“Now?” she whispered. She was leaning close to him and her hair—the stray curl that had fallen from her chignon—brushed his cheek. Gooseflesh raced down his spine.
“Yes,” he replied as evenly as he could.
He went up to the front and held up his finger, indicating the first syllable. The feeling of so many people staring at him made his cheeks burn. They began acting.
They needed to try and convey the meaning of a festive celebration. Miss Rothwell lifted a wineglass and clinked it to the wineglass that he held. Then they mimed singing. The next part—the part that made Callum’s face burn with a flush—had been his idea. They pretended to kiss under the kissing bough.
They did not actually touch their lips to one another’s, but they stood facing one another, their hands on each other’s shoulders. He leaned forward, his heart racing. She leaned forward, tilting her head back, and he kissed the air close to her cheek.
Someone—he thought it was Mr Rothwell, but he could not be sure—whistled loudly at them, drawing amused giggles. Nobody was shocked—such liberties were allowed in a game of charades, which was one of the reasons why people enjoyed it. It was an opportunity to behave in ways that would not usually be entirely proper, and to explore bold, new ways of being. His entire body heated up with awkwardness.
“Kissing!” Lord Chesterford yelled.
“That is not a syllable,” Mother objected stiffly. Everyone laughed.
“You were celebrating Christmas!” a woman whose name he did not recall suggested. “But how is that a syllable?”
Callum held up his hand, trying to indicate that they would act out the second syllable.
Miss Rothwell began. She mimed a bicorne hat on her head, holding up her hands to indicate the two corners. Then she gestured in a roughly easterly direction, trying to indicate France, or French. The bicorne hat was well-associated with Napoleon, and Callum had hesitated to include that part, but they could think of nothing else to indicate France.
“Bonaparte is not a syllable!” someone objected loudly.
“Do not say that name in here!” someone else shouted hotly. It was one of the military men.
Callum held up his hands, trying to avoid an argument. He shook his head violently, gesturing east. He was starting to worry, but someone shouted out, loudly and fortuitously quickly: “France! He means France.”
“French?” someone else suggested. Callum nodded, relieved.
“The next syllable is in French?” Someone asked. Callum nodded again, vigorously, grateful that they had managed that part without a fight erupting. Their audience relaxed.
The next part was amusing. Miss Rothwell held out her finger dramatically and Callum mimed running. Then he acted out trying to do a task very fast, with Miss Rothwell miming that she was trying to hurry him up. Several of the audience started to laugh.
“Vite!” someone shouted the word, which meant “quickly” in French. Callum applauded, relieved that someone had guessed that part.
Miss Rothwell grinned at him, clearly delighted. His heart stopped. When she smiled, the lamplight bright on her hair, her pale skin flushed, she was breathtakingly lovely.
“Christmas-vite,” Mother said with a sniff. “That is not a word.”
Callum shook his head, holding up his index finger to indicate that they would mime the first part of the word again. Feeling inspired, he grabbed Miss Rothwell’s hand, and they mimed waltzing around the room. She beamed up at him and for a moment, he forgot that they were in the drawing room and that a dozen people were staring at them. They could have been alone, dancing together in some secluded corner.
Someone coughed, rudely snapping him back to the moment.
“Dance-vite. That makes no sense either,” someone protested.
Callum looked at Miss Rothwell, desperate for her to do something. She mimed singing again and then eating. Callum mimed drinking and eating.
“Celebrating?” someone guessed. Callum nodded wildly.
“Festive? Festivities!” someone shouted out.
Callum beamed, relief washing through him. He had surprised himself by enjoying the acting, but he was starting to become restless, and he had wanted someone to guess. He glanced at Miss Rothwell. She smiled at him, a dazzling smile that stole his breath.
They went to sit down with the audience.
Another group went up to perform. Callum barely watched, his head still spinning after Miss Rothwell’s stunning smile. He glanced sideways to where she sat on an upholstered chair next to him. He had perched on the piano stool, the only available seating left. She smiled at him shyly. He smiled back.
He joined in the applause, and then stiffened as James and Philippa went up. They mimed shaking hands and exchanging gifts and then walking arm-in-arm together. Callum frowned.
