From the corner of his eye, he saw the butler’s lips tug with mirth.

Giving a jaunty wave, Lettie twirled her umbrella and headed outside.

He followed her retreat as she descended the steps.

The wind raged all the more, snatching her hat from her head.

“Oh, bloody hell,” she shouted, pulling another laugh from him.

Handing his umbrella over to Timothy, he took off after the ridiculously large article and the young lady racing after it.

It tripped and rolled and tumbled along the pavement, and she quickened her steps, splashing through puddles in her haste, sending water up that hit him as she went.

Her footman jumped down from the box—

Anthony waved off the fellow, passing Lettie just as her hat landed in a puddle.

“Quite capable indeed,” he shouted into the raging storm, his voice droll as he held the article aloft.

With a cheeky little grin, Lettie plucked the sodden hat from his fingers and playfully jammed the thing atop her head.

A laugh exploded from him as the soggy headpiece, with its now-wilted flowers, dripped rainwater down her face, a face already kissed by the rain. His breath caught.

In this moment, he’d never seen a woman more magnificent than Lettie.

Anthony hurriedly handed her up, and then took a quick, staggering step backward. “Lettie,” he said hoarsely, dropping a bow. He pushed the door shut.

The lady lingered at the window, and then with another one of those jaunty little waves, she knocked on the roof of the carriage, and left.

Chapter 5

Later that day, changed into dry garments and seated in a different parlor, Lettie waited.

She toyed distractedly with her teacup and stared off to the window.

The storm had since abated, but had left a pall of darkness. Thick clouds of gray and white filled the sky, and she recalled her visit earlier that day…and Anthony as he’d raced along rain-drenched streets to rescue her favorite hat.

He’d not been today like he’d been yesterday. He’d not been surly or curt. Yes, he’d been direct in questioning why she’d come, but he’d also exhibited an honesty that most every other lord in London avoided as if it were the plague.

For a moment, before the maid had interrupted, she’d thought he might kiss her again.

Her heart quickened.

She’d wanted that kiss.

Because now she knew. She had tasted of his kiss and wanted to experience more of the splendor and wonder that came from being in his arms.

But there had been the interruption, and the dream of a second taste of his lips had died a sad death.

He’d escorted her to the door instead.

He escorted you out when he didn’t have to.

Why, he could have just as easily made his excuse and passed her over to his maid to see to.

But he hadn’t.

And that surely meant something.