Cori pushed out of a chintz chair and started toward the wall, a bit worried she might end up in the way of Mr. Atherton’s display of…nonsense.
"You don't have to do this, Arch.” Emma Atherton touched a hand to her temple as though to stave off a brother-related headache.
“Au contraire, my dear sister!” Mr. Atherton shrugged out of his jacket. “Gates has questioned my ability. I cannot let such a slight stand.”
Emma shook her head. “I would hardly call walking on one’s hands an ability, Archibald.”
“Of course you wouldn’t,” he returned good-naturedly, “because you can’t do it.”
Emma clamped her mouth closed, probably to keep from saying something she might regret later.
Mr. Atherton, now in just his shirt sleeves and waistcoat, handed his jacket to one of the Linthorpe footmen. “Don’t wrinkle it,” he said as he began rolling up his sleeves.
Emma cast an accusatory glance in Lucien’s direction. However, Lucien looked back at her, like the picture of innocence, even though he had set this whole thing into motion.
In the hours since breakfast, the drawing room had become the center of all activity at Acklan since the rain had yet to abate. A low thunder rumbled overhead while rain pinged against the windows, showing no sign of relenting.
"The terms, Atherton…" Lucien began from his chair where his cane rested across his knees. "Let’s be certain we’re clear on the terms."
"Oh, perfectly clear," Mr. Atherton agreed. "After I walk the length of the room on my hands without stopping, you must spend the next seven days paying me one sincere compliment per day. No irony. No qualifications. No following it with something cutting to restore your dignity."
“Witnessed by at least two people,” Lord Upwell tossed in from the other side of the drawing room, as he’d clearly been paying attention to the ridiculous wagering.
"Witnessed by at least two people,” Lucien agreed. “Not that it will come to that.”
"You should begin thinking of your compliments now,” Mr. Atherton said, sounding rather smug about the entire thing. “It is a foregone conclusion.”
“Should you fail…” Lucien began.
“I will not fail.”
“Ah.” Lucien smirked. “But for the sake of argument, let’s say that you did. You, Archibald Atherton, will spend one full day in complete silence.”
“I might like to see that,” Emma muttered under her breath, casting her brother a beleaguered expression.
“One full day,” Mr. Atherton agreed with a nod.
"From dawn to midnight,” Lucien continued.
“I know what a full day is, Gates.”
A spirited wager on a rainy afternoon caught everyone’s notice in the drawing room. Lady Upwell set down her embroidery. Hythe abandoned his gazette. Mr. Fairleigh closed his book. And the duchess turned her full attention to the matter at hand.
"Arch," Emma said again.
"Emma," he replied pleasantly.
"Don’t be foolish. You’re going to hurt yourself."
"I’m not going to hurt myself. I’ve been doing this since I was nine."
"Yes, well, you were considerably lighter at nine."
"That," Mr. Atherton said, his brow lifted in mock offense, "is an unkind observation from a loving sister and I’m choosing to ignore it entirely. Are we ready, Gates?"
"We have been ready for some time," Lucien said dryly.
Mr. Atherton moved to the far end of the drawing room, assessed the distance, and then crouched. He placed both of his hands flat on the Aubusson rug, and then kicked his legs into the air. He wobbled a tiny bit but steadied himself very quickly.
