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Wesley could not dim his smile. He returned his focus to his dinner, but made the mistake of glancing across the table. Miss Stroud was watching him, a sour frown puckering her brow.

He gave her a soft smile, hoping to bridge the space of unhappiness between them, but she did not return it. She merely flicked her attention to Millie, then back to her dinner.

Despite his ever-present joy, Wesley had an increasingly uncomfortable feeling.

Lady Dalmeer stood before the group, the fire blazing behind her as she waited for each person to complete their task for that evening’s entertainment. Slips of paper had been distributed, and each person was required to write one hope and one prediction for the new year. The members of the room would then guess who wrote each paper, and those who were not correctly guessed would receive an extra portion of pudding.

Which made it difficult for Wesley to determine what to write. He wanted to be honest, to give his true answers, but making himself so vulnerable was frightening.

Wesley stood near one of the card tables bearing ink and a quill and scanned the people in the drawing room. Millie had long since finished and added her paper to the basket, as had nearly everyone else who was now chatting as they awaited the slower thinkers, like Wesley.

He sighed when his turn arrived, sitting in the vacated seat and spreading out his slip of paper. Without allowing himself to think too deeply, he wrote the first thing that came to mind for each prompt.

Once it had dried, he stood, noting his sister waiting just behind him. He added his slip to the basket and took a seat beside Millie on the sofa, leaving a space beside her open for Nell.

Lady Dalmeer shook the basket when everyone was finished, then mixed the papers with a swirl of her hand. She cleared her throat dramatically and paused, waiting for the room to quiet before continuing. “My hope is that I am able to jump the north hedge on my property, and my prediction is that I shall be successful by June.’”

The room fell silent as people looked around.

“Lord Finsbury?” someone called.

“No,” he answered proudly, his smile wide.

“Mr. Hawthorne?” a woman guessed.

The man shook his head.

“Would anyone else like to guess?” Lady Dalmeer asked.

Miss Stroud lifted a hand to gather attention. “Is it Mr. Newton?”

The man in question nodded, and everyone in the room broke into applause.

“Well done, Miss Stroud,” Lady Dalmeer crooned.

The game went on for a while, most people not being guessed accurately right away, and a good handful not being guessed at all.

“The next one is…” Lady Dalmeer began, then paused as she read it to herself. “Oh, this is very delicious. ‘My hope is to show Miss Hollis how deeply I care for her, and my prediction is that I shall ask her to marry me before the year’s end.’”

A quiet settled over the room as most eyes fell upon Millie.

Nell leaned over and whispered, loud enough Wesley could hear her. “Your secret suitor, perhaps?”

“I think not.” Millie glanced at Wesley, a question in her eyes he could not entirely discern. He had thought, in announcing his feelings, he was showing how seriously he felt about her. The question in her expression did not inspire much confidence in his plan.

“Mr. Stroud,” someone in the room called.

“It was not me,” Mr. Stroud replied.

Millie swallowed, her gaze fixed on Wesley. “Mr. Prescott.”

He smiled widely, hoping he had not made a grave error. “Yes.”

The clapping was loud around them, buzzing in his ears.

“Good heavens, Mr. Prescott,” Lady Dalmeer tsked, fanning herself with the slip of paper. “You have made our Miss Hollis blush.”

That only seemed to redden Millie’s face further.