Bloody hell. Anthony gnashed his teeth. “I know what you’re doing.”

“Pointing out that the girl is going to marry Lord Exmoor, and you will regret it for the rest of your days? Yes, yes, I am.”

That pronouncement sent images tumbling through his head. Lettie turning that wide smile on Exmoor. Exmoor taking her in his arms and in his bed and—

Anthony growled.

His mother lowered the paper, and with a serious set to her features, she folded the pages meticulously and then set them down. “She’ll wed, because why should she not take any option other than being under Ava’s thumb…and when she’s already lost the man she loves?”

He stared at her confusedly.

A pained laughed escaped his mother. “You, dear son. You.”

His heart thumped slowly against his rib cage, and then the tempo increased. “Do you—?”

“Think? No. I know. And it’s why I also know that even now Lord Exmoor is there and that she will likely say—”

He flew to his feet, shoving his chair back so quickly it tumbled back and hit the floor, drowning out the remainder of his mother’s words, the final word he didn’t wish to hear.

“Yes,” she repeated, determined to torment him. Determined to torture him.

Thundering for his horse, Anthony raced through the corridors, pausing only as he passed one side table. He swiped the flowers from the vase, dripping water as he went.

A short ride later—a ride made even shorter by the breakneck speed he’d set for himself—Anthony dismounted outside the Marquess of Guilford’s residence. He handed the reins over to a servant, his gaze noting the enormous black steed another young servant stood beside.

Exmoor’s blasted horse.

Rage darkened his vision, and jealousy slithered and twisted in his gut. His fingers tightened reflexively upon the flowers he’d taken from his hall.

Anthony didn’t deserve her.

But he was selfish enough to want her anyway.

And determined enough to lay the damned moon at her feet should she so wish and equally determined to make himself worthy of her.

Alas, fate was determined to throw up every last barrier between him and that future he yearned for.

The doors swung open, and Lord Rhys Brookfield stepped out, halting Anthony in mid-climb.

The other man’s face reflected his shock.

Rhys was the first to find his voice. “Anthony.” He narrowed his gaze on the flowers in Anthony’s hand, and Anthony found himself tightening his grip all the more. “What the hell are those?”

In that moment, his love for Lettie, the desire to have her at any and all costs, won out over all the shame and guilt he’d carried for the past.