“What else do you know about me from WhistledownT he asked, his smile slow and lazy.

“Are you fishing for compliments?” she asked, returning the half smile with the vaguest tilt of her lips. “For you must know  that the Bridgertons are almost always spared her rapier quill. Lady Whistledown is nearly always complimentary when writing about your family.”

“It’s led to quite a bit of speculation about her identity,” he admitted. “Some think she must be a Bridgerton.”

“Is she?”

He shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of. And you didn’t answer my question.” “Which question was that?” “What you know of me from Whistledown” She looked surprised. “Are you truly interested?”

“If I cannot know anything about you, at least I might know what you know about me” She smiled, and touched the tip of  her index finger to her

lower lip in an endearingly absentminded gesture. “Well, let’s see. Last month you won some silly horse race in Hyde Park.”

“It wasn’t the least bit silly,” he said with a grin, “and I’m a hundred quid richer for it.”

She shot him an arch look. “Horse races are almost always silly.”

“Spoken just like a woman,” he muttered. “Well—”

“Don’t point out the obvious,” he interrupted.

That made her smile.

“What else do you know?” he asked.

“From Whistledown?” She tapped her finger against her cheek. “You once lopped the head off your sister’s doll.”

“And I’m still trying to figure out how she knew about that,” Benedict muttered.

“Maybe Lady Whistledown is a Bridgerton, after all.”

“Impossible. Not,” he added rather forcefully, “that we’re not smart enough to pull it off. Rather, the rest of the family would  be too smart not to figure it out.”

She laughed out loud at that, and Benedict studied her, wondering if she was aware that she’d given away yet another tiny  clue to her identity. Lady Whistledown had written of the doll’s unfortunate encounter with a guillotine two years earlier, in  one of her very earliest columns. Many people now had the gossip sheet delivered all the way out in the country, but in the beginning, Whistledown had been strictly for Londoners.

Which meant that his mystery lady had been in London two years ago. And yet she hadn’t known who he was until she’d  met Colin.

She’d been in London, but she’d not been out in society. Perhaps she was the youngest in her family, and had been reading Whistledown while her older sisters enjoyed their seasons.

It wasn’t enough to figure out who she was, but it was a start.

“What else do you know?” he asked, eager to see if she’d inadvertently reveal anything else.

She chuckled, clearly enjoying herself. “Your name has not been seriously linked with any young lady, and your mother despairs of ever seeing you married.”

“The pressure has lessened a bit now that my brother’s gone and got himself a wife.”

“The viscount?”

Benedict nodded.

“Lady Whistledown wrote about that as well.”

“In great detail. Although—” He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “She didn’t get all the facts.”

“Really?” she asked with great interest. “What did she leave out?”

He tsked-tsked and shook his head at her. “I’m not about to reveal the secrets of my brother’s courtship if you won’t reveal even your name.”

She snorted at that. “Courtship might be too strong a word. Why, Lady Whistledown wrote—”

“Lady Whistledown,” he interrupted with a vaguely mocking half smile, “is not privy to all that goes on in London.”

“She certainly seems privy to most.”

“Do you think?” he mused. “I tend to disagree. For example, I suspect that if Lady Whistledown were here on the terrace,  she would not know your identity.”

Her eyes widened under her mask. Benedict took some satisfaction in that.

He crossed his arms. “Is that true?”

She nodded. “But I am so well disguised that no one would recognize me right now.”

He raised a brow. “What if you removed your mask? Would she recognize you then?”

She pushed herself away from the railing and took a few steps toward the center of the terrace. “I’m not going to answer that.”

He followed her. “I didn’t think you would. But I wanted to ask, nonetheless.”

Sophie turned around, then caught her breath as she realized he was mere inches away. She’d heard him following her, but  she hadn’t thought he was quite that close. She parted her lips to speak, but to her great surprise, she hadn’t a thing to say.  All she could seem to do was stare up at him, at those dark, dark eyes peering at her from behind his mask. Speech was impossible. Even breathing was difficult. “You still haven’t danced with me,” he said. She didn’t move, just stood there as his large hand came to rest at the small of her back. Her skin tingled where he touched her, and the air grew thick and hot.

This was desire, Sophie realized. This was what she’d heard the maids whispering about. This was what no gently bred lady was even supposed to know about.

But she was no gently bred lady, she thought defiantly. She was a bastard, a nobleman’s by-blow. She was not a member  of the ton and never would be. Did she really have to abide by their rules?