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moments longer, she finally saw him ask someone else to dance.
    Roslynn straightened then with a sigh, silently congratulating herself on saving her feet for the time being. She should have escaped to the garden sooner. The fresh air was welcome, a balm to her muddled thoughts so filled with the complexity her life had become. She could use a few minutes alone, to simply think of nothing, to let it all drain away on the gentle strains of the waltz coming through the open doorways.
    Soft gold light spread across the stone terrace in rectangular patches from each doorway and window facing the lawn. A few chairs and tables were scattered about but were too noticeable from inside, so Roslynn wisely avoided them.
    She spotted a bench tucked under a tree just on the edge of the terrace where it blended into the lawn, or at least the legs of what looked like a bench. The light reached only that far, what with one low-hanging branch bending toward the house, almost like a shielding curtain. The rest of the area was darkly shadowed because of the thick tree limbs, the moonlight unable to penetrate either. How perfect. She could tuck her feet up on the seat and be almost invisible if someone should come outside. Invisible would be nice for a change.
    It was only a few dozen feet away, but still Roslynn ran toward this unexpected haven, hoping in those few seconds she wouldn’t be spotted through one of the windows. She actually had a moment’s anxiety that she wouldn’t reach the safe shadows in time. Their importance was absurd. She was desirous of only a few minutes’ respite. She wouldn’t crumble if her wish weren’t granted. She couldn’t stay away long anyway, or Frances would worry.
    But none of that seemed to matter next to her anxiety. The silly bench had become essential for a purely emotional need. And then abruptly everything she was feeling froze. She had reached no haven at all. The bench, her bench, was already occupied.
    She stood there in a pool of light, staring blankly at what had seemed no more than a dark shadow from a dozen feet away but was revealed now to be a man’s black-clad leg, just one leg, bent over the backrest of the bench at the corner of it, his foot planted firmly on the seat that she had intended to become invisible on. Her eyes traveled upward, discovering the bent knee, seeing finally that he was bracing one hip onthe edge of the backrest, half sitting, half standing, no doubt comfortably. She looked higher and saw the forearms casually resting on the bent knee, the hands lax, palms down, fingers long and graceful, details clear only because they were lighter in color next to the black of his trousers. Higher still were wide shoulders relaxed, bent forward, and the contrasting, lighter shade at his neck of a white cravat, loosely tied. She finally looked at his face but could see nothing of his features even at this close distance, just a gray blur defined by dark hair.
    He was totally in shadow, where she had meant to be. He was nothing but shades of black and gray to her, but he was there, real, silent. Her feelings melted with a vengeance. She felt violated, angry beyond reason. She knew he could see her clearly in the light from the house, and where that light didn’t reach, there was the silvery moonlight. He had probably been able to see her looking utterly ridiculous peeking around the door into the ballroom, like a little child in a game of hide-and-seek. And he said nothing. He hadn’t moved. He simply looked at her.
    Her skin burned with the shame of it. Her anger soared that he was playing mute, as if he were still invisible to her. He could have put her at ease. A gentleman would have said something to make her believe she had been noticed only now, at this moment, even if it weren’t true.
    The continued silence tugged on her instinct to flee, but it was too much, not knowing who he was, while he could easily recognize her. To meet new men at some later date, and she surely