The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(25)

Some people broke rules.

Others merely wished to.

Poppy wasn’t sure to which category she belonged. Maybe neither. For some reason, that depressed her.

“How old are you, Miss Bridgerton?” the captain inquired.

Poppy was immediately on her guard. “Why do you ask?”

He did not answer her question, of course. He just kept watching her with that heavy-lidded stare. “Humor me.”

“Very well,” she said, when she could not think of a reason she ought not reveal her age. “I am two and twenty.”

“Old enough to be married, then.”

There was an insult in there somewhere, even if she wasn’t quite sure what it was. “I am not married because I do not wish to be,” she said with clipped formality.

He was still standing too close, and she was uncomfortably near the bed, so she tried to put a halt to the conversation by stepping around him. She moved to the window, but he followed her pace for pace.

His voice held equal parts arrogance and amusement when he asked, “You do not wish to be married or you do not wish to be married to any of the men who have asked for your hand?”

She kept her gaze firmly on the azure view. “I do not see how that is any of your business.”

“I ask,” he murmured, moving slightly closer, “if only to ascertain your skills.”

She drew back, looking at him despite all of her best intentions. “I beg your pardon.”

“In the art of flirting , Miss Bridgerton.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Goodness, you jump to conclusions.”

She fought to keep her teeth from grinding into powder. “I am not, as you have so deftly demonstrated, up to your standards in that realm.”

“I shall take that as a compliment, even though I’m fairly certain it wasn’t meant as such.” He stepped away then, giving her his back as he wandered over to his desk.

But Poppy had not even managed to exhale before he abruptly turned around and remarked, “But surely you agree that flirting is an art, and not a science.”

She had no idea what they were talking about anymore. “I will agree to no such thing.”

“You think it a science, then?”

“No!” she almost yelled. He was baiting her, and they both knew it, and she hated that he was winning this twisted competition between them. But she knew she had to remain calm, so she took a moment to compose herself. Several moments, actually. And one very deep breath. Finally, with what she felt was admirable gravity, she tipped her chin up by an inch and said, “I don’t think it’s either, and it’s certainly not an appropriate conversation between two unmarried individuals.”

“Hmmm.” He made a show of considering this. “I rather think two unmarried individuals are precisely the sort of people who ought to be having such a conversation.”

That was it. She was done .

If he wanted to talk, he could do so until his eyes bled, but she was through with this conversation. She returned to her breakfast, buttering her toast with such fervor that the knife poked through and jabbed her hand. “Ow,” she muttered, more at the surprise than the pain. It was just a butter knife, too dull to break her skin.

“Are you hurt?”

She took an angry bite of toast. “Don’t talk to me.”

“Well, that’s rather difficult, seeing as how we’re sharing a cabin.”

Her hands came down on the table with startling force and she jerked herself to her feet. “Are you trying to torture me?”

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I rather think I am.”

She felt her mouth grow slack, and for a moment she could do nothing but stare at him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You annoy me.”

“Well, you annoy me too,” she shot right back.

And then he laughed. He laughed as if he couldn’t help it, as if it were the only possible reaction to her words. “Oh come now, Miss Bridgerton,” he said when he caught her watching him as if he’d gone mad, “even you must admit we’ve hit a new low.” He chuckled some more, then added, “I feel as if I’ve been tossed back into a childhood spat with one of my siblings.”

She felt herself thawing, but only a little bit.

He offered her a conspiratorial grin. “I have the most astonishing urge to pull your hair and say, ‘You annoy me more.’”

She pressed her lips together, because she didn’t want to say what she was dying to say, which was “You annoy me even more .”

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Eyes went narrow on both sides.

“You know you want to say it,” he goaded.

“I’m not talking to you.”

“You just did.”

“Are you three ?”

“I believe we have already concluded that we are both acting like children.”

“Fine. You annoy me even more. You annoy me more than all of my brothers put together. You annoy me like a wart annoys the bottom of one’s foot, like rain annoys a garden party, like misquoted Shakespeare annoys my very soul!”

He looked at her with renewed respect. “Well,” he murmured, “nothing can come of nothing.”

She glared at him.