“Then after you’ve fluttered your lashes at him, warmed him up, so to speak, you should . . .” Peter cleared his throat. “You should wink at him, so he knows how dearly you wish for his proposal.”
“Wink at him?” I repeated in astonishment, nearly on a laugh. “That is the worst advice I have ever been given. You are a terrible fortune-teller.”
“Try it.” He folded his arms and stood. “You will have every man in this room at your feet.”
“I will do no such thing.” I stared at him. His chin wavered at the terrified sound in my voice.
“Then do you concede?”
“Of course not.”
Peter waited. As did everyone in the room.
I turned to the girls, who nodded in encouragement.
Huffing, I mimicked Peter’s folded arms, shaking my head. If I was going to do this, I would do it right. I stepped around him, and Peter mirrored my movement until we had switched places. I was sitting in his chair, and he was leaning against the table.
My cheeks flushed. I’d never been so embarrassed in all my life. Tilting my head, I looked up at him and fluttered my lashes ridiculously.
The men stepped closer. Peter’s lips twitched. How was he not smiling?
I licked my lips, and Peter’s gaze dropped. He was suddenly still, watching. This was utterly absurd. Completely mortifying. I thought to wink, but my lips started to curl—oh, how it hurt to force my mouth into a line!—and Peter was as near to smiling as I. A small breath escaped me, and I thought of Clara.
It is only a wink, Amelia, for heaven’s sake.
Chin raised, I met Peter’s gaze and winked.
Peter’s eyes widened, his cheeks flushed scarlet, and his own lips parted as though he had never been so surprised. Desperately, I released my smile, it broke across my face, and I bent over, laughing.
“Champions!” Sir Ronald yelled, pumping a fist into the air as Mr. Bratten punched Lieutenant Rawles in the arm.
Peter smiled fully then, breathing hard.
As the men cheered, we huffed, the anger of four women intensifying with each happy smile from the opposing team.
Beatrice frowned. “Georgiana, I think I would like to see your dress for the ball after all.”
“As would I.” Clara took Beatrice’s arm.
“Amelia?” Georgiana raised a brow, beckoning me to follow suit. “Shall we?”
I seized on the opportunity to leave Peter and this ridiculous game behind me. “I am dying to see it.”
“Wait, no.” Sir Ronald lifted a hand. “It is not even eleven. You cannot retire just yet. Let’s play another round of blindman’s bluff.”
“Come, ladies,” Georgiana called as she moved toward the door, ignoring Sir Ronald’s pleas. I had to give her credit for holding a decent grudge for once. We followed after her, despite complaining and calling from the men behind us.
I’d reached the doorway when Peter called, “A moment, Miss Moore?”
I thought to run from him, that man whose dimpled cheeks had been my undoing, but his strides were too quick. Peter crossed to me, out of earshot from the rest of the party, and I glanced toward the stairs where the other ladies had reached the top.
“I won fair and square,” he whispered.
I poked his chest with my finger. “You are a horrible flirt, and I shall never forgive you. And you absolutely smiled before I did.”
“I did not,” he said only half seriously. “But I’d be willing to play again if you’d like.”
I scowled at his teasing, and he chuckled. “Go to bed, Peter Wood.”
“One thing more, and I shall. Did you decipher your French like a good pupil?”
I crossed my arms confidently, “I did. It is ‘all is more bright.’ Though I am not sure what it means.”
“Yes. More succinctly in English, ‘everything is brighter.’”
“And what does it mean?” I searched his face for an answer.
Peter hesitated, shifting his weight. “Have you ever met someone who enters a room and the whole of the atmosphere changes? The feel, the temperature, the very air you breathe? An angry person could silence a room, intensifying the energy there, while a soft-spoken person could set that same room entirely at ease in the next moment.” He rested a hand on the doorframe as he took a slow, long breath. “With you, Amelia, everything is brighter.”
I’d forgotten to breathe, my heart slowing from its earlier excitement. Peter was not teasing me. Not now. He was quite serious, quite honest. And that was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever said to me.
“I will see you tomorrow afternoon. Do not think I will go easy on you just because your pride was wounded tonight.” He winked and turned away.
What a teasing, irritating man. Wasn’t he? My words were beginning to feel insincere in my head, as though they smiled in their own knowing way. Even I wasn’t so sure I meant them anymore.
Chapter Seventeen
Georgiana closed the door behind her after the four of us entered her bedchamber.
“You did well, Miss Moore,” she said. “I told you he is good.”
“He was most improper,” Beatrice said. “No matter how entertaining it was to watch. I applaud you for lasting as long as you did.”
“Thank you,” I said from where I stood by the small window across the room. My mind was still whirling from what Peter had said about me. His words were the loveliest I had ever heard, even now as they echoed in my memory.
“They will never let us live it down.” Clara frowned. “Mr. Wood will be infamous.”
Georgiana sat on her bed, letting down her hair. “In a party as small as this, perhaps. Usually, Peter will do anything to stay out of the line of gossip.”
Beatrice sat in a chair by Georgiana’s desk. “Won’t we all?”
“Are Sir Ronald’s parties usually much larger?” Clara asked.
Georgiana brushed her fingers through her curls. “Yes, the Demsworths are nothing if not extravagant with house parties. But when Sir Ronald’s father died, and everything came to light, the guest list was the first thing to go.”
“So it’s true?” Beatrice sat up straighter, eyes questioning.
Georgiana smiled a cat-like smile.
“I did wonder why things were so casual,” Beatrice said.
Clara looked to me, confused, but I had no idea what they were talking about.