Mother clapped her hands again. “Who’s next?”
“I’ll go!” Daphne announced, smiling brightly at Lord Fitzwell as he resumed his seat next to her.
She’d already decided what she would do. She would pretend to be a flower. A sunflower perhaps but any flower would do. It would be simple and dainty, certain to impress Lord Fitzwell. Not to mention easy to guess.
She hoped.
But just in case, she decided a bit of insurance was best. “If it goes on too long, I’m a sunflower,” she whispered to Sir Roderick just before she stood.
She made her way to the front of the room, doing her best to keep her gaze from Rafe. She lifted her chin and concentrated on the rose-patterned wallpaper on the far wall.
She began by spreading her hands to the sides to mimic leaves and tilting up her head to the imaginary sun. She basked in the glow of the pretend sunshine.
“A statue,” Lucy called out.
“An actress,” Delilah called. Mother shushed her.
Daphne shook her head. Hmm. Perhaps a bit more was required of this particular charade.
She bent her knees and crouched low, then slowly raised herself up, this time trying to mimic the act of growing. If only she could use water and sun to grow in real life. Being the opposite of tall was not a pleasure. She nearly laughed at her own thought. Then she reminded herself that flowers didn’t smile.
“An angel,” Lord Berkeley called.
“A mole,” Sir Roderick offered.
“A slow fish?” Cass asked, a frown on her face.
Daphne shook her head again. Hmm. They weren’t getting it. What else were flowers about?
Standing upright again, she raised her face to the sky and opened her mouth. Then she used her hands to mimic a sprinkle as if rain was falling and she was drinking it. She leaned her head back, lifted her hand, opened her mouth, and pretended that she was pouring a drink into her throat.
“An Egyptian,” Jane said.
“That makes no sense at all,” Lucy pointed out.
“I’m trying,” Jane replied with a shrug.
“No. Wait. She’s drinking,” Upton announced.
“The vicar!” Delilah offered. Mother shushed her more vehemently this time.
Daphne shook her head and scowled at her cousin.
“Oh, drinking spirits?” Lucy shouted. “I see.”
Before Daphne had a chance to shake her head, Rafe’s voice rang out across the room. “Surely not. The pristine goddess would never allow alcohol to touch her lips, not even imaginary alcohol.”
Daphne lowered her gaze and faced him. How dare he? A sharp retort came to her lips. She opened her mouth and snapped it closed. She couldn’t reply. And he knew it. No speaking during charades and all of that. He was purposely taunting her.
“But is it spirits?” Lucy pressed.
Daphne shook her head.
“Never think it,” Rafe replied. “Lemonade perhaps, but the faultless Lady Daphne would never drink alcohol. Is it lemonade, Lady Daphne? For surely it is not a spirit.”
That was it. She couldn’t take it. He’d pushed her too far. She crossed her arms over her chest and tapped her foot on the carpet. “Better to never drink imaginary alcohol than to drink far too much of the real stuff.”
The assembly fell quiet. Everyone’s gazes darted back and forth between Daphne and Rafe.
