, I’ve often wished for a larger family like yours. Surely—”
Sophie blushed and waved her words away. “Forgive me, but I spoke out of turn.”
Mr. Kingsley’s hand brushed against hers in a feather-light touch, as though he wished to take hold of hers but rethought the prudence of the action. “Don’t brush your feelings aside, Miss Sophie. Words spoken out of turn are often the most truthful ones.”
Raising her head slowly, she met his eyes with a pinch of her lips. “I have brothers and sisters enough, but we have not the friendship and admiration you and your single sister clearly share.”
Sophie cast a glance towards the other dancers, spying one of her brothers standing far too close to his partner and whispering in her ear. Louis stared at Miss Rattenbury with undisguised admiration, and a weight settled in Sophie’s stomach; the admiration in Louis’s gaze was due to her dowry, but the young lady’s matching adoration was entirely earnest.
“I do not know why I am being so forthright with you,” she said, her cheeks blazing. “I am not usually so bold.”
“Then I will take that as a compliment, Miss Sophie,” he murmured as the dance required them to move apart once more.
The conversation wove and turned about like the dancers on the floor, and Sophie adored each unique twist. They spoke of home, family, their childhoods, and far more than she thought possible when they were interrupted so frequently. And even when the dance did not allow for conversation, Sophie and Mr. Kingsley’s attention never wavered from each other. It was monstrously rude to ignore the other couples in the figure so completely, but Sophie was so wrapped in Mr. Kingsley that she did not notice the faux pas until the dance had finished.
“Miss Sophia.”
Sophie fairly leapt out of her slippers at the voice behind her, and she turned from Mr. Kingsley to see Mr. Priestly. This was all too familiar a scene for her to be ignorant as to his purpose in approaching. She gave the appropriate greetings and introductions, though Mr. Priestly only gave Mr. Kingsley a passing nod.
“I believe I have the next, Miss Sophia,” said Mr. Priestly with a bow, and Sophie glanced between him and Mr. Kingsley. She didn’t know which of her family members had pressed Mr. Priestly into service (though she suspected Papa may have been the chief architect), but coerced or not, the dance had been promised, and there was no undoing it now.
“Please excuse me, Mr. Kingsley,” she said, giving a bob as her heart sunk. Taking Mr. Priestly’s arm, Sophie ventured a backward glance at the fellow as she was led to their position on the floor; she liked to think Mr. Kingsley’s expression held a touch of disappointment. It was certainly etched in Sophie’s, but she rallied her spirits and presented her new partner with a facade that showed none of the dejection she felt.
Mr. Priestly took her in his arms as the strains of a polka began. “I understand you enjoy riding, Miss Sophia.”
“When in the country,” she replied.
“Allen was regaling me with your exploits,” he said, and Sophie glanced to the right to catch the brother in question dancing with yet another lady in his arms; Allen spared a moment to give Sophie a devilish wink.
“I wouldn’t say I have exploits,” replied Sophie. “Allen is known to exaggerate.”
“He’s a fine gentleman. First-rate,” said Mr. Priestly with a lofty nod of his head.
While it was pleasing to hear such high praise spoken of her brother, Sophie gave Mr. Priestly’s words little weight, for she had heard Allen say the same thing of him, and yet Mr. Priestly held her closer than a first-rate gentleman ought. The couples around them were similarly positioned—and some even closer than they—but Sophie was uneasy with how Mr. Priestly drew so near when she hardly knew the fellow. And his hand’s placement was not entirely unseemly, but neither was it comfortable.
“Banfield said you were a top rate rider, even joining the men in the hunt,” said Mr. Priestly.
“By no means, sir. You have mistaken me for my sister, Amy, who is lately married to Mr. Roger Flint.” Sophie leaned away from the fellow and used the spins and turns in the dance to put some distance between them, but there was little more she could do when he pulled her closer.
“Not possible,” he said with a dismissive sniff. “Allen was quite specific about it. A gentleman would be quite lucky to have a wife with such a fine seat…”
“That would be Amy.”
“…and who adores archery…”
“That would be Fanny,” said Sophie, casting a glance to where her sister was flirting with her latest beau.
But Mr. Priestly did not seem to hear her and continued, “I am quite the marksman myself. Perhaps we might test our skills against one another? Mrs. Winton is hosting a picnic Thursday next, and I understand there is to be a competition—”
“I am no archer. I have not touched a bow since one of my stray arrows nearly injured my brother, Hugh.”
Fanny and Amy had insisted it was their eldest brother’s fault for straying too close to the target, but the sight of that arrow sailing towards Hugh had left an indelible mark, even if it made no contact with him. There were far too many pastimes to undertake and too few hours in the day to bother with something she found distasteful.
