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They waited for their turn at the table with the quill. Freddie had no intention of writing anything personal. He’d not give his aunt the satisfaction.

Archie stood in front of them, quill poised. But he had yet to write anything.

“What is to be your hope and prediction?” Stan asked, with Lady Marguerite still at his side.

“My hope,” Freddie said loudly for his cousin’s benefit, “is that Dalmeer will finish writing his hope and prediction before the new year arrives.”

Archie glanced over his shoulder and grinned his practiced grin. “Funny. I was just going to write a prediction that you would take ill from overconsumption of pudding before the week’s end.”

“At this rate, I’ll still be standing here at week’s end,” Freddie muttered. But Archie didn’t seem to hear, as he finally scribbled something on his paper.

Freddie’s turn came, and he wrote out whatever nonsense came to his mind.

Hope—a new gelding. Prediction—vexations.

He dropped his paper into the basket and turned on his heel, but he’d only taken two steps when the realization hit him. He turned back around and grabbed for the basket.

It disappeared from his reach. “No peeking, Lord Weymouth,” his aunt tsked.

“I don’t wish to peek. I wish to change mine,” he said almost frantically.

She shook her head. “That’s impossible, I’m afraid.” She shooed him away. “Now go find your seat.”

Freddie just stared at her. “How is it impossible? I’m certain it’s just lying on top.”

She reached her hand in and swished around the papers. “No, I’m certain it’s not.” She didn’t look contrite in the least. Lud, he wanted to…Gah! He didn’t know what he wanted to do to his aunt. But sitting there playing her game was not it.

He swallowed as he stared at the basket. What was he to do? Everyone, including Pippy, would believe that the vexation was her. But it wasn’t. Life was full of vexations. If he didn’t get his gelding, that would be vexing.

He released a deep breath. But that’s not what anyone would believe.

He sat down and dropped his head into his hands.

“What’s the matter?” Fin asked.

Freddie looked around, making certain they were alone. “I’ve made a dreadful mistake,” he whispered.

Fin’s head tipped. “Oh?” He glanced in Pippy’s direction.

“No, not that,” he snapped. “At least not in the way you’re thinking.”

Fin sat down and crossed one knee over the other. “What is this dreadful mistake?”

Freddie told Fin what he’d written on his paper. “I was simply meaning general vexations. It was, ironically, meant to vex my aunt.”

A slow smile turned up Fin’s lips. “That it would.” But then he grew serious. “You’re worried your wife will believe you meant her.”

“As will everyone in the room.” He caught sight of Pippy talking with Miss Sterling and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I tried to retrieve my paper, but Lady Dalmeer refused to allow it.” He shook his head, staring at the floor. “Fin, what am I to do? We are just becoming…” He shook his head. “She’s going to think⁠—”

“That you don’t love her,” Fin interrupted. “Which you do.”

Freddie looked over at him.

“I recant my earlier advice. Your head and heart have already decided.”

Freddie continued to stare. Who was this man? Fin had never made such a profound statement in his life—at least not about love. “Yes. I love her. But she’ll never believe it after that paper’s read.”

Fin nodded slowly. “Then I’ll claim your paper, and you’ll claim mine.”