He motioned with four fingers, gesturing for her to take his hand. “I’d still rather have you on your feet.”

Lettie exhaled a sigh. “Very well,” she said and swiveled on her makeshift bench.

She lost her balance, pitching backward.

She cried out. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she was falling.

Only to find herself caught.

Anthony snatched her from the ledge and drew her into his arms, clutching her close.

Heart racing, she peered down into the darkness where one of her gloves had fallen, and the reality of how close she’d come to tumbling with that article, hit her.

Swiftly on the heels of that came another realization—the feel of him.

All hard, broad muscle.

Chiseled.

Powerful.

Thoughts failed her as she curled her fingers reflexively in the lapels of Anthony’s black jacket.

Her mouth went dry, and her belly fluttered in a way that she’d never felt…and in a way that had nothing to do with her near fall and everything to do with the man who held her. Never before had she felt…butterflies. She’d heard about people experiencing them. She’d read of the feeling in the Gothic romance tales she favored. But never had she felt them for herself. Until now. In Anthony’s arms.

Against her ear, she heard his heartbeat pounding frantically.

“It appears, madam, you are a good deal less adept at scaling walls after all,” he said, his tone gruff but otherwise wholly unaffected.

He was unaffected, while she was so very much responsive to him and his touch.

Unnerved by this sudden awareness of this grown-up version of Anthony, Lettie angled her head back a fraction. “Ah, yes, but I was not saddled with these same skirts,” she pointed out, infusing as much nonchalance as she could into that reminder.

His gaze slipped lower, lingering upon the bodice of her dress. “No,” he said hoarsely.

Suddenly, he released her, so quickly that she stumbled back a fraction. Lettie shot a hand behind herself, catching the ledge to help her keep her feet this time.

She couldn’t stop the sudden rush of hurt at how eager he’d been to release her, when she’d been so wholly captivated and breathless from being in his arms.

For the first time since she’d chased after him and found him here, desperate to see him and talk to him, she wished for him to go. She wanted him to leave so that she wouldn’t have to face the possibility of discussing those intimate details she’d shared with him, a man who really was a stranger to her now.

“Thank you for your assistance, Anthony,” she murmured. “I bid you good evening.”

Dropping a curtsy, she headed for the stairs.

*

She’d granted him his freedom, and he should gladly take it.

He wanted it.

Nay, that wasn’t altogether true.

He needed it.