There came a rush of inexplainable relief that he did not understand.

It is because you still think of her as Rhys’ younger, underfoot sister.

She flashed a mischievous smile. “If I said yes, would it be all right for us to speak alone out here?”

He frowned again. “It would never be appropriate.”

Lettie wrinkled her nose. “Yes, well, I’m not married.” Her entrancing mouth pulled in a grimace. “To my mother’s chagrin and horror.”

At the mention of the ruthless dowager marchioness, he went cold inside. Anthony dipped a deep, formal bow. “If you will excuse me, my lady, I bid you good night.”

And determined to steer clear and far of Rhys’ very grown, very mature, and exceedingly lovely younger sister, he turned on his heel and strode quickly for Lord and Lady St. Albans’ double doors.

Chapter 3

Lettie should let him go.

He clearly had no wish to be with her.

And yet—

“Please, don’t go,” she called. “I was hoping we might talk.”

He continued for several steps, and for those several steps, she thought he intended to ignore her and carry himself off for another stretch of some eighteen or so years.

But then he stopped slowly in his tracks, and with an even greater slowness, he turned back. He slipped a hard gaze up and down her person. “What exactly do you want to discuss?”

Assessing Anthony, Lettie swung her legs back and forth. “You’ve been gone years, Anthony,” she reminded him, injecting as much teasing lightness as she was able into her tones to diffuse the tension. “There are any number of things to discuss.” She abruptly stopped pumping her legs. “Namely, where you have been.”

A muscle rippled along his hard, square jaw, and it was as though he were fighting with whether to answer.

He grunted. “I’ve traveled, and when I returned, I found myself preferring the country.”

That was where he’d been.

Envy slipped through her. “You’ve traveled.” Lettie sighed. “How very fortunate you are. I have been stuck here.” She let her arms splay, motioning to their surroundings. “Well, not here per se, in the marquess and marchioness’s gardens, but in London.”

Her teasing response didn’t earn so much as the flicker of a smile.

He was…different.

Upon arriving outdoors and standing not even ten paces apart from him, she’d been able to appreciate those changes she’d noted in the ballroom all the more clearly.

As a boy, he’d always been tall. But he’d grown some six or seven inches since she’d last seen him, putting him well beyond six feet. His biceps were bigger, his chest broader. He was, in short, a beautiful display of masculine strength among a sea of dandified fops and shorter men who padded their chests to create the illusion of what was all too real about this man before her.