A becoming blush suffused Carolyn's cheeks, but she pressed her lips together and remained silent.

"How about you?" Matthew asked Sarah. "Anything to say?"

Sarah pushed her spectacles higher on her nose. "Would you care to dance?"

Matthew chuckled, then leaned closer to whisper something in Sarah's ear. Julianne didn't hear what he said, but whatever it was, it caused scarlet to stain Sarah's cheeks.

"What were you two gentlemen doing while we were… indisposed?" Emily asked in her usual impudent manner.

"Discussing the topic that is on everyone's lips," answered Daniel. "The recent murders and robberies. Several people were wondering if the thief might strike again tonight. If so, he might well be caught."

"Why is that?" Sarah asked.

"There is extra security on the premises," Daniel said. "In the form of a Bow Street Runner. Mr. Gideon Mayne."

Everything inside Julianne stilled for the space of several heartbeats, then thundered back to life. He's here. Her gaze immediately scanned the room.

"Hopefully then the scoundrel will be caught," Sarah said. Or at least that's what Julianne thought she said. How could she possibly concentrate when he was here?

She'd met the Bow Street Runner two months ago, purely by chance when he was investigating a series of murders plaguing Mayfair. He'd interviewed Julianne and her mother because they'd attended a soiree at one of the victims' homes.

Gideon Mayne had instantly captured her imagination the moment he walked into Julianne's home. Left her speechless. Breathless. He was unlike any gentleman she'd ever come in contact with in her very sheltered existence-not surprising as he wasn't by any stretch a gentleman. The tall, broad-shouldered, muscular Runner possessed a compelling air of competence and strength, mixed with a hint of danger and a large dose of adventure.

Everything about him fascinated her. His sheer size. His sun-browned skin. His thick, dark hair that required a trim. His large, capable, calloused hands. His deep voice that bore a slight trace of hoarseness. His mere presence shrank their spacious drawing room to the size of a hatbox and gave breath to every secret fantasy and romantic dream she'd kept buried in her heart for years. And he'd had the very same effect on her every time she'd seen him since.

He was the personification of the man that had previously lived only in Julianne's most secret, adventurous longings. And a man she hadn't believed existed outside her heated imaginings.

Until he'd stood before her. And nearly stopped her heart. Her heart, which had recognized him instantly. As a man of strength. Passion. Integrity. A man who was trustworthy and capable of getting things done. A man able to make decisions-ones that didn't involve what time he was scheduled to arrive at his club or which card to play at the gaming tables.

A man of adventure.

A man who, given their vast social differences, could never, ever be hers.

How many times had she told herself to forget about him? Hundreds? Thousands? Yet he remained firmly embedded in her mind, filling her with longings that, in spite of her best efforts to suppress them, grew stronger every day. Longings her reading of The Ghost of Devonshire Manor had only served to inflame-

Her thoughts cut off at the sight of Gideon. He stood near the French windows leading to the terrace, scanning the crowd with a sharp-eyed gaze. His granite-hewn features, uncompromising jaw, and a nose that had clearly been broken at some point were set with determination. A man looking for something and intent upon getting what he wanted. Just then, his dark gaze settled on her.

And suddenly everything and everyone populating the expanse of parquet floor between them seemed to vanish. Gone were the clinking glasses, the conversations, the laughter, and the lilt of music. The party guests seemed to waver before her eyes then melt away. Julianne heard nothing save the pounding of her heart. Saw no one except the vital, mysterious, rugged man across the room. Felt nothing save the same wild, raw, pulse-pounding exhilaration she experienced every time she laid eyes on him.

Their gazes held for the space of several heartbeats. Something flickered in his eyes. A flash of fire that even from across the room heated her, curled her toes inside her satin slippers. For a single wild instant she thought he meant to cross the room to her. But then he stiffened and only offered her a nearly imperceptible nod before shifting his attention beyond her.

She tried to pry her gaze from him, but she simply couldn't. He gave the room one last sweeping glance, one that avoided her, then he slipped out the French windows.

"Julianne?"

Emily's voice seemed to come from very far away. Julianne blinked twice then turned toward her friend. "Yes?"

"Are you certain you're all right?" There was no mistaking the concern in her friend's voice.

Dear God, she didn't know. All she knew was that everything in her strained in the direction of the terrace. She yearned to go beyond those glass-paned doors and follow the man she'd been unable to erase from her mind. Just to steal one more glimpse. Just to feel the heat of his gaze one more time.

She couldn't, of course.

Forcing her attention back to her friends, she said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, "I'm fine. Truly. Just a bit tired." Her gaze flicked back to the French windows. No one would have to know.

She drew a bracing breath. Straightened her spine. Then firmly shoved aside the guilt and cowardice nudging her. "I see Mother sitting near the potted palms. I think I'll join her for a bit. Find out if she's cast her matchmaking eye on some young, handsome viscount."

"And I believe I hear the start of a waltz," said Matthew to Sarah. "Shall we?"

The couple moved toward the dance floor, followed by Carolyn and Daniel. They'd no sooner moved away than Emily's face puckered as if she'd bitten into a sour pickle. "Botheration, I just caught sight of Logan Jennsen," she whispered.

Julianne turned and noticed the wealthy American, whose fortune guaranteed him a place on every hostess's guest list, chatting with a group of gentlemen near the punch bowl. Emily made no secret of her dislike of Mr. Jennsen, although Julianne wasn't certain of the cause of her antipathy.

"There is just no escaping that uncouth man," Emily grumbled in an undertone. "He's like dust-everywhere and impossible to get rid of. If you'll excuse me…" She hastily melted into the crowd.

Julianne looked at the French windows again then at her mother by the potted palms. She firmly told herself again that she couldn't follow Gideon. If her mother even suspected Julianne would consider following a man onto the terrace, she'd fly into the boughs and never let her out of her sight.

Mother wouldn't have to know, her inner voice whispered. No one would have to know.

Everything in Julianne stilled. She'd always longed for an adventure, and this might well be her last chance. There certainly wouldn't be any adventures once she was bound for life to the chillingly forbidding duke or someone of his ilk.

A wave of resentment toward the strict restraints under which she lived, would always have to live, swamped her. A lifetime of breeding, of being raised in the confines of the aristocracy and under the weight of her mother's oppressive thumb enabled her to present the perfect picture of the perfect earl's daughter.

With few exceptions, every minute of every day was planned and scheduled, orchestrated and overse hoed and en by her mother's sharp gaze and, when he bothered to notice her at all, her father's forbidding countenance. It was only a matter of time-and she suspected a dismayingly short amount of time-before her life would be taken over and ruled by a husband. A man who no doubt wouldn't give any more thought to her wishes than her parents did.

A strangling emotion gripped Julianne, one she only allowed to escape her soul during the dark of night. That aching mixture of despair, anger, yearning, resentment, and longing. It grabbed her in a vise, nearly choking her with its intensity, threatening to break the facade she presented to the world.

Outwardly, she was the perfectly mannered, impeccably groomed, infinitely demure aristocratic earl's daughter. But inside… inside seethed all the emotions and wants and needs she ruthlessly repressed. Inside lived the daring, bold, adventurous young woman she longed to be. The woman who always knew the right thing to say. The woman who didn't struggle to overcome painful shyness. A woman who was admired for more than her looks, gowns, title, and family fortune. A woman who was wanted. And needed. And loved. Not merely an expensive piece of marriageable chattel to be sold to the wealthiest bidder.

A woman who was free to make her own choices.

Her gaze shifted back to the French windows, to the darkness beyond them. And once again the noise surrounding her dissolved, now replaced by the inexorable ticking of a clock. Of time slipping through her clenched hands.

Before she could stop herself, she headed across the room. Her mind screamed at her to halt, but her feet refused to obey. Her better judgment told her this was a mistake, but her heart refused to listen.

She stopped in front of the French windows. Her reflection in the glass panes showed a young woman whose eyes glittered with a combination of trepidation and excitement. A young woman whose lips were parted in deference to her rapid breaths.

A young woman on the verge of an adventure.

Pausing only to ascertain that her mother remained busily chatting, Julianne slipped through the doors and entered the shadows beyond. She darted away from the circle of light spilling onto the terrace from the drawing room and was immediately swallowed by thick darkness. Heart pounding, she swiftly descended the flagstone steps into the garden below. Once there, she pressed her back against the rough brick wall and fought to calm her shallow, uneven breathing.

Gloom surrounded her, enveloping her in what felt like a suffocating cloak. Her heart stuttered then beat in frantic thumps. After a moment her breathing and heart rate settled, and she forced herself to keep inhaling slowly, deeply, until her vision adjusted to the shadowy gloom.

Clouds obscured both the moon and stars, blanketing the sky in unrelieved black. A brisk, chilly breeze rustled the leaves, biting through the thin muslin of her gown, and the hint of rain hung heavy in the mist-filled air. But she barely noticed the discomfort as she breathed in the heady scent of night.

And freedom.

Peering through the dense dark, she noted with relief that she was alone. Clearly the ne. Clehe chilly, moist weather had discouraged the guests from venturing outdoors. All the guests save one: Gideon Mayne.

But where was he?

Eyes and ears alert, she made her way slowly around the shadowy perimeter of the garden, forcing herself to recall that Gideon was close by. Even so, everything inside her urged her to return to the safety of the crowded drawing room, to leave this dark place where unknown evils lurked. Everything inside her except that inexorably ticking inner clock. And her heart, both of which compelled her to continue.

You're not alone, her heart whispered. Yes. Gideon was here. All she needed to do was find him.

When she reached the back of the garden, she paused. With her arms wrapped around herself in a feeble effort to ward off the chill, she looked around but saw no sign of him. Unless he'd hidden himself in the thick privet hedges, or skulked behind one of the enormous trees looming in front of her-she craned her neck to make certain he didn't-he'd either gone into the mews-a dark, dangerous place she wouldn't consider entering-or he'd returned to the house.

Which is precisely what she needed to do. Before she was discovered missing. Or caught the ague from the cold.

Botheration, here she'd finally screwed up her courage, taken some action, and it was all for naught. Her first adventure certainly hadn't turned out the way she'd hoped. Her better judgment told her it was for the best she hadn't found Gideon. God only knows what might have passed if she'd happened upon him here in the shrouded privacy of the garden.

An image of him drawing her into his arms, kissing her with those beautiful lips that in spite of his uncompromising mouth still managed to somehow look soft, flashed in her mind, rippling a heated tingle down her spine.