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as much dignity as she could muster. She had no intention of going to the withdrawing room, of course. Instead, she had headed toward a set of double doors at the far side of the crowded drawing room. Before she knew it, she had found herself crossing a lawn and entering an ornamental garden laden with fragrant roses.
    The muffled strains of a harp reached her ears as she moved away from the linden tree and sank onto a nearby wrought-iron bench . Why ever had she agreed to come to London? This was madness; she didn’t belong here. Yet these people were her blood, her kin. How could she deny them? Especially the brother she’d always longed for?
    The breeze stirred, balmy and velvety against her much-too-bare skin, and Brenna shivered despite the warmth . She glanced down at her gown in irritation. Why, she might as well be out in her nightclothes. She knew she’d been gone far too long, that she should force herself to return to the party. Yet she was loath to leave this peaceful spot where the moon and stars kept her company, as they always had.
    The sharp crack of a snapping twig startled her, and she sprang to her feet . Pounding footsteps seemed to appear from nowhere, gaining speed, and Brenna took two long strides toward the house before slamming into something solid. The breath knocked from her lungs, she tumbled to the lawn with a yelp.
    “Oof, what the devil?” a decidedly male voice ground out beside her .
    Brenna blinked hard, attempting to regain her equilibrium .
    “Dear Lord, it’s you again,” the voice said.
    Brenna raised her gaze to find the very same tall, blond man she’d encountered earlier that day in the parlor now standing before her in the moonlight.
    “I say, miss, are you hurt?”  He crouched down beside her, his brows drawn in obvious concern. “You must forgive me. I didn’t see you there in the shadows.”
    She shook her head . “Nay, I’m not hurt. Just a bit winded, is all.” 
    “Thank God.”  His gaze drifted down, toward the broad expanse of her décolletage .
    With a gasp, she tugged up the neckline, fearing she’d exposed far more than decorum allowed . Ridiculous frock .
    Mercifully, he lifted his gaze . “Here,” he said, reaching for her hand, “let me help you to that bench over there.”  He tipped his head toward the same bench she’d occupied only moments before.
    Gaining her feet a bit unsteadily, Brenna swayed against him .
    He put one arm about her shoulders, steadying her . “You must sit. No use fainting here among the roses. Thorns, you know. Messy business, thorns.” 
    Brenna couldn’t help but laugh . “I assure you, ‘tis no chance of my fainting. I’m not so delicate as that, Mister...ahem...I seem to have forgotten your name, sir.”  What was it? Rosewood? Rosemont?
    “Rosemoor,” he supplied . “The Honorable Colin Rosemoor, at your service, Lady Brenna Maclachlan. As you can see, I have not forgotten yours.”
    A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth . “You’ve quite a memory, then, haven’t ye? After all, it has been what? Seven, perhaps eight, hours since our last encounter? Surely no more than that.”  
    “Ah, you jest . You must be well recovered, then. Here, sit.”  He led her to the bench, where she plopped herself down rather inelegantly. His gaze raked over her, his eyes full of unmasked curiosity. “You truly are his sister, aren’t you? Hugh Ballard’s, I mean.” 
    Brenna nodded . “Aye, it would seem so.” 
    “Tell me, what proof have they ? Besides the striking resemblance, that is.”
    “Proof enough.”  Brenna’s hand involuntarily moved to her thigh.
    “Oh, yes. Ballard mentioned a deathbed confession. Still, I don’t understand how anyone could identify a woman they hadn’t seen since infancy.”
    “Nay, I don’t suppose they could . Yet, circumstances seem to prove I am indeed their daughter.”  The birthmark, of course. How many girls born on the ninth of October in any given year