Hidden | Anthony Bridgerton

Chapter 2 | the presumption of a kiss and the audacity of a man

Perhaps it was a good decision, makes me feel more like we're on equal ground, forgetting that the man is actually towering over me, but it might also have been a very, very wrong choice.

"I need to kiss you." He says, again, and although it sounds more like an order this time, and I have the sudden urge to hit him across this posh face, this time it almost feels intimate .

Due to my raised chin, the eye contact and the fearfully close distance between us, it almost feels like a moment in one of those books my mother sometimes reads; those about the worst distraction of all: love.

I must shake off this kind of thoughts quickly, because it is neither proper nor good for be to be imagining such things.

"What on earth are you talking about?" I say, instead, trying to keep my voice in a normal volume, although I almost whisper; but that would only add to this delusion of a moment.

The man is unbothered. God, is he unbothered, even less so than when he first spoke - then, at the very least there was that urgency that accompanied his movements, visible on his features, but now he's almost relaxed. As if he, too, had fallen victim to this delusion.

"I would expect the debutants and their vicious mothers to leave me alone, then." He says, matter-of-factly as if I had a perfect idea of what he was talking about, and, furthermore, actually cared.

Well, frankly, I don't, and I'm just about to tell him that. "Sir-" but he interrupts me, rudely, the urgency coming back to him as I notice that the Mayfair's busy streets got just a bit quieter; the silence must be filled by whispers, and I concur that we (what a ridiculous notion: « we », as if we truly had any kind of relationship) are the topic of them.

"Look, miss, you're not from this town or I'd have the pleasure of meeting you. If I kiss you, I'd be marked as taken and left to my own company."

There, he finally goes quiet, as if waiting for my response, and I get a chance to finally largen the distance between us, taking a step back. I wait, however, a bit, before responding, as if trying to decide if this is reality, or some peculiar dream.

I take the time, too, to study the face of a man who's causing all this commotion.

He's handsome, I suppose. His hair is brown, his eyes as well, and he has long, dark eyelashes which I envy him. He's young, probably my age, maybe a few years older. From his clothing, the dark, expensive suit, I know he must be rich, but aren't they all, in this town. What I do know, at least if I decide he's not lying, he must be somewhat more important than most of the other bachelors in town; to have the mamas chase him like a fresh meat. It must be the title, then, but I do not care enough to guess which one. I certainly won't ask.

Otherwise, he's a man like them all. Proud. Foolish. Convinced of the fact that as a woman I owe him something.

"You are ridiculous!" I say, eventually, prepared to turn on my heel and walk away, but he won't let me, continueing- well, whatever this is supposed to be, because it is not courting.

"Fine." He says, and I almost think that is acceptance of my decline, but how could it be; he is a man with a high title, and it's just a continuation of his monologue „You're not from here and I may not know where exactly you come from, but you do not belong in Mayfair as well as you hoped you do."

"What?" I say, stopping in my tracks. Now, he catches my attention.

"That dress." He points at the most expensive thing I own as if it was but a rag, „It is pretty, but the fabric is old. The shoes, in poor condition. You're not even wearing any make-up, a mark of every woman in Mayfair. You're not from here, you do not live here, and I may not know what exactly, but you have business in town to attend to, and you need to look like you're from it."

„I was born in Mayfair." I say, squinting my eyes and clenching my fist, trying hard to look intimidating, „And I do not appreciate you questioning my motives. Everything I need to do is completely legal."

„Perhaps." He says, „I do not care, frankly. Your unique position, however, is my best way out of this season's pool of eligible bachelors."

„Oh and you're so eligible, then?" I huff, throwing my hand in the air, „Perhaps that's why I should kiss you. You think I'd enjoy it."

He smiles. No. He smirks, the tip of his lips curving up in a mischievous, condescending way.

„Oh, god, you actually do." I say, letting out a breath.

His smirk only grows wider.

„Perhaps you should give it a try."

Oh, this bloody man will cause my blood to boil me alive. I'm fuming, by now, the sheer audacity.

"Listen, sir, because I'm going to say this one time, and I bet you will have some kind of answer, follow up, or another senseless thing to say, but I expect nothing more than a nod and silence." I say, speaking so fast I almost mess up the order of the words, anger and frustration lacing my voice.

"No. I will not kiss you."

"Miss-" he tries again, the smirk disappearing from his face to my joy, but this time, I'm the one to interrupt him.

"Have you perhaps gone bloody crazy? One too much glass of whiskey? I swear to god, it is barely noon!"

"I'm in no way intoxicated, I assure you."

I scoff, then, talking another step back. "Pardon me for not believing you."

"You are pardoned." It's back, that smile, that smirk of his, and this time he cocks a brow, looking at me as if he was flirting with me, as if I was his friend, as if I was not at all fuming with anger, "I'm exchange, will you comply with my request?"

"No, sir." This time, I try to keep my voice cold and cool, despite my blood boiling. It works, sometimes, on men, I've come to realise.

"It's not even a question of my own honour, but my bloody will. How hard can it be to understand a simple no, just because it comes from a woman. Why would I ever agree to kiss a stranger, much less someone who seems to be out of his mind?"

I think it works, somehow, because instead of smirking again, the man sighs, desperation not amusement painting his face this time.

"Money, perhaps?," he asks, but it is still more of a statement than a question, "I can pay you."

Now my brows are raised. "I do not know what confused you, but I'm not a prostitute, and I will not be treated like one."

"A favour!" he says, almost yells, stepping closer to me, and again we're in that peculiar, intimate distance, a few centimetres from each other. He lowers his voice, then, and this time, for the first time, it's an actual plea. "A favour then, miss. One favour for another."

A currency worth most in the whole wide England, I came to realise a while ago.

Looking back, I know that if I've been half as smart as I pride myself to be, I'd agree right then and there. Many things are worth a powerful, even crazy man like that to owe you a favour, much less one kiss.

But I was so done, by then. I'd rather have died than agreed to his request, no matter in which form the payment, and how grand it was.

"How maddening of all you men to think women's affection, their body and their will are for sale. Goodbye, sir." I say, and I look him in the eyes, then, trying to make my stare as vicious as I can, "Oh shall I hope I'd never have to see you again."

Four steps it takes me to enter the pharmacy. The only four steps in my life I took as slowly and as gracefully as I could.

~*~

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