The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(39)

“What was his name?”

She looked at him, and in her eyes he saw a tiny flash of gratitude that he’d asked.

“Roger,” she said. “His name was Roger.”

Andrew thought about his own siblings. He didn’t have a favorite, or at least he didn’t think he did. But even though his were all living, Andrew could more keenly imagine her pain than one might think. His brother Edward used to be an army officer, and he had gone missing in America, during the war. Andrew had believed that he’d perished. He had not said as much to anyone; his mother in particular would have blistered his ears if he’d so much as hinted at the fact that he had lost hope.

In his heart, though, Andrew had begun to mourn.

He’d believed his brother dead for almost a year, and he would have liked to offer words of empathy to Poppy, but he could not. The story of Captain Edward Rokesby’s return from the dead was too well-known. And so Andrew just sat beside her and said again, “I’m sorry.”

She acknowledged this with a jerky nod. But then, after only a few moments, her mouth tightened resolutely. She tapped her fingers several times on the table, then reached out to grab the puzzle piece she’d recently had in her hand.

“I have to say,” she told him, in a voice that made it clear she was changing the subject, “it doesn’t much look like a horn.”

Andrew took the piece from her fingers with a smile. “I believe it is named for Hoorn.”

“For who?”

He chuckled. “Hoorn. It is a city in the Netherlands.”

This did not seem to impress her. “Hmmph. Well, I’ve not been there either.”

He leaned toward her, just enough for his shoulder to make a conspiratorial bump against hers. “Nor I.”

“That is surprising,” she said, glancing ever so slightly in his direction. “I’d assumed you’d been everywhere. Except Norway, apparently.”

“Alas, no. My business keeps me on familiar routes.” It was true. Most of Andrew’s time was spent ferrying documents to the same three or four countries. Spain and Portugal, most of all.

“How do you spell it?” she suddenly asked.

“Hoorn? H-O-O-R-N . Why?”

“Just wondering if there is a city of Good H-O-O-P-E out there somewhere.”

He laughed at that. “If so, I should like to visit.”

She was not, however, done with her queries. “Do you know which was named first?”

“Of the capes? I think it was Good Hope. If I recall correctly, the name was bestowed upon it by a Portuguese king.”

“Portuguese, you say? It’s settled then. We’ll stop in Good Hoope on the way back from Lisbon.” Her eyes lit with merriment. “Do you think Mr. Carroway knows the way?”

“If he’s read that bloody awful navigation guide he will.”

She laughed gaily at that, and it was a marvelous sound, rich with humor and joy. It was the sort of sound Andrew wasn’t used to hearing while he was at sea. The sailors had their jokes, but they were coarse, masculine things, nothing so clever as Poppy Bridgerton’s bon mots.

Poppy. The name really did suit her. What a shame it would have been if she’d turned out drab and pinched.

“Good Huuuupe,” she chortled, adopting an accent he was quite sure existed nowhere but inside this cabin. “Guuuuuuuud Huuuuuupe.”

“Stop,” he said. “I can’t bear it.”

“Guud Huuuuuuuuuuuuupe,” she practically sang. “The most hopeful spot in Portugal.”

“Honestly, your accent might be the most frightful thing I have ever heard.”

She turned with mock outrage. “You don’t think I sound like a Dutchwoman?”

“Not even a little bit.”

She let out a mock huff. “Well, that is disappointing. I was trying so hard.”

“That much was clear.”

She jabbed him with her elbow, then motioned with her head toward the puzzle pieces. “I don’t suppose you see the Cape of Good Hope among this mess.”

His glanced sideways at her. “I thought you didn’t want help.”

“I don’t want unsolicited help,” she clarified.

“I’m afraid I only like to offer help when it is not wanted.”

“So you don’t see it.”

He grinned unrepentantly. “Not at all.”

She laughed again, her head falling back with her mirth. Andrew was transfixed. He’d thought she was pretty, but in that moment she became something much more. Pretty was a dull, static thing, and Poppy Bridgerton could never be that.

“Oh my goodness,” she said, wiping her eyes. “If you’d told me when I arrived that I’d be laughing . . .”

“I certainly wouldn’t have believed you.”

“Yes, well . . .” Her words trailed off, and he could see the moment her thoughts forced her back to propriety. Her expression grew shuttered, and just like that, the magic was gone. “I would still rather be at home.”

“I know,” he said, and he had the most intense urge to cover her hand with his.

But he didn’t.

She spoke haltingly, her words coming out in small batches, and though she lifted her eyes to his, she did not hold them there for long before shifting her gaze toward a spot somewhere past his shoulder. “I don’t want you to think . . . that just because I might occasionally laugh . . . or even appreciate your company . . .”