“He’s not here,” she assured him. “I was thinking of him.”

The tension remained fixed in Anthony’s features, a muscle at the corner of his eye ticking. Slowly, he set aside his writing box. “Oh?” That lone syllable emerged as a low, harsh growl, as if he were…jealous.

Lettie picked her head up. Surely not. She searched her gaze over his face. Fire flashed in his blue eyes.

“He has continued to call,” she explained. “My mother believes an offer of marriage is imminent.”

Using his upper arms, Anthony shifted closer to her so that their shoulders brushed. “And what will your answer be?” he asked quietly.

A gentle breeze rolled along the shore and tugged free a lone curl, sending it tumbling over her cheek. As gently as if he handled the queen’s crown, he collected that tress and tucked it ever so tenderly behind her ear.

Her breath hitched at his nearness, at the slight but beautiful caress of his fingers brushing her cheek. She shook her head, attempting to clear the daze that he always elicited, this great brain fog born of her awareness of him.

“Hmm?” he urged, and she fought through those cobwebs to recall his question.

“I should marry h-him,” she remarked, her voice trembling faintly, not because of the thoughts she spoke aloud, but rather, because of the man right next to her. “My future would be settled, and I’d no longer be under my mother’s thumb.” But she’d be trading that oppressive thumb for another’s.

Anthony’s gaze locked with hers. “He is a good man.”

There came a rush of disappointment so strong it threatened to sweep her under.

Was he suggesting she should marry the marquess?

“Yes,” she murmured. “He is a good man. We would be comfortable with one another.”

And Lord Exmoor was…unfailingly polite.

He danced with wallflowers, while also considering on-the-shelf spinsters like herself as suitable matches.

But she did not want unfailingly polite. She wanted…passion. She wanted more than companionship. She wanted a partnership.

Reluctantly, she shifted her gaze to his. “Do you believe I should marry him?”

He jerked like she’d fired a pistol at his breast, his jaw tensing hard enough that his teeth clicked noisily in the quiet. Anthony countered with a question of his own.

“Is he what you want?” He shifted closer, and then he brought a hand up and ran the pad of his thumb along her lower lip.

What was he saying? His touch had left all her thoughts muddled.

Lettie shook her head.

Or, rather, she thought she did.

The earth had ceased to spin upon its axis, and time, this moment, stood absolutely still.