Peter tilted his head. “How so?”
“We each have two points,” Georgiana said to me. “Men versus women. Mr. Bratten and Miss Turnball tied on the third round.”
“What is the game?” A new nervousness heightened my senses.
Peter sided with the men, who encompassed him in what looked like a huddle. A very secretive huddle.
“The first one to smile loses. You must win, Amelia. For all women.” Clara shot me a hopeful expression.
I broke a smile then, and three serious faces chided me. Apparently smiling at all was unacceptable.
“What must I do? I do not know how to make Mr. Wood smile on my best day.”
“Pishposh,” Georgiana said. “I’ve seen you with my brother. Now is not the time for modesty. Now is the time to pull out your best weapons.”
“Which are?”
The ladies stared at me, and I realized we were in just as close a huddle as the men were.
Beatrice leaned in. “Flirt.”
“Flirt? With Mr. Wood?” I almost laughed outright but caught myself before anyone could reprimand me.
Georgiana’s face grew serious, and she stepped forward. “He is good, Miss Moore. I’ve seen him turn the heads of women who live like queens. You cannot let him flatter you, or it will be over before it even begins. You must take charge and dominate the conversation, turn it back on him. Use body language to intimidate him.”
“You are serious.” My voice came out shocked, horrified. Flirting with Peter would be the grandest embarrassment of all.
“Yes,” Beatrice added. “But you cannot smile. If you feel the urge, you must look away immediately and clench your teeth together. Bite your tongue, anything. We cannot lose!”
“Thirty seconds,” Mr. Bratten called.
Georgiana stepped forward, eyes focused on mine. “He is wickedly ticklish on his neck, near his collarbone. Get close to him and ... fiddle with his cravat or something. Whatever comes to mind.”
“His cravat? That is terribly improper.” My chest tightened, nerves seizing my breath at the mere thought of intentionally being so close to Peter. There had to be a way out of this.
“That is the name of the game, apparently.” Beatrice pursed her lips. “Besides, they are surely telling him to do worse to you.”
“Please, Amelia,” Clara begged. “This cannot be worse than how you fashioned a guess at blindman’s bluff. Mr. Wood knows it is only in jest.”
“All right.” I felt a terrible urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of this game, but the girls were already adjusting my dress, smoothing my hair and pinching my cheeks.
“Are you ready?” Sir Ronald asked.
“Just,” Clara responded.
All I had to do was make Peter smile. And quickly. Except I could not so much as twitch in the attempt for fear of smiling myself. Perhaps if I thought back on how irksome and infuriating he’d been among the first days of our acquaintance, I could maintain a frown. His confidence, the way he threw his money at me, and how he schemed so arrogantly to oust my sister from the party. Oh, yes, he would lose this game. And I would make him miserable for every time he’d ever teased me.
Peter sat at the table, facing me. He had a look of forced contempt on his face, not unlike my own I was sure. But I did not sit. Smoothly, I held his gaze as I moved around the table toward him. He took a steady breath through his nose as I leaned back against the table in front of him.
“What are you up to, Miss Moore?” He raised a brow, tightening his lips.
I had to look away for a moment, clearing my throat of the tickling urge to laugh. Could I do this? Flirting was not my forte. I did not even know how to properly bat my lashes.
“Mr. Wood,” I said tantalizingly, as though casting a net for prey. “My, don’t you look handsome tonight.”
Clara giggled behind me, and Beatrice hushed her.
Peter straightened in his chair. “That is the second time you’ve told me so tonight. I am beginning to think you are in earnest. Tell me, Miss Moore. What is it about me that you find so attractive?”
