“Well, then, you are free to marry Lord Exmoor,” she volunteered. As soon as the words slipped out, she wished to call them back.

Caroline’s features spasmed.

Her heart broken, years earlier, by a fortune hunter had left Lettie’s elder sister a shadow of the young woman she’d been, and also with zero marital prospects. “Caroline,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. There are many good gentlemen—”

Her sister waved those assurances off. “I know my circumstances, and I know my future. Just as I know you have an option to not be trapped with mother forever.”

When put that way…

“He’s arrived,” Caroline whispered.

Lettie slid her gaze across the room, and her gut clenched.

It was him—the Marquess of Exmoor. She considered the gentleman with her sister’s earlier words weighing in her mind. “He’s not really interested in me—”

“Of course, he is.” Caroline scoffed. “Why wouldn’t he be? You are lovely and witty and—”

“And I thank you for that show of support,” Lettie interrupted, looping her arm through her sister’s. “Does he truly have feelings for me, though, Caro?” She gave her sister a pointed look. “Or is it merely that Mother continues pushing me at him and him at me?”

“That is how marriages are made in England,” Caroline said, like a governess schooling a slow-to-learn student.

“Then it is a wonder a single bride or groom makes it down the proverbial aisle without being covered in bruises and bloodstains.”

Another smile pulled at Caroline’s lips. “That is impolite talk.”

“This from the one who you used the word ‘fart’—”

Caroline laughed, and promptly buried that sound with her hand.

“And I’d hardly classify us as ‘poor’ relations, Caroline,” Lettie said, gently. Financially, they’d doweries that were secure and theirs, free and clear.

“Not in the financial sense,” Caroline said, her voice rich with exasperation and more animated than Lettie could remember in…well, ever. “As in ‘pathetic,’ Lettie. As in ‘pitiable.’ As in—”

“I believe you’ve quite made your point.”

“Good,” her sister said just as a buzz circulated around the room. “If I have, then one will expect you to start behaving with a good deal more—”

No longer attending Caroline, Lettie searched about to see what accounted for the crowd’s whispering.

And then she spied him.

He was several inches taller than the tallest gentlemen present, his shoulders broad, his features rugged, and his jaw just a touch too square to be truly perfect, softened only by a slight cleft.

And yet, his masculine perfection—though he was decidedly that—was not what snagged her notice.

Rather, there was something…familiar about the gentleman’s features. He was—

She gasped, drawing back slightly as recognition slammed into her with the force of a stampeding mount.

“Lettie?” her sister asked with concern.

“It is Anthony!” she exclaimed.