“Shh,” he whispered, commanding her to silence.

To no avail.

“I fear someone is here, Anthony.”

Anthony placed his mouth against her ear. “Will you be silent, Lettie?” he whispered, his lips so close to that delicate shell of her lobe that, as he spoke, they brushed against her in an inadvertent kiss.

She stilled.

Or had that been him?

Mayhap it was the both of them.

Reason became jumbled once more as he registered the feel of her against him.

Lettie’s breath caught in a damningly guilty hitch.

“Shh,” he whispered again, this time close to her lips.

She gave a slight, shaky nod.

Overhead came the mutterings of some gentleman, his voice unfamiliar, and then the scent of cigar smoked filled the air, wafting down to them.

As the fellow smoked, Anthony remained there with Lettie in his arms, her breasts crushed against his chest. His body neither knew nor cared about the risk of discovery, about the guest above, who was a stone’s throw away from glancing down and finding him here with her.

He knew only the feel of her. Soft and supple and pure woman.

Despite the slight chill in the night air, his body went hot. Sweat beaded his brow.

Think of something. Think of anything else. That was, absolutely anything else beyond how very good she felt against him and how much better she’d feel if she were stripped of her dress and naked, pressed against him in the same way.

He tried to force his mind onto a path of different thoughts about this woman, thoughts other than the ones now parading so wickedly through his head.

Anthony dredged up past memories.

Lettie as a small girl.

Lettie racing after him and Rhys, calling out to them to slow so she might join them.

Lettie sluicing across the water, swimming for all she was worth to beat him.

Except that last was the wrong thought.

Because it conjured different musings in which he imagined her as she was now, her body bare as she swam in those waters like some mythical mermaid creature.

Anthony clenched his eyes tightly shut and fought for a slow, steady, quiet breath.

Delicate fingers rested upon the lapels of his jacket.

Oh, God.

His was a prayer.

“Anthony.” His name was a barely there whisper, spoken so quietly as to almost be soundless in the night. “You are shaking.”

He was.

She continued to stroke her palm over him, a soothing back-and-forth glide that had the opposite effect, and he sprang only harder in his trousers. He’d had courtesans and mistresses over the years who’d touched him with a greater boldness, and not a single one of those encounters or exchanges compared to the effect Lettie’s touch had.

“Lettie,” he whispered entreatingly, silently pleading with her to stop.

He dimly registered the shuffled footsteps overhead as they drifted closer, making the risk of discovery all the more imminent.