The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(55)

Her hands wiggled in the air, still sculpting.

So . . . defined.

Poppy had taken drawing classes of course; all young ladies did. Her instructor had talked about the muscles of the body, but he’d never mentioned the ones on a man’s chest. What were they called?

She glanced at Captain James’s bookshelf. Somehow she doubted she’d find the answer in Agrarian Masterpieces of Kent .

Poppy moved closer to the window. She didn’t think anyone would be able to see her from the dock. It was much brighter outside than in.

“How old are you?” she wondered. José was taking a break now, sitting atop one of the crates he’d just moved. He didn’t look very much older than she was. Certainly not more than thirty. And he had all his hair. It was dark—darker than the captain’s, of course—but just as thick. It would probably also have that soft, springy quality.

She’d touched the captain’s hair a few days earlier when the ocean had taken a dip and set her off balance. She’d lurched forward and grabbed the first thing she could, which turned out to be the captain’s head.

It was entirely accidental, of course.

José’s hair had a similar wave. Poppy decided she liked it. If the breeze hit it just so, it would fall rakishly over his forehead. There had been a gentleman like that in London, and all the ladies had swooned. There was something about a mussed man, one of Poppy’s acquaintances had said. It meant he was so very vigorous . Poppy had thought she was talking her usual nonsense, but now, looking at José, vigor was taking on an entirely new meaning.

She had a feeling José was most vigorous.

He was handsome, her José. Nothing on the captain, of course, but not every man could be as beautiful as Andrew James.

“But José,” she said aloud, “I think you come close.”

“Close to what?”

Poppy jumped nearly a foot, nearly knocking her teacup off the table. Captain James was standing by the door, watching her with arched eyebrows and an amused expression.

“You didn’t knock!” she accused.

“I did,” he said plainly. “And who’s José?”

Poppy just stared at him like an idiot, which was probably not a bad thing, since she doubted she could have managed anything that was either intelligent or nonincriminating. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard him knock.

Or the door opening.

Or closing.

She cleared her throat and bid him good morning. It seemed the best course of action.

But Captain James was undeterred. “What are you watching that has you so entranced?”

“Nothing!” she said, far too loudly. “I mean, just the docks, of course. I’m sure it’s not interesting to you , but it’s the first thing I’ve had a chance to look at that’s not just water.”

He took off his tricorn hat. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course not.”

He acknowledged this with a slightly sardonic nod, then ambled over to join her at the window. Poppy found herself trying not to squirm as he tilted his head to the side and perused the scene.

“It looks like an ordinary day loading cargo,” he said.

Poppy resisted the urge to babble some sort of agreement and instead just made a few meaningless noises and nodded.

Outside, José had gone back to work, but thankfully Captain James was looking elsewhere. He motioned with his hand toward a nearby ship and said, “The Marabella ’s off to South America tomorrow.”

“Really? That sounds exciting.”

“It’s a longer voyage than I’ve ever made.”

“I imagine so,” Poppy responded, trying to keep her attention from wandering back to José, who was still laboring without a shirt.

“I don’t think I’d want to do it,” the captain said, his tone thoughtful.

“You could see Cape Horn,” Poppy pointed out.

He shrugged. “Hardly anyone goes that far south. The Marabella is heading for Salvador.”

“Salvador?” Poppy echoed. José was walking right toward her.

“In Brazil,” the captain confirmed.

Poppy tried to remember if Salvador had been marked on the dissected map, but out of the corner of her eye she saw José stretching again, and— “Why, Miss Bridgerton,” the captain drawled, “are you ogling a naked man?”

“He’s not naked,” Poppy retorted.

In retrospect, it would have been far wiser to have denied the other part of the question.

Captain James smiled. Broadly. “So you are ogling him.”

“I’m not ogling anyone.”

“He does look like a fine specimen of man,” the captain said, stroking his chin.

“Stop.”

“Very muscular.”

Poppy’s face began to burn. “Stop .”

“Now I understand,” the captain said with unmistakable delight. “That’s José!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Poppy mumbled.

“You chose well, Miss Bridgerton. He seems a hard worker.”

Poppy wanted to die.

He patted her shoulder. “Very industrious, your José.”

“How could I possibly know his name?”