The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(40)

“I know,” he said. She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

He didn’t want her to finish the sentence.

But she did anyway. “You shouldn’t think that I forgive you.”

He knew that too, but as blows went, it was still spectacularly well aimed.

And surprisingly deep.

He stood. “I should go.”

She didn’t say anything until he reached the door. Her good manners must have got the best of her, though, because before he could leave she said, “Thank you again. For the puzzle.”

“You’re most welcome. I hope you enjoy it.”

“I will. I . . .” She swallowed. “I am.”

He bowed, a crisp, regimented dip of his chin that offered every respect he had to give.

And then he got the hell out of the cabin.



Andrew was already on deck before he took a moment to pause and take a breath. He hadn’t meant to leave so suddenly, but Miss Bridgerton had got under his skin, and— Oh bloody hell, who did he think he was kidding? He hadn’t even been planning to go down to his cabin until evening, but for some idiot reason he’d wanted to see how she was getting on with the puzzle, and then he’d had to make up an excuse for his being there.

He didn’t even know what he’d grabbed from his wardrobe. He reached into his pocket and pulled out . . .

A pair of his smalls.

Good God.

He briefly considered tossing them over the side. The last thing he needed was one of his men coming across him holding his undergarments like some sort of demented laundress.

But he could not bring himself to dispose of a perfectly good piece of clothing just because she . . .

No, because he . . .

It was certainly not because they . . .

He balled up the linen and shoved it in his pocket.

This , he thought. This was the curse his men kept yammering about. A woman on board wasn’t going to cause lightning to strike the mast or bring on a plague of rats and locusts. Instead, he would go mad. By the time they reached Portugal he’d have lost half his mind, and by the time they made it back to England he’d be a stark, raving lunatic.

Stark. Raving —

“Something wrong, Captain?”

Andrew looked up, not even wanting to imagine what expression he’d made so that one of his men felt emboldened to inquire such a thing. A newish young sailor named John Wilson was just a few feet away, watching him with either curiosity or concern, Andrew couldn’t tell which.

“Nothing,” Andrew said sharply.

Wilson’s already ruddy cheeks took on more color and he gave a jerky nod. “’Course. M’pologies for asking.”

Bloody hell, now Andrew felt the worst sort of heel. “Er, what duty have you today?” he asked, hoping the show of interest would take the sting out of his previous tone. Besides, the inquiry was not out of character. It was entirely normal that he might ask this upon coming across one of his men.

When he didn’t have a pair of his own smalls stuffed in his pocket.

Because he couldn’t admit he’d wanted to see a girl.

God in heaven, this voyage could not be over soon enough.

“Been aloft,” Wilson said, with a nod toward the rigging. “Checking the ropes.”

Andrew cleared his throat. “All in order?”

“Yes, sir. Only one in need of repair, and it wasn’t nothing serious.”

“Excellent.” Andrew cleared his throat. “Well. I won’t be keeping you.”

“It’s no trouble, sir. My shift just ended. I was just heading below. It’s my turn for a hammock.”

Andrew gave a nod. Like many similar ships, the hammocks were shared. The men did not all sleep at the same time; they could not. The bridge could never be left unattended, and a skeletal portion of the crew was required to work through the night. The wind did not stop when the sun went down.

The sleeping quarters were already crowded. It would have been a waste of space to have provided hammocks enough for every sailor to have his own. Andrew wasn’t sure what sort of rotation the men had worked out to share them. He’d seen it done in different ways on different ships. But regardless, he had not been joking when he told Poppy he refused to sleep below. He’d done his time in the hammocks, back when he’d first entered the navy.

He was captain of the Infinity . He’d earned the right not to sleep in some other man’s sweaty ropes.

But Mr. Carroway’s spare berth would have to do for the rest of the voyage. Andrew was no stranger to discomfort, but why sleep on the floor when there was a perfectly good bed across the hall? Maybe not as nice as his bed, but as his bed was currently occupied by Poppy Bridgerton . . .

His bed.

Poppy Bridgerton.

Something clenched within him. Something suspiciously close to lust.

“No,” he said aloud. “No.”

“Captain?”

Bloody hell, Wilson had still been in earshot.

“Nothing!” Andrew snapped, this time not caring if he scared the piss out of the man with his tone.

Wilson scurried away, and Andrew was left alone.

With a terrible sense of foreboding.

And a pair of underwear in his pocket.





Chapter 11




The next few days passed without incident. Poppy finished the puzzle, took it apart, and then put it together again. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying the second time, but it was a better pastime than her other options, which, since she had already finished reading the bookshelf’s sole work of fiction, consisted of such gems as Engineering Methods of the Ancient Ottomans and Agrarian Masterpieces of Kent .