The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(50)

“There’s a difference?”

“I think so. Perhaps what I mean is that I’d like to be the type of person who wants to do such things. I think someone like that would be brilliant at parties, don’t you?”

Andrew was dubious. “So you’re saying your goal is to be brilliant at parties.”

“No, of course not. My current goal is to avoid such gatherings at all costs. That’s why I was in Charmouth, if you must know.”

“I suppose I must,” he murmured, mostly because there didn’t seem any other appropriate response.

She gave him a look that was half peeved and half indulgent before carrying on. “What I’m trying to say is that if I went to a ball and met someone who had been to Ethiopia on purpose—”

“On purpose? ”

“I don’t think it counts if one goes under duress .”

Andrew turned her around. He needed to see her face. It was far too difficult to follow the conversation otherwise.

He studied her, looking for what, he did not know. Signs of mischief? Of madness? “I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about,” he finally admitted.

She laughed, and it was a glorious thing. “I’m sorry, I’m not being terribly clear. But that’s your own fault for leaving me to my own devices for so long. I’ve had far too much time to do nothing but think.”

“And this has led you to sweeping conclusions about social discourse and the Ethiopian Empire?”

“It has.” She said it quite grandly, stepping back as if that might broaden her stage. Not that there was anyone else to listen; they’d passed only two crewmembers on the way to the beakhead, and both men had wisely made themselves scarce.

It wasn’t often they saw their captain hand-in-hand with a lady, even if it was just so he could pull her along behind him.

But Poppy’s step back meant that he had to release his hold on her hips, which was a damn shame.

When she was confident of his attention, she made her pronouncement. “There are two types of people in this world.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“For the purposes of this conversation, yes. There are people who want to visit Ethiopia, and people who don’t.”

Andrew fought very hard to maintain an even expression. He failed.

“You laugh,” she said, “but it’s true.”

“I’m sure it must be.”

“Just listen to me. Some of us have an adventurous, wandering soul, and some of us don’t.”

“And you think a person has to want to travel to the east of Africa to prove he has a thirst for adventure?”

“No, of course not, but as an indicator—”

“You, Miss Bridgerton, have an adventurous soul.”

She drew back with a pleased smile. “Do you think so?”

He swept his arm through the air, motioning to the sea and the sky, to their spot at the bow of a cleverly crafted pile of wood that could somehow carry them from one land to another, across liquid depths no man could withstand on his own.

“It doesn’t count if it’s under duress,” she reminded him.

Enough. He planted his hands on her shoulders. “There are two types of people in this world,” he told her. “The ones who would curl up in a ball and sob their way through this sort of unexpected voyage, and—”

“Those who wouldn’t?” she interrupted.

He shook his head, and he felt the tiniest of smiles tugging at his lips as he touched her cheek. “I was going to say you .”

“So it’s me against the world?”

“No,” he said, and something began to tumble inside him. He was weightless, and it was like the time he’d fallen from a tree, except there was nothing below, just an empty expanse of space and her .

“No,” he said again. “I think I’m on your side.”

Her eyes grew wide, and although it was clearly too dark to make out the color of her irises, it still somehow felt as if he could see it, the dark moss giving way to flecks of something paler. Younger, like new shoots in the grass.

Something light and luminous began to rise within him. That heady, fizzy feeling of infatuation, of flirtation and desire.

No, not desire. Or not just desire.

Anticipation.

The moment before . When you could feel the beat of your heart in every corner of your body, when every breath felt as if it reached all the way down to your toes. When nothing could quite compare to the perfect curve of a woman’s lips.

“If I kissed you,” he whispered, “would you let me?”

Her eyes grew soft, with something like amusement.

Amusement?

“If you kissed me,” she replied, “I would not have the opportunity to let you or not let you. It would be done.”

Trust this one to split hairs. He would not allow her to get out of the question so cleanly.

“If I leaned toward you, like this . . .” He followed his words with actions, and the space between their faces grew smaller. “And if my eyes dropped to your mouth, in what we all know is a universal signal that one is pondering a kiss, what would you do?”

She licked her lips. He doubted she even realized that she’d done so. “I’m not sure,” she whispered.