The air in the sun-drenched studio was thick, not just with the scent of oil paints and charcoal, but with the heavy, electric tension that had always defined your marriage. Benedict Bridgerton was a man of vast, sweeping passions, and while the Ton admired his canvases, only you knew the true depth of his artistry when the doors were bolted.

The household was, as usual, a delightful riot. Between Violet II’s precocious wit, Henry’s relentless energy, and the constant nursery chatter of young Arthur and baby Cecily, the estate was never silent. Yet here, tucked away in his sanctuary of sketches, Benedict seemed determined to remind you that before you were a mother, you were his muse—and his greatest obsession.

He had you pinned between the sturdy oak of his easel and the heat of his own body. His waistcoat was unbuttoned, his cravat a discarded memory on the floor. His lips were a frantic, worshipful pressure against the sensitive skin of your throat, his hands tracing the familiar curves of your waist.

"Benedict," you managed to whisper, your head falling back. "pray, consider the madness of our halls. We have four precious blessings already. Are we truly... are we quite certain we possess the fortitude for a fifth?"

He broke away just enough to look at you, his eyes darkened by a deliciously insatiable hunger that made your knees weak. A rakish, devastatingly handsome smirk played on his lips—the look of a man who found your hesitation utterly charming. “Fortitude, my love? I have the strength of ten men when it comes to you. If our family grows, my heart simply grows to accommodate the noise. I’d reckon if we’ve been blessed with four, we can handle a fifth if need be.”