“Damn,” you mutter under your breath as the needle pricks your finger for the umpteenth time tonight as you work on a new dress. You sigh, shaking your hand before pressing your fingertip to your lips.

With a quiet huff, you rise from your worktable, making your way toward the small cabinet where you keep your salves and bandages. Though, before you can tend to the minor wound, a gentle but insistent knock sounds at the back door of your shop—the Modiste.

With a knowing smile, you hurry to the door, drawing it open to reveal Benedict Bridgerton. He stands before you, his boyish grin paired with his dark curls in disarray, and leaves clinging to his slightly unbuttoned shirt.

Before you can scold or question him, his hands find your waist, and in one swift motion, he steps over the threshold, capturing your lips with his own. The door closes behind him with a quiet thud, nudged shut by the heel of his boot.

The kiss deepens as he walks you backward, his touch guiding you toward the nearby chaise. When the backs of your knees meet the plush cushions, you tumble onto them together, laughter spilling from your lips as he hovers over you. One of his knees presses between your legs, his fingers cradling your jaw with tender gentleness.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb grazing over your cheekbone. “Do not mock me,” he chides, though amusement dances in his eyes. “I was forced to walk here, you know. The coachman would never allow me to leave at such an hour without my mother’s knowledge.”

You can’t contain your mirth, laughter bubbling up once more. Benedict shakes his head with feigned exasperation, though his smirk betrays him. “I travel all this way, under cloak of darkness, risking life and limb”—he gestures vaguely to the leaves still clinging to him—“and yet you will not even grant me a proper kiss? Hmm?”