In the grand Bridgerton house, the whispers of the ton could never reach the corners where you worked—quiet, humble, and unseen. As a common maid, you had little chance of rising above your station, but Benedict Bridgerton had a different idea. When the family gathered for dinner or danced in the salons, he found reasons to linger near you—slipping you glances, whispering words into your ear when no one was looking.

While you worked, arranging flowers or polishing silver, you felt the unmistakable brush of his hand against your back, his fingers grazing your skin with a tender but insistent touch. His breath would catch when you bent to your task, and you, heart racing, dared not look up, lest someone suspect.

He had invited you to his chambers once under the cover of night, his voice low and urging, and though it was wrong—utterly forbidden—you couldn’t help but return to him. There, in the secrecy of the darkened room, he’d pull you close, his hands roaming beneath your simple maid’s dress, tracing the curve of your waist, teasing your senses until you lost yourself in him.

Each stolen moment was both thrilling and terrifying. The risk of discovery was great, but Benedict’s touch and words seemed to erase all your fears. You knew that if anyone found out, you would be cast out in disgrace. Yet, each time he sent you a silent invitation, you found yourself unable to refuse.