It was, she judged, the last place Ryder would think of looking for her. There was really no reason she would return there, especially alone.
Silently closing the door, she paused in the spill of shadow provided by the walls and surveyed the five couples strolling the expanse; being alone—strolling alone—would attract attention.
In her present position, she wasn’t visible to the ballroom’s occupants, but if she walked forward, she would be seen. And a single figure was odd enough to attract notice, even from those absorbed in conversation in the ballroom.
Let alone the couples strolling the terrace; at least three knew her, and would undoubtedly seek to gather her in and escort her back into the ballroom . . . where Ryder would be waiting.
She glanced to her left. A set of steep stone steps, helpfully shrouded in shadow, led down to a paved garden path. Holding still in the gloom, she waited, then seized a moment when the strolling couples were otherwise occupied and unlikely to spot her, and slipped silently down the steps, onto the path, and whisked around the corner of the house.
Ahead of her lay the rectangle of garden that faced the private rooms of the big house, and tucked into the opposite corner beyond an expanse of lawn stood a small pillared folly; constructed of white marble, it glimmered faintly in the moonlight. When the weather was fine, Lady Castlemaine often used the lawn for her afternoon teas, but there was no direct access from the ballroom, and at night the area was unlighted.
No one would be in the folly at present; she could sit in the quiet darkness for a while, long enough to calm her stupidly thudding heart and get her mind working again. She had no idea why Ryder’s pursuit—his suddenly intent focus on her—had affected her to this degree, but she needed to settle her nerves, reclaim her senses, regain complete control of her mind, and then devise a workable plan to get the time she needed with Randolph to . . . properly assess if he was, indeed, her hero.
That she now doubted her earlier certainty irked. She’d been so sure . . . and on one hand, she still was. Logically, and by every measurable criterion, Lord Randolph Cavanaugh was the perfect husband for her—he should be her hero.
Walking slowly past the lawn, she turned onto the narrower path that led to the folly; it wended through the wide flower beds, small bushes and flowering plants nodding on either side, their colors washed out by the moonlight, but their scents still discernible on the night breeze. Gradually, her odd panic subsided; slowly pacing, her gaze on the path ahead, she felt her temper stir as the reality of what had just transpired coalesced in her mind.
She’d been forced out of the ballroom—her field of action—by Ryder. By an interfering, high-handed, wholly arrogant despot; no matter how much amiability he used to cloak his true nature, that was what Ryder assuredly was.
And tonight he’d trumped her.
Her—she who was always in charge. More, he’d done it in an arena she considered hers. Hers to organize and arrange to her liking.
Eyes narrowing, she raised her skirts and marched up the three steps into the deeper shadows of the folly, her temper escalating to a steady boil.
Even though there was no one to see, she set her lips in a mutinous line.
Halting at the top of the steps, she let her skirts fall.
Her senses flared.
Awareness washed over her and she froze.
Silence.
Every instinct she possessed continued to scream that a dangerous predator was close. Too close.
She blinked twice. Barely daring to breathe, as her eyes adjusted to the denser darkness inside the folly, she slowly turned to her left . . .
He was sitting on the bench that circled the structure, at his languid, feline ease. Watching her. Intent. Unmoving.