A red-hot fire wound through his veins, searing him with an emotion that felt very much like jealousy. Which was as preposterous as it was wrong. Only, there was no reasoning away the emotion. “Will you marry him?” he made himself ask.

“My mother insists that he is my last best option.” She glanced down at her hands. “And he is.” She added that latter part softly, as though reminding herself of that detail.

Of course. He clenched his jaw so tight his teeth knocked together. The ruthless, coldhearted marchioness would never be more concerned with her daughter’s happiness than she would be with finding her the right title.

“And what do you want, Lettie?”

She looked up and held his eyes with her own. “I know I do not want to be the burdensome unmarried younger sister.”

She intended to marry Exmoor, then. Anthony heard it in the conviction in that statement, and more of that fiery rage crackled in his veins.

“I know Rhys,” he said, managing to keep his voice measured as he reasoned with her. “Rhys would not want you making a marriage for anything less than you are hopelessly in love with a man, Lettie.”

She searched her gaze over his face. “What is the alternative? To remain with my mother for the whole of my life?”

He shuddered. As it was, it was a wonder that living all these years with that miserable woman hadn’t managed to rot Lettie’s soul.

Lettie laughed. “That is my exact reaction.” Her amusement faded, as did her smile.

With the tip of his index finger, Anthony traced the curve of her jaw. “The only thing that matters is your happiness,” he said somberly.

Her breath caught slightly. Close as he was, he both saw and felt it, and his finger stilled, but he remained helpless to draw back, to deny himself the satiny, soft feel of her skin.

His gaze slipped a fraction, and he was drawn inexorably to her plump lips.

He swallowed hard.

He was lost…

Anthony lowered his head just as she leaned up, and their mouths met, first with a tenderness that quickly gave way to a fiery clash.

Anyone might stumble upon them—her maid, other gentlemen out for rides, young sweethearts meeting up. The possibility of discovery was not a greater pull than the feel of her lips under his.

Cupping his hand firmly about her nape, Anthony angled her head to deepen their kiss.

She moaned, and he swept his tongue inside her mouth to taste of her.

Lettie gripped the front of his jacket and pressed herself against him. “Anthony,” she whimpered between kisses.

Hearing his name fall from her lips in those low, desire-laden tones sent a primal wave of lust through him. He growled, lashing his tongue against hers over and over. Again and again.

Plunk.