“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?
She’d always sworn that she would never become a man’s mistress, that she’d never bring a child into this world to suffer her fate as a bastard. But she wasn’t planning anything quite so brazen. This was one dance, one evening, perhaps one kiss.
It was enough to ruin a reputation, but what sort of reputation did she have to begin with? She was outside society, beyond the pale. And she wanted one night of fantasy.
She looked up.
“You’re not going to run, then,” he murmured, his dark eyes flaring with something hot and exciting.
She shook her head, realizing that once again, he’d known what she was thinking. It should have scared her that he so effortlessly read her thoughts, but in the dark seduction of the night, with the wind tugging at the loose strands of her hair, and the music floating up from below, it was somehow thrilling instead. “Where do I put my hand?” she asked. “I want to dance.”
“Right here on my shoulder,” he instructed. “No, just a touch lower. There you are.”
“You must think me the veriest ninny,” she said, “not knowing how to dance.”
“I think you’re very brave, actually, for admitting it.” His free hand found hers and slowly lifted it into the air. “Most women of my acquaintance would have feigned an injury or disinterest.”
She looked up into his eyes even though she knew it would leave her breathless. “I haven’t the acting skills to feign disinterest,” she admitted.
The hand at the small of her back tightened.
“Listen to the music,” he instructed, his voice oddly hoarse. “Do you feel it rising and falling?”
She shook her head.
“Listen harder,” he whispered, his lips drawing closer to her ear. “One, two, three; one, two, three.”
Sophie closed her eyes and somehow filtered out the endless chatter of the guests below them until all she heard was the soft swell of the music. Her breathing slowed, and she found herself swaying in time with the orchestra, her head rocking back and forth with Benedict’s softly uttered numerical instructions.
“One, two, three; one two three.”
“I feel it,” she whispered.
He smiled. She wasn’t sure how she knew that; her eyes were still closed. But she felt the smile, heard it in the tenor of his breath.
“Good,” he said. “Now watch my feet and allow me to lead you.”
Sophie opened her eyes and looked down.
“One, two, three; one, two, three.”
Hesitantly, she stepped along with him—right onto his foot.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” she blurted out.
“My sisters have done far worse,” he assured her. “Don’t give up.”
She tried again, and suddenl
y her feet knew what to do. “Oh!” she breathed in surprise. “This is wonderful!”
“Look up,” he ordered gently.
“But I’ll stumble.”
“You won’t,” he promised. “I won’t let you. Look into my eyes.”
Sophie did as he asked, and the moment her eyes touched his, something inside her seemed to lock into place, and she could not look away. He twirled her in circles and spirals around the terrace, slowly at first, then picking up speed, until she was breathless and giddy.
And all the while, her eyes remained locked on his.
“What do you feel?” he asked.
“Everything!” she said, laughing.
“What do you hear?”
“The music.” Her eyes widened with excitement. “I hear the music as I’ve never heard it before.”
His hands tightened, and the space between them diminished by several inches. “What do you see?” he asked.
Sophie stumbled, but she never took her eyes off his. “My soul,” she whispered. “I see my very soul.”
He stopped dancing. “What did you say?” he whispered.
She held silent. The moment seemed too charged, too meaningful, and she was afraid she’d spoil it.
No, that wasn’t true. She was afraid she’d make it even better, and that would make it hurt all the more when she returned to reality at midnight.
How on earth was she going to go back to polishing Araminta’s shoes after this?
“I know what you said,” Benedict said hoarsely. “I heard you, and—”
“Don’t say anything,” Sophie cut in. She didn’t want him to tell her that he felt the same way, didn’t want to hear anything that would leave her pining for this man forever.
But it was probably already too late for that.
He stared at her for an agonizingly long moment, then murmured, “I won’t speak. I won’t say a word.” And then, before she even had a second to breathe, his lips were on hers, exquisitely gentle and achingly tender.
With deliberate slowness, he brushed his lips back and forth across hers, the bare hint of friction sending shivers and tingles spiraling through her body.