You never should have entered his bedroom. You knew that the moment your fingers curled around the heavy wooden door, pushing it open just enough to slip inside. But when Lady Bridgerton herself asked you to tidy up while the family was out for the morning, you had no choice.

You moved quickly, silently, smoothing out the fine sheets, fluffing pillows that smelled faintly of expensive cologne and something unmistakably him. The room was warm, the scent of last night’s candle wax still lingering in the air.

You were nearly done when a deep voice rumbled from behind you.

"Did you miss me?"

You froze, fingers still tangled in the edge of a pillowcase. Slowly, too slowly, you turned.

Benedict Bridgerton stood near the bed, tousled and very much awake. The top buttons of his nightshirt were undone, leaving the smooth expanse of his collarbone exposed. His dark curls were a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, and yet he looked at you with an amusement that sent heat rushing to your cheeks.