Desperate for a few moments of solitude, Alexa glanced around, then hurried past the withdrawing room for ladies and turned down a darkened side corridor. With its heady swirl of silks and scents, of lights and laughter, the ballroom had suddenly become too oppressive to bear. Every glittering, gleaming detail seemed a mocking reminder of how dull she was.

How different she was.

Alexa pressed her palms to her cheeks, feeling the hot humiliation burn through her thin kidskin gloves. Spotting a set of arched French doors up ahead, she quickened her steps and slipped out to the gardens. The small terrace was deserted, its decorative urns and slate tiles shrouded in shadows cast by the torchieres on the balcony and the full moon overhead.

Drawing in a great gulp of the cool night air, she choked back a sob. Oh, stop indulging in self-pity, she scolded herself. What had she expected? To dazzle the gentlemen of London with her beauty and brilliant intellect?

Hah. With a wry grimace, she blinked the beads of moisture from her lashes. She was a rough-cut bit of country quartz compared to the perfectly polished jewels of the ton. To imagine that—

The click of the door latch was followed by a grunt of surprise.

Alexa whirled around. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't be out here alone—" she began, and then stopped short on seeing who it was.

"You," growled the Irish Wolfhound. "You seem to have a habit of straying to places where you shouldn't go." A breeze ruffled his hair, and the swaying twists of ivy cast a pattern of light and dark across his chiseled face. He looked fierce. Forbidding.

Alexa lifted her chin, refusing to be intimidated. "I needed a breath of fresh air, and a garden terrace is a perfectly respectable place for me to be." She exaggerated taking a look around. "Or were you hoping to sneak a quick tup with one of your lightskirts?"

His lips thinned. "You have a saucy mouth, Lady Alexa Hendrie. Take care that it does not get you into trouble."