The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(67)

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes shining almost emerald with her curiosity. “Who are you?”

It wasn’t the first time she’d uttered the question. It wasn’t even the first time she’d done so in that same incredulous voice. But it was the first time his response was something more than a flashed grin or condescending chuckle.

It was the first time the answer had to be teased out of his heart.

“It’s an odd thing,” he said, and he could hear in his voice that the words were coming from some untapped corner of his spirit, “but I think you know me as well as anyone now.”

She went still, and when she looked at him, it was with an astonishingly direct gaze. “I don’t know you at all.”

“Is that what you think?” he murmured. She didn’t know his true name, and she didn’t know his history, or that he’d grown up alongside her cousins in Kent. She didn’t know that he was the son of an earl, or that he worked clandestinely for the crown.

She didn’t know any of these details, but she knew him . He had the most terrifying feeling that she might be the first person who ever had.

But then he realized that it wasn’t terrifying at all, that he thought it should be terrifying, but in reality it was . . .

Rather nice.

His family had always viewed him as something of a jokester, and he supposed he had done little to convince them otherwise. He had been sent down from Eton on multiple occasions—never for academic failings, though. He had been far too restless a boy to earn top marks, that was true, but he’d acquitted himself tolerably well in his studies.

His transgressions had always been of the behavioral variety. A prank intended for a friend that somehow ended on the doorstep of a tutor. A prank intended for a tutor that somehow ended on the doorstep of the head of school. Inappropriate laughter in the dining hall. Inappropriate laughter in church. Inappropriate laughter, frankly, just about everywhere.

So if his family saw him as silly, or at the very least unserious, he supposed they had cause.

But that wasn’t all he was. He did important things. Important things that no one knew about, but that couldn’t be helped.

It didn’t bother him.

Well, it didn’t bother him much.

He looked across the table at Poppy, marveling that all of this had flashed through his mind in under a second.

“Do you think you know me ?” she asked.

“I do.” He didn’t even need to think about it.

She let out a snort. “That’s preposterous.”

“I know you like puzzles,” he said.

“Everyone likes—”

“No they don’t,” he cut in. “Not like you and me.”

His vehemence seemed to surprise her.

“I also know,” he said, “that if you set yourself a task, you cannot rest until you have completed it.” At her nonplussed expression he added, “Again, not everyone is that way. Even among those of us who like puzzles.”

“You’re the same,” she said, a touch defensively.

“I’m aware.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.”

Her chin rose a notch. “Nor me.”

He couldn’t help but be amused by her attitude. “I’m not accusing you of something nefarious. To my mind, it’s a compliment.”

“Oh.” She blushed a little, and it was really rather entertaining the way she seemed to fidget within herself, as if she couldn’t quite absorb the praise. “What else do you think you know about me?” she asked.

He felt himself smile. “Fishing for compliments?”

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “I have no reason to expect that your answers will be uniformly flattering.”

“Very well.” He thought for a moment. “I know that you don’t like to hide your intelligence.”

“When have you ever known me to do so?”

“Precisely,” he said. “But you haven’t had to. I know enough of society to know that you’re under far different strictures in London than on the Infinity .”

“I should say I’m under no strictures,” she said pertly, “except for the one that confines me to one cabin.”

“Says the lady dining in a Lisbon café.”

“Touché,” she admitted, and he thought she might be biting back a smile.

He leaned toward her, just a bit. “I know that you can’t speak French, that you don’t get seasick, and that you miss your brother Roger with all your heart.”

She looked up, her eyes somber.

“I know that you adored him even though he tortured you as all good older brothers do, and I know that he loved you back far more fiercely than you ever knew.”

“You can’t know that,” she whispered.

“Of course I can.” He tipped his head, quirked a brow. “I’m a brother too.”

Her lips parted, but she seemed not to know what to say.

“I know you’re loyal,” he said.

“How could you know that?”

He shrugged. “I just do.”

“But you—”

“—have spent much of the last week in your company. I do not need to witness a display of loyalty to know that it is a characteristic you possess.”