Chapter 2 – Kingston (Part 12)

……Whenever her eyes met his, Louisa’s face flushed. Blushing was a very special experience. It happened independently of her will, as if her heart beat on its own. Her suddenly reddening face was beyond her control.

……In front of the man, Louisa’s body seemed to have its own will. Her eyes followed his figure, her ears his voice, and her heart his presence. The control of thought and reason was already completely powerless.

From <Blooming Mansion>, ‘Chapter 2: Gaze’

*

Bryant rose from the bathtub. Water droplets fell from his n*ked body submerged in the hot water.

His room was a master suite with a bathroom, dressing room, and bedroom connected. Located on the second floor of a three-story townhouse, this suite was where he spent most of his time at home and a space where perfect privacy was guaranteed.

The man, unabashedly n*ked, walked toward the bed and picked up a robe to drape over his body. He loosely tied the belt, shuffled in slippers toward the console, and twisted the cork of a wine bottle with his hand. It was a habit he almost ritualistically performed when unwinding after a day’s work.

This afternoon, he had gone to the mayor’s residence near the central square. He wasn’t fond of formal social gatherings, but he wasn’t in a position to refuse an invitation from someone as significant as the mayor. As always, it was a course that included card games, chess, dinner, and conversations in the smoking room. Spending time with people entangled in interests was an extension of work.

He tilted the wine bottle and poured the drink. The dark red wine pooled at the bottom of the round crystal glass. His large hand wrapped around the enticing glass and swirled it lightly a few times. Holding a sip of wine in his mouth, he closed his eyes languidly.

The dress the woman wore during the day was also of such a color.

It was a perfectly fitting dress, as if it had been made for her. Not only the size but also the fabric’s color and design suited her perfectly. The woman wearing that dress looked astonishingly attractive. Of course, it was a dress he had chosen according to his own taste, but there was an unexpected combination in the woman that he hadn’t anticipated.

How should it be explained?

If one had to express it, it was a kind of contradiction. A strange harmony of mismatched facets. A juxtaposition of incompatible words. The woman had a peculiarly unsettling feeling, like a sentence that needed editing.

Bryant had dealt with countless authors in his profession. Those who made writing their career were inevitably a bit out of sync with the world’s norms, and thus, they shared certain commonalities beyond their individual personalities.

One of the traits he knew about them was dishevelment. Some couldn’t write a single line without alcohol and cigarettes, some didn’t shave for months, growing thick beards, and some sat at their desks all day, making it challenging to maintain bodily balance. Novelists were so engrossed in the worlds within their works that they had no energy left to look at themselves in the world. In that sense, Evelyn Dale was an exceptionally unique author.

‘It’s beautiful.’

It was by no means an insincere compliment. The woman was genuinely beautiful. Her smooth back, without an ounce of excess flesh, was particularly impressive. He couldn’t take his eyes off the reflection of the spine’s ridges, the curve of the ribs, and the pronounced shoulder blades in the mirror. The slender line of her neck and shoulders caught his gaze. The unexpected stimulus passed, and Bryant was inwardly flustered. So much so that he should have taken out a watch to distract himself.

‘Thank you.’

He had seen the woman’s cheeks flush slightly as she said those words. The woman was evidently uncomfortable with him, but it was somewhat different from a maiden’s shyness. It wasn’t an innocent wariness born out of vague fear or fantasy about men. Her wariness was much more composed and cool.

It was, so to speak, closer to a widow’s self-defense.

Evelyn Dale. He didn’t think that the ‘maiden’ from the conservative continent was entirely ignorant of men. Bryant never considered such a possibility in the first place. The depiction of male and female sexuality in her novels was cleverly condensed but also quite realistic. It made it feel even more provocative. She had a knack for making readers add their own imaginations.

So Bryant had roughly assumed what kind of person a woman who wrote such words might be. A woman in her late thirties or beyond, intellectual and mature but still passionate about men, a rather seasoned Madame. Unfortunately, that was a very significant error.

“Hmm.”

Bryant let out a short chuckle and brought the wine glass back to his lips. He took a sip, lightly closing his eyes. As he savored the rich taste, it naturally reminded him of the dress with the deep-cut back. A beautiful back without any excess flesh. He wondered what expression she would make if he kissed that back.

Suddenly, blood rushed in. At the vivid sensation, he found it hard to believe. When he looked down, sure enough, the front of the robe draped over his bare body was lifted.

“……Ha.”

Bryant let out a sigh-like laugh as he looked down at his er*ect body. The self-expression of a body out of control was both perplexing and intriguing. He was momentarily at a loss for what to think, then slowly licked his lower lip.

Objectively and subjectively, he wasn’t the type to pursue a particularly chaste life. Like most men who wished to maintain their honor, he had a cunning side that considered both minimum self-protection and maximum enjoyment. However, such enjoyment and adventure had long since lost their appeal. For a man in his thirties who had fully enjoyed immature and hot times, fantasies about women were no longer present.

For Bryant, Evelyn Dale was a business target. A popular author whose favor and goodwill he needed to win for promotional purposes, and from whom he needed to secure the rights to her next work. Even while thinking such cold thoughts, his gaze remained fixed in the same place. The surprising self-expression of his body remained just as stiff. After staring blankly, Bryant eventually let out a dry laugh.

He lifted his head and looked straight ahead. His gaze fell on the thick curtains covering the large window. He looked at the gas lamps with dimmed lighting and the mirror hanging over the console. The man in the mirror, reflected up to his waist, looked at the wine glass in his hand, with its voluptuous body and slender stem. The deep red wine. The white back enveloped in that hue. The slender and alluring outline of a body without excess flesh. An irresistibly attractive woman.

“Ah.”

He unintentionally sighed in admiration. Now he understood. The juxtaposition of incompatible words. The unsettling feeling, as if it needed editing, where it came from.

Bryant Clifton had dealt with countless authors in his profession. Over the past ten years, he had met so many authors that he couldn’t remember them all, and each had their own individuality. Through that rich experience, he had accumulated his own methods of building rapport with authors.

However, they were all ‘men.’