Mrs. Banfield watched him with half-lidded eyes, a smile curling her lips. “I was hoping for some time with you.”
“I cannot imagine why,” he said with a slanted grin. “I am not terribly interesting.”
Her lips formed into a pout that looked incongruous with a lady of her years. “You are too hard on yourself, Mr. Kingsley. I am certain you have much to interest me.”
Mrs. Banfield lifted a hand to his lapel as though brushing aside a speck of dirt, but her hand lingered there as she stared up into his eyes. Oliver stepped away, but she moved with him, coming so close that her skirts tangled around his legs.
“At times, I find these parties so boring,” she said with a sigh that brushed against his cheeks, bringing with it a cloying scent of roses. “Perhaps there is something we might do to better occupy our time.”
If Oliver had been in ignorance as to her meaning—and he was certain he wasn’t—any doubt fled when Mrs. Banfield drew close enough that she brushed against his chest, rising to her tiptoes to whisper into his ear.
“The rest of the guests will be outside for several hours, and my bedchamber is a short journey from here.”
The sudden and brazen overture took him so by surprise that Oliver was rooted in place like a petrified tree, blinking and shuddering at the feel of her hands running up his chest. When he finally moved, he did so carefully, so as not to topple the woman, who was leaning heavily on him as her hands roamed.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice coming out in a juvenile squeak.
“There’s no need to be coy, Oliver,” she said with a laugh, her fingers working to undo his waistcoat buttons. Her voice dipped into a purr. “Ever since I arrived, I’ve longed to further our acquaintance.”
With a firmer move, Oliver put distance between them. “Madam, I have no interest in furthering that sort of acquaintance with you or any lady.”
“That is a shame for Miss Caswell,” chuckled Mrs. Banfield, and Oliver’s face burned at the implication. But his cheeks only grew redder when she added, “And my daughter.”
Oliver felt aflame, his gaze dropping as he took another step away, and Mrs. Banfield laughed.
“Oh, she does have her hooks in you, doesn’t she?” Crossing her arms, Mrs. Banfield watched Oliver with an appraising eye. “In love with one lady while engaged to another. I see you take after your father in more than your physique.”
Oliver straightened at that, watching her with narrowed eyes, but before he could say a word, Mrs. Banfield snuck forward, brushing a touch across his abdomen.
“Should you wish to abandon your priggish ways, you are free to visit me at any time,” she said with a smirk. “I am quite discreet and could teach you a thing or two to please your ladies.”
Insides roiling, Oliver stepped back and turned away from Mrs. Banfield, not pausing until she was out of sight and sound of him. Though muted by clothing, her touch lingered and encircled him like a miasma, and he longed to return home and scrub his skin clean.
Oliver owed his parents an apology. Though Mrs. Banfield had no air of sainthood about her, he hadn’t expected such a wanton proposition. Clearly, Mother and Father knew her better than he, and though he couldn’t embrace their accusations against Miss Sophie, neither could he keep from wondering if she were as skilled as her mother at hiding her true nature.
“Oh, she does have her hooks in you, doesn’t she?” Mrs. Banfield’s words haunted his steps as he hurried back to the safety of the river.
Was she like her mother? Every instinct said Miss Sophie was the antithesis of that creature. And yet…
Chapter 18
“Sophie.” Mama fairly hissed the name, her eyes narrowing as she looked at the bonnet beside Sophie’s feet. “If you refuse to sit under the canopy, you must at least take some steps to protect yourself. For goodness’ sake, young lady, do not allow your complexion to darken any further.”
Then, smiling as though nothing were amiss, Mama continued back to the rest of the party, taking a seat beside Mrs. Nelson beneath the tent the footmen had erected.
Sophie nudged the bonnet with her foot, but when Mama called again at her, she had no choice but to take the thing and plop it on her head. Stifling was not a term one used often to refer to British weather, but heavy rain from the previous night had left a remnant humidity in the air; with the sun baking them from above, Sophie thought stifling the best descriptor. Though the straw allowed some air through, the bonnet felt too constraining, neither covering enough to be of much use for shading her skin nor keeping her head cool.
Perhaps it wouldn’t be quite so onerous for her to bear if it were a matter of propriety, but Mama couldn’t imagine a fate worse than losing one’s beauty. Or rather, the ability to capture a man’s eye. Since Sophie had little need or desire for such a thing, she didn’t see the use in chasing after such an elusive thing as attractiveness.
That said, there was one gentleman whose eye she wouldn’t mind catching.
Sophie’s cheeks burned anew at the memory of Miss Caswell’s expression. Mr. Kingsley was nothing but a friend. Truly. But such lies were best left unsaid, even to oneself.
The look in Miss Caswell’s eyes. The young lady was like Queen Boudicea, facing down the Roman enemy, and it pained Sophie to know that she was the source of such ire. Though never so bold as to flirt with the gentleman, Sophie did welcome Mr. Kingsley’s attention. And she hoped…
Getting to her feet, Sophie snatched up her satchel and wandered away from the others. The forest called to her, beckoning her to bask in its cool shade, so Sophie wandered toward it, giving an audible sigh as the shadows cloaked her flush skin.
Swallowed up in the trees, Sophie knocked back her bonnet, allowing it to dangle from the ribbons, and searched the forest floor for a prime painting spot. Felled by age and gravity, a tree rested on the ground, and Sophie plunked herself onto it, setting her satchel beside her. There was nothing to draw from that vantage, but she allowed herself a moment to rest and clear her thoughts of a certain gentleman.
