“How does one win?”
“By guessing correctly on the fewest clues.”
“Ah.” He glanced at his nephew. It was clear to see that Justin was enjoying being the center of so much attention. He sat with his hands on his knees, his elbows out, making his shoulders as wide as possible. As Wes watched, Lady Alexandra came up to him and placed her palm against his cheek. Justin flinched, but his smile grew wider than ever.
“Sleigh riding,” he said, and the young ladies erupted in applause and giggles.
“Well done,” declared Bridget. “Although we should deduct points after Alexandra cheated.”
“It’s not cheating,” protested her sister. “My hands were cold! The clue was cold!”
Justin peeled off the blindfold. “It was the best clue of all,” he assured her in his strangely deeper voice. Alexandra smiled, and Bridget rolled her eyes.
“Who shall be next?” She scanned the room. They had clearly been playing a while. “Cousin Viola!”
“No,” said the woman next to Wes. “Absolutely not.”
“Spoken like a chaperone,” he murmured.
“As I am,” was her low reply. “Perhaps you should play.”
She hadn’t said it loudly, but Lady Bridget heard. “Oh yes! Please do, Lord Winterton. We’ve all had a turn and it’s still a quarter hour until dinner.”
“Do, Uncle,” added Justin with a fiendish gleam in his eye.
Wes glanced at Mrs. Cavendish. Her eyes had widened in surprise, but she recovered quickly. “It won’t hurt,” she whispered with a rueful little smile. “If you feel adventurous.”
God. The blood roared in his ears. That smile did him in, captivating and intimate. Wes heard himself agree before he could think twice. “If it will amuse you.” He couldn’t resist leaning closer and adding a quiet plea. “But you must give me some hint of what to do.”
Bridget hurried over to thrust the blindfold into Mrs. Cavendish’s hands. “We’ll be sure to choose something clever this time,” she said. “Sleigh riding! We can do better . . .” She darted back across the room to huddle with the other young people.
Wes caught the gleeful look Justin sent his way. He turned to Mrs. Cavendish. “Help me,” he whispered.
She laughed as they crossed the room to the chair. “It’s not difficult.” Wes took a seat and she lifted the blindfold, settling it gently over his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as she moved behind him, her fingers stirring his hair as she knotted the cloth. “They will give you clues to the word or saying they’ve thought of,” she said, her voice soft and very near his ear. Wes’s imagination began to wander dangerously, conjuring up other ways she could be behind him, her lips near his ear and her hands in his hair. He wondered if the scent of lemons came from her hair or from her skin.
“After each clue you make a guess,” Mrs. Cavendish went on. “Lord Newton required nine clues to reach the correct answer, which is the best so far tonight.”
“So to win, I need to guess after eight or fewer clues.”
“Yes.” Now blind, he could still tell she was smiling. “The wittier or more ridiculous the guess, the better.”
“Ridiculous?” He turned his head toward her voice. “What do you mean?”
“Lady Bridget thrives on the ridiculous,” she murmured.
He would have asked more, but a querulous voice snapped, “Viola! Cease flirting with Lord Winterton and come sit by me. I cannot hear what everyone is saying and you must tell me.”
“Of course, Lady Sophronia,” replied Mrs. Cavendish. “Good luck,” she whispered to him. Wes heard the swish of her skirts as she moved away.
Flirting. He should be ashamed at himself for thinking so, but he wouldn’t mind at all if Mrs. Cavendish did flirt with him—blindfolded and otherwise.
“We have decided,” announced Bridget then. “Are you ready, sir?”
Wes thought of Justin’s little smirk, and Mrs. Cavendish’s rueful smile, and of how fiercely he’d played cricket at school. He flexed his hands and said firmly, “I am.”
The first clue was maps. Still thinking of Viola Cavendish’s lemon and rosemary scent, he said, “Italy,” which elicited snickers and a hearty “Wrong!” from Bridget.
The second clue was fire. Wes puzzled over it until he remembered the admonition to be witty, so he replied, “Christopher Wren.” Wren had remade the map of London after the great fire. But his inquisitors only giggled and told him he was wrong again.
The next clue was a dreadful screech, emitted right near his ear, rather like a seagull whose tail was being plucked out. Wes almost bolted out of the chair, but Justin’s muffled laughter stayed him just in time. He thought for a moment, decided to be ridiculous, and said, “A history professor who’s fallen asleep over his pipe, and set his robes afire.”
Lady Bridget hooted with laughter, and the others joined in a moment later. “Better, but still wrong,” Justin told him. Wes would have blinked, if his eyes weren’t bound shut. Had that been approval in his nephew’s voice?
Fourth clue: a gust of air in his face. He thought hard, and said, “A phoenix.” There was a moment of silence, which made him hopeful, but then someone said, “Incorrect.”
The fifth clue was Odysseus, which pricked his interest. Now he began to concentrate in earnest. “Cyclops,” he guessed, only to be told he was once more wrong.
The sixth clue took a moment. Wes’s mind worked the whole while. Maps, fire, Odysseus, wind, and shrieks. He suspected Justin had put forth this mystery item, to stymie him, and now he was absolutely determined to win. It didn’t hurt that he’d caught Mrs. Cavendish’s voice saying something quietly, no doubt to Lady Sophronia. It was idiotic and foolish, but he wanted to tear off the blindfold—after he won—and see her smiling at
