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The passing of minutes grew stronger the longer you stood in your place. Deep among the outskirts of the mass of the ton were you, hanging to a mother's arm, rethinking every choice you had made during your lifetime.
Words flew into one ear and came out the other, and more than ever you found yourself not up to date with a simple conversation. The whispers were muted, laced with gossip, and yet they did nothing to draw your attention toward them.
Your older sister was the loudest of the whisperers. She had long given hope of remarrying, and instead embraced the life of a Dowager Countess. Her hobby was therefore: gossip. And rightly so. She took it on with full force of her being.
"See sister," Rosemary suddenly spoke into your ear, her breath fanning your cheek enough to bring you out of your thoughts. "Lord Stringfellow if quite the catch. Or so I have heard."
"Stringfellow?" You repeated, "He sounds quite unpropitious, don't you agree?"
"Perhaps," the widow drew solemnly, suddenly deep in thought. "Perhaps you're right sister."
You almost exhaled in relief.
Her voice was once again drowned by the crowd, and you looked around the grand ballroom, your eyes dropping from the array of candles to the chalked floor. The full moon was high in the air, and invitees seemed to be arriving every new minute.
A sudden wave of murmuring ladies, whispering the last name Bridgerton had spiked your interest. You turned to your sister, squashed between your mother and her, attempting to look over her shoulder.
"Y/N!" She hissed, quietly yet firmly. Her glittering eyes scanned the crowd, as if she feared people had seen the way you stood on your toes, craning your neck and exposing more than advised.
"I—" You tried to say something, yet the only thing your voice had produced was a high-pitched squeal.
He's here!
"Lord Bridgerton is here!"
The narrowing of her brows eased, and a new sense of sereness seemed to wash over her. She threw one look toward his way and became the only woman not interested in marrying him. "Mama."
"Yes, dear?"
You looked between the two women; one a widowed Countess, just over the spinster age of 25, and the other one a graying baroness who fought the grays of her hair the same way her eldest son was fighting war.
"I believe," Rose commenced, "we ought to show our Y/N to the Viscount."
If roses could speak, they would sound like your sister. She demanded elegance, screamed power and spoke opulence. She was her title through and through.
And your mother melted at her words.
The woman nodded eagerly, and you felt sweat form in your hair. Your neck was flushed no doubt and your décolleté was now more visible than ever.
You should probably calm your breathing.
"Viscount Bridgerton?" Your mother retold what she had heard with hearts in her eyes. She looked you over once, noticing (with glee) how your gown was a perfect match to the rake's cravat.
"Is there any other?" Rosemary asked. "But mother, they have yet to be introduced…"
Your sister's words died when a familiar pair of molten brown eyes caught your own. Her talks of how your mother was not to, under any circumstance, allowed to prevent his wish to introduce himself quickly evaporated. You could feel the hairs on the back of your neck rise. The air changed, grew heavier and warm. Heart racing, you thought he was walking toward you.
He was not.
Anthony's lips curled into a half-smile as he surrounded himself with his mother and two brothers, floating gracefully to another end of the ballroom. He stood straight and proud, and you found yourself wanting to mimic him.
Your mother glimpsed at you, but you didn't notice. "Is that true Y/N?"
Deny. Deny. Deny! "Yes mama."
She looked you over and nodded, turning to your sister. "Do what you must do Rose."
Ah, yes. The hostess of this ball is your sister's great friend. It was her duty to arrange the meeting.
As your sister scurried away, without even realizing it, the dancefloor was wiped clean, readied to be attacked by a new set of speeding dancers.
You could see your sister talk promptly to the hostess; both their gazes directed to the Viscount. There was jubilation all around them, and your sister appeared to be ready to reserve a church at any given moment.
Soon, your sister's friend was floating through the mass with poise, and you watched as she placed herself into the small circle. No one could deny her of that privilege, as this was her home and ballroom. Not even the mighty Bridgertons had the power to shoo away the hostess at her own ball.
Once again, you felt his dark eyes on your body, and it took every fiber in your body to pretend not to know that man. His touches, his mouth…
The sinful things he did to you while everyone around you thought you didn't know each other.
Just as Anthony began walking through the crowd toward you, with the hostess on his arm, did a fine lord emerge from the crowd. A small, soundless gasp escaped your mother and you immediately reached for you dance card that was tied prettily to your wrist. "Lord Prescott…"
"Go," your mother said with sudden vehemence, but you could see the flash of irritation within her eyes. The perfect opportunity has just slipped right through her finegrs. "Lord Bridgerton will have to wait."
But you didn't want him to wait… "Go dance with the gentleman my love."
And so, you did. With a heavy heart!
You couldn't keep your eyes off the Viscount even as you were led toward the dancefloor. Another man's arm was around yours and Anthony's jaw locked in place. There was an unspoken exchange between you, a heated promise that he would stand there and wait for you until you came, and he introduced himself.
Despite not needing that.
***
An hour later, you were safely tucked back into your mother's awaiting arms. Not quite awaiting, you seemed to realize, as you watched her chat idly with Violet Bridgerton. Both women wore sparkling smiles and glittering eyes as they looked at the hostess, a beautiful blonde who carried the title of a young Viscountess. Poppy was her name, or at least that's what your sister called her.
No! Calliope! That's her name.
You made a mental reminder to remember.
At almost two heads taller stood the Viscount. Both of his brothers were set off into the night, making most of the ball, leaving the eldest to fend for himself.
"Lady Wright," you greeted politely, coming down into a pretty curtsy.
She beamed; her jade eyes intense as she took you in. "Please Y/N. Calliope."
Yeah right. Like you knew how to pronounce it.
You gave her a tight-lipped smile that didn't go unnoticed by the rake. A sound, one that shared similarities with a stifled laugh, poured out of his mouth, and Anthony fought hard to mask it as a cough.
You felt your cheeks burn up, but you still managed to politely greet the Dowager Viscountess. "Y/N," said Calliope suddenly, bringing both Anthony and you out of your trance. He straightened up immediately, your eyes widened. "I must present to you Lord Bridgerton, Viscount Bridgerton. Lord Bridgerton, Miss Y/N Y/LN. I believe you have already been well acquainted with her sister, the Dowager Countess of Dorset."
"Indeed," Anthony nodded, his lips curling.
"Lord Bridgerton," you said, performing a short, quite awkward curtsy. "It is a delight to make your acquaintance."
Your mother's eyes screamed Now go dance!!!
You could almost hear the wedding bells ringing in your ears. "You're not engaged for this dance, are you, Miss Y/LN?"
Calliope and your mother both glanced somewhere around the crowd, searching, without a doubt, for Rose so they could telepathically inform her of the best news. "Of course not, my Lord."
You handed him your dance card on pure instinct. Like it was drilled into your brain. The action seemed very marionette like.
Anthony anrrowed on your action for a short second before his hands grasped the card. They lingered around your wrist, and electricity shot up your arm. Not being able to feel his whole touch was pure torture.
"I," you began after he took a respective step back. The girls in the small, enclosed circle were looking at you fondly. "I think I should like to go to the dressing room. My dress seems to be in a need for a fashion remedy."
Now for the big part. Your heartbeat quickened, and you still felt nervous despite knowing he could not resist you even if he wasn't involved with you. "Could you escort me, Lord Bridgerton?"
Your mother nodded proudly. Violet, who stood next to her, also nodded in similar delight.
"Of course," he smiled, extending his right arm. His attire was rough against your soft skin, and your body greeted every taut muscle with familiarity. As he led you out of the crammed room you were followed by the trail of whispers taht were no doubt started by your sister.
You could almost see the front page of Whistledown's column greeting you like shimmering diamonds.
***
There was nothing to fix. Your dress was implacable. Not a crease on it, not a rip on it. Nothing.
It was all a play. A mean to divert unwanted attention.
So, you could be alone.
Your back hit the wall of the magnificent hallway gently, and a bigger body came over you, shielding you from the view of the paintings. Anthony's hand was perched on your waist, perfectly cupping the curve of your body through a dress that was meant to hide it. No gentleman would know where to place his hands without your help. Only the one who you had truly let in would know where to look. Where to touch.
Anthony felt at home.
"I thought you wouldn't," you said in between soft groans. The Viscount's knowing mouth was roaming on all sides of your neck enough to keep you breathless and free of any taint. You took his face in your hands, bringing his dark eyes to meet yours. Anthony looked at you through a fringe of chestnut hair, eyes momentarily darting to the fallen sleeve of your dress. He leaned in and kissed the spot, marking it with his wicked mouth, but you brought him back up. "I-I thought you wouldn't come…"
"For you," he whispered, hand cupping your flushed cheek. "Anything."
It took a glance at your wanting lips to have him tasting you again. His powerful mouth explored your own, not a moment of hesitation in him. You stopped breathing, the full force of his kissable lips hitting you until you shuddered all over. Anthony followed your lead, his solid chest against your own. You didn't fit like a puzzle; it was quite the opposite. You were curvy, with dips and unevenness, shaped like a woman. He was rock solid, not a dent in his muscled form. Yet somehow, the fact didn't stop you from becoming a tangled mess of bodies, clawing for closeness with each tug.
He parted your lips, you stopped breathing, pressed yourself against him and delved your fingers into his unruly hair. You sparked alive, heart near bursting.
After months of hiding, building tension, it felt right to let go. And it was worth it.
You wanted more.
"Oi! Mr. Bagwell!"
You pushed him off instantly, alarm sparkling in your eyes. Your chest became heated with anxiety when you heard foreign vocies, and what was a pleasurable encounter a mintue ago quickly twisted into a sinful act you didn't want to repeat. There was danger lurking in the halls, gentlemen who'd have your heads for what you were doing.
You touched your lips, feeling how swollen they were. You could only hope he didn't demolish them but seeing how you pulsed in the strangest of places – it was unlikely.
Anthony seized your wrist, your dance card yapping around. His mouth was an inch away from your face. He looked like he wanted to kiss you, but his lips parted in a way that suggested anything but that. "Run."
You looked over your body, pulling your fallen chemise over your shoulder with your free hand. "Whatever do you mean by…run?"
"RUN!"
Shockingly, you listened.
You turned tail and ran through the halls, feeling as if you were at the front lines of a battle. It was every woman for herself now. Your silky shoes were silent against the marble floors, and it looked like you were running on clouds. Sound wise, that’s how it looked. You unquestionably didn't feel like you were running on clouds.
Suddenly, after two swipes at the corridoes, arms were around your waist, your feet were no longer firmly planted on the ground. You almost screamed, but a deep voice cut you off. Your lungs burned. "Not so fast, love."
"A—Anthony?" You asked, once back down. Turning around immediately was your reaction. "It's you!"
The fear of being caught quickly passed. You threw your arms around him, holding tightly until you felt his own arms wrap around you. Anthony held onto you like he never planned on letting go. "Thank God!"
"Yes," he replied in your hair. "Thank Him."
"Did they see us?"
Your cheeks were in his hands, and his thumbs graced your cheeks that were now puffy from running. Just for taming his fire, he grazed your swollen lip with his thumb. "No. Do not worry. I believe we lost them."
You managed to exhale in relief once before he kissed you soundlessly. The kiss wasn't as passionate and fiery, but it was curling nevertheless. "Let's get you inside, hm?"
You stopped him from leaving when you placed your hand on his, "I don't want to do this any longer Anthony."
"Why?" His expression was suddenly full of hurt.
"I—I'm scared," you admitted. "This can happen again. If it does people—"
"I'm going to marry you."
His words were like a splash of cold water in your face. You barely caught on.
"Trust me," Anthony said. His face was an inch away. You could feel his breath on your skin. "Please."
Enchanted, you replied quietly. "I trust you."
"Good," he smiled. That beautiful half-smile, half-smirk. "Good."
His mouth was on yours for a fraction of a second. "Let us go inside. If we don't, I think they might think we are dead."