The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(33)

She marked her place in the book—a slim guide to Lisbon, he noted; rather practical of her even if he had no plans to let her so much as touch a toe to Portuguese soil—then set it down. “I imagine it’s a sight one wishes not to behold.”

“Indeed.” He shuddered. “I believe the word gruesome was used, and my brother is not given to hyperbole.”

“Unlike you?”

He laid a hand over his heart. “I exaggerate only when absolutely necessary.”

“Your brother sounds delightful.”

“He’s married,” Andrew immediately retorted.

“This makes him less delightful?” She seemed to find this terribly amusing, which should have irritated him, but instead he felt . . . awkward?

Green?

It had been a long time since his glib tongue had failed him so.

Thankfully, however, Miss Bridgerton did not seem to require a response. Instead she pushed her plate in his direction. “Have the rest if you wish.”

Andrew accepted her offering and ate one whole, leaving only the green leafy cap in his fingers. Setting it down on her plate, he rested his hip against the side of the table and asked, “Are you gruesome?”

She let out a surprised laugh. “Right this minute?”

He tipped his head, a small salute to her riposte.

“No,” she said, a touch of humor making her voice delightfully warm. “I get rather itchy, though, and somewhat short of breath. Two things I’d rather avoid, frankly, while confined in a cabin.”

“I’ll tell the cook,” Andrew said, finishing off the last berry. “He can give you something else.”

“Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

He regarded her for a moment, then said, “Alarmingly civil, aren’t we?”

“Alarming that we find it so alarming,” she returned.

“There is much to dissect in that comment,” he said, pushing off from the edge of the table, “but alas, I haven’t the time.”

“And yet you spared some for me,” she remarked. “To what do I owe this pleasure of your company?”

“A pleasure, is it?” he murmured, heading over to his wardrobe. He did not let her reply before adding, “No? It will be.”

“What are you talking about?”

He enjoyed her befuddled tone, but he didn’t bother with further conversation as he dug through his belongings. It had been some time since he’d brought out the puzzle, and it was wedged at the back of the wardrobe behind a broken kaleidoscope and a pair of socks. The wooden pieces were stored in a velvet pouch, purple with a gold drawstring. All in all, quite regal.

He set it down on the table. “I thought you might enjoy this.”

She looked at the velvet pouch and then at him, her brows arched in question.

“It’s a dissected map,” he told her.

“A what?”

“Have you never seen one?”

She shook her head, so he opened the pouch and let the pieces spill out onto the wooden tabletop. “They were very popular about ten years ago,” he explained. “A cartographer by the name of Spilsbury fixed a map onto a wooden board and then cut the countries and seas at their borders. He thought it would help to teach geography. I believe the first few went to the royal family.”

“Oh, I know what you’re talking about,” she exclaimed. “But the ones I’ve seen had nowhere near so many pieces.”

“Yes, this one is unique. I had it commissioned myself.” He took a seat diagonal to her and spread out a few of the pieces, flipping them over so that the map side was up. “Most of the dissected maps are cut along borders—national boundaries, rivers, coasts—that sort of thing. I already know my geography, but I rather like to put things together, so I asked if mine could instead be cut into many random small shapes.”

Her lips parted with wonder, and she picked up one of the pieces. “And then you have fit them together,” she said almost reverently. “That’s brilliant! How many pieces are there?”

“Five hundred.”

“Never say it!”

“Give or take,” Andrew admitted modestly. “I haven’t counted them.”

“I’ll count them,” Miss Bridgerton said. “It’s not as if I don’t have the time.”

She didn’t seem to have said it as a complaint, so he turned a few more pieces over and said, “The best way to get started is to look for—”

“No, don’t tell me!” she cut in. “I want to figure it out for myself.” She picked up a piece and squinted at it.

“The writing is small,” he said.

“My eyes are young.” She looked up, aforementioned eyes glinting with delight. “It says IC . Not terribly helpful. But it’s blue, so it could be the Baltic. Or the Atlantic.”

“Or the Pacific.”

She looked surprised. “How big is the map?”

“The known world,” he told her, a little surprised by the boastfulness in his voice. He was proud of the puzzle; as far as he knew, no other map had been dissected into quite as many pieces. But that wasn’t why he’d been bragging, and it wasn’t because she was so obviously happy for the first time since he’d met her. It was—