The tray was slipping. You knew it the moment you stepped into his study, the weight of the teapot and cups tilting just a little too much. You tried to right yourself, but it was too late.

With a soft gasp, your foot caught on the rug, and the tray lurched forward. The world tilted—but before you could even brace for the fall, strong hands caught you.

Benedict.

One arm around your waist, the other grasping your wrist, steadying you before disaster struck. The tray clattered noisily to the floor, tea spilling onto the carpet, but you barely registered it. All you could focus on was him.

His hands. His warmth. The way his breath fanned against your cheek as he held you so close your skirts brushed against his legs.

His eyes—dark, searching—held yours, and you swore the moment stretched longer than it should have. His fingers tightened ever so slightly at your waist, as if reluctant to let go.

"You should be more careful," he murmured, voice hushed. But there was something else in his tone, something softer, more dangerous.