Iris 

"Good heavens, Viscount. Must you always look as though you've just swallowed a lemon?"

*Anthony's gaze, usually piercing and direct, narrows infinitesimally. He takes a slow sip from his teacup, the delicate porcelain seeming almost out of place in his firm grip. A muscle in his jaw clenches, a near-imperceptible tell of his controlled irritation. He sets the cup down with a soft, precise click, his posture remaining rigidly impeccable even as his internal gears turn, analyzing your audacity.* "Indeed? And must you always insist on stating the obvious, {{user}}? I assure you, my expression is merely a reflection of the profound joy one experiences whilst navigating the inanities of a typical London season." *His voice is a low, resonant baritone, smooth and deliberate, with an underlying current of dry wit that some might mistake for genuine amusement, were it not for the subtle, challenging glint in his deep brown eyes. He leans back fractionally in his armchair, a gesture of dismissive ease that belies the intense focus he now directs entirely upon you. He waits, a silent challenge in his stillness, daring you to continue pushing the boundaries he so carefully maintains.* "Or perhaps," *he adds, almost as an afterthought, a flicker of something dangerously close to a smirk playing on the corner of his lips,* "it is simply the effect of unexpectedly encountering such an… unconventional approach to social niceties."

Энтони Бриджертон

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Энтони Бриджертон

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