The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(31)

Almost apologetically, she said, “I’m afraid the wind requires a supernatural talent I do not possess.”

“As opposed to the torn sail and the putrid stomachs?”

“I could manage those, given a bit of time to plan.” She made a vaguely sarcastic motion with her hand. “And access to the deck.”

“Alas, I am too cruel.”

She leaned her elbow on the table, her chin resting thoughtfully in her hand. “And yet I don’t think it is your nature.”

“To be cruel?”

She nodded.

He smiled, but just a little, as if he were too tired to make a proper go of it. “It has been but a day, and yet you already know me too well, Miss Bridgerton.”

“Somehow I think I have barely scratched the surface.”

He regarded her curiously. “You almost sound as if you wish to.”

Their voices had softened, the hard edges of the conversation worn down by fatigue. And maybe respect.

Poppy stood, unsettled by the thought. She did not respect Captain James. She could not. And she certainly shouldn’t like him, no matter how likeable he could be.

She was tired. Her defenses were low. “It’s late,” she said.

“Indeed,” he replied, and she heard him rise from his chair as she made her way over to the basin of water Billy had brought sometime between her entrée and dessert. She needed to clean her face and teeth, and brush her hair. She did so every night, and she was determined to maintain her routine at sea, no matter how odd it felt to be performing her ablutions in front of a man.

And yet it was strangely less odd than it should have been.

Needs must , she told herself as she retrieved the tooth powder. That was all. If she was getting used to his presence, it was because she had to. She was a practical woman, not given to hysterics. She prided herself on that. If she had to brush her teeth in front of a man she’d only just met, she certainly wasn’t going to cry over it.

She glanced over her shoulder, sure that the captain somehow knew she was thinking about him, but he seemed to be immersed in his own tasks, riffling through some papers on his desk.

With a resigned exhale, Poppy looked down at her finger and sprinkled some of the minty powder on it. She wondered if she should switch hands with each brushing. All this tooth powder might irritate her skin.

She took care of her teeth, splashed some water on her face, and, after making sure the captain was not watching, pulled the pins from her hair and ran her fingers through it, doing her best approximation of the boar bristle hairbrush she used at home. Once she’d fashioned a sleeping plait, there was nothing left to do except get into bed.

She turned, taking a step toward the bunk, but then there he was, somehow much closer than she’d expected.

“Oh!” she yelped. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No, it’s my fault entirely. I didn’t think you were going to turn and—”

She stepped left.

He stepped right.

They both made awkward noises.

“Sorry,” he grunted.

He stepped left.

She stepped right.

“Shall we dance?” he joked, and she would have made a similar riposte, but the ship swept up and then down on a wave, sending her stumbling to the side, saved only by two warm hands at her waist.

“Now we really are—” She looked up, and it was such a mistake. “Dancing,” she whispered.

They did not move, did not even speak. Poppy was not sure if they even breathed. His eyes held hers, and they were so bright, so astonishingly blue, that Poppy felt herself being drawn forward, pulled in. She didn’t move, not an inch, but still, she felt it, the pull.

“Do you like to dance?” he asked.

She nodded. “When there is music.”

“You don’t hear it?”

“I can’t hear it.” She wondered if he knew that she really meant she must not. Because it was there, and she felt it on her skin—the soft music of the wind and the waves. If she were anyone else—no, if he were anyone else—this would be a moment made of romance and breathless anticipation.

In another lifetime, another world, he might lean down.

She might look up.

They might kiss.

It would be daring. Scandalous. How funny to think that if she were back in London, she could be ruined by a single kiss. It seemed so trivial now, compared with, oh, being kidnapped by pirates.

And yet as she stared into the captain’s eyes, it didn’t seem trivial at all.

She lurched back, aghast at the direction of her thoughts, but his hands were still there, large and warm on her hips, holding her, if not in place, then at least steady.

Safe.

“The water,” he said in a rough voice. “It’s choppy tonight.”

It wasn’t, but she appreciated the lie.

“I’m steady now,” she said, setting her hand on the table to reassure him. Or maybe herself.

He released her arms and took a polite step back. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I am not usually so clumsy.”

Another lie. Another kindness. He hadn’t been clumsy. To the contrary; she had been the one to stumble. She should have repaid his generosity with her own by saying so, but all she could manage was “I’m done with the tooth powder.”