The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(11)

They both looked at her free hand.

“You could try,” he said, “but you won’t get it undone.” And then he smiled, damn the man. “No one ties knots like a sailor.”

“In that case, could you untie my ankles?”

“Not until we’re well at sea, Miss Bridgerton.”

“It’s not as if I can swim,” she lied.

“Shall we toss you in the water to test the truth of that statement?” he asked. “Rather like setting a witch afire. If she burns, she’s innocent.”

Poppy ground her teeth together. “If I drown—”

“Then you’re trustworthy,” he finished, smiling broadly. “Shall we give it a go?”

“Get out,” she said tightly.

He let out a bark of laughter. “I’ll see you when we’re well at sea, my little liar.”

And then, before she had the chance to even think about throwing something at him, he was gone.





Chapter 3




“Bridgerton,” Andrew ground out as he strode furiously across the Infinity ’s foredeck. “Bridgerton!” Of all the women in all the world, the one who stumbled into his cave—which, he might add, had gone undetected for a full three years—had to be a Bridgerton .

It would have only been worse if she’d been a bloody Rokesby.

Thank God he’d never used his family surname aboard the ship; his entire crew knew him only as Andrew James. Which wasn’t technically untrue; his full given name was Andrew James Edwin Rokesby. It had seemed prudent not to advertise his aristocratic identity when he took command of the Infinity , and he’d never been so glad of it before now. If the girl in his cabin was a Bridgerton, she’d know who the Rokesbys were, and that would cause a cascade of misery all around.

“Bridgerton,” he practically groaned, earning him a curious look from one of his deckhands. It was impossible to overstate just how well Andrew knew the Bridgertons, at least the portion of the family that resided in Aubrey Hall, in Kent, just a short distance from his own ancestral home. Lord and Lady Bridgerton were practically a second set of parents to him, and they had become family in truth seven years earlier when their eldest daughter, Billie, had married Andrew’s older brother, George.

Frankly, Andrew was surprised that he and Poppy Bridgerton had never met. Lord Bridgerton had several younger brothers, and as far as Andrew knew, they’d all had children. There had to be dozens of Bridgerton cousins scattered about the English countryside. He vaguely recalled Billie telling him about family in Somerset, but if they’d ever visited, it had not been when Andrew was home to meet them.

And now one of them was on his ship.

Andrew swore under his breath. If Poppy Bridgerton discovered his true identity, there would be hell to pay. Only thirteen people knew that Andrew James was actually Andrew Rokesby, third son of the Earl of Manston. Of those thirteen, nine were members of his immediate family.

And of those nine, zero knew the real reason for the deception.

It had all started seven years earlier, when Andrew had been sent home from the navy to recuperate after he’d fractured his arm. He had been eager to return to his post aboard the HMS Titania —he’d worked hard for his recent promotion to first lieutenant, damn it—but the king’s Privy Council had had other ideas.

In their infinite wisdom, the members of the council had decided that the best place for a naval officer was a tiny landlocked principality in central Europe. Andrew was told—and this was a direct quote—to be “charming.” And to make sure that Wachtenberg-Molstein’s Princess Amalia Augusta Maria Theresa Josephine was delivered to London in one virginal piece as a potential bride for the Prince of Wales.

That she’d fallen overboard during the channel crossing was not Andrew’s fault. That she’d been rescued, however, was, and when she had then declared that she’d marry none but the man who’d saved her, Andrew had found himself at the center of a diplomatic disaster. The final leg of the trip had involved nothing less than a runaway coach, the disgruntled resignation of two sub-members of the council, and an overturned chamber pot. (On Andrew, not the princess, although you’d think it had been the latter from the way she’d carried on.)

It had been his sister-in-law’s favorite story to tell at dinner parties for years. And Andrew had never even told her about the ferret.

In the end, the princess didn’t marry Andrew or the Prince of Wales, but the Privy Council had been so impressed with Andrew’s unflappable demeanor that they decided he could serve his country better out of uniform than in. But not officially. Never officially. When the secretaries of state summoned him for a joint interview, they clarified that when they said “diplomatic” they had meant “conversational.” They didn’t want Andrew to negotiate treaties, they wanted him to talk to people. He was young, he was handsome, he was charming.

People loved him.

Andrew knew this, of course. He’d always made friends easily, and he had that rare gift of being able to talk almost anyone into almost anything. But it had felt strange to be ordered to do something so intangible. And so secret.

He had to resign his naval commission, of course. His parents were dumbfounded. Three years later, when he took command of a ship and began the life of a privateer, they had been disappointed in the extreme.