The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(81)

“Precisely.” Andrew was pleased by her swift grasp of the situation, and yet at the same time, slightly pricked that she was quite so eager to depart.

Still, if he did manage to get her out, she would not be returning to rescue him. He had connections in Lisbon who could get her back to England; he needed only to deliver her to them.

Or as the case would likely be, she needed to deliver herself.

He thought of all the causes he’d thought were worth dying for. Not a one of them meant a thing compared to the life of this woman.

Was this love? Could it be? All he knew was that he could no longer conceive of a future without her.

She was laughter.

She was joy.

And she might die because he’d been too bloody selfish to leave her on the ship.

He’d known it was safer to keep her on board. He’d known it, and still he’d brought her ashore.

He’d wanted to see her smile. No, it was far more selfish than that. He’d wanted to be her hero. He’d wanted her to look at him with worship in her eyes, to think the sun rose and set on his face.

He closed his eyes. He had to make this up to her. He had to protect her.

She wasn’t his to protect, and now she might never be, but he would see her safe.

Even if it was the last thing he did.



Andrew was not sure how long they sat in silence, resting side by side at the head of the bed. Every now and then he thought Poppy might say something—she would make one of those small but sharp and sudden moves, as if she were about to speak. Finally, just when he thought they’d settled into the stillness of the night, she spoke.

“Do you recall what I said last night, about that being my first kiss?”

He froze. How could he forget?

“Captain—”

“Andrew,” he cut in. If indeed this was their last night, he was damn well going to spend it with someone who called him by his name.

“Andrew,” she repeated, and it felt like she was trying it out on her tongue. “It suits you.”

It seemed an odd thing to say. “You knew that was my name,” he pointed out.

“I know. But it’s different to say it.”

He wasn’t sure he understood what she meant by that. He wasn’t sure she knew either. But it was important. Somehow they both knew that.

“You were talking about the kiss,” he said quietly.

She nodded, and he could see tension in her throat as she swallowed. She was nervous; of course she was. He himself was terrified. This was not the first time he’d found himself in a dangerous situation. It was not even the first time he’d thought he might die.

But it was the first time he thought he might take an innocent soul with him.

“It was my first kiss,” she said, “and it was lovely. But I know there’s more.”

“More?” he echoed. He cast a wary look at her.

“Not more more. I know a bit of that.”

“You know a bit of . . . what?”

“Not know know.”

“Dear God,” he said under his breath.

“I know what happens between a husband and wife,” she said, almost as if she wished to reassure him.

He could only stare. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but are you trying to tell me that you know know?”

“Of course not!” She flushed; even in the dim light of their candle he could see that.

“Surely you can see my confusion.”

“Honestly,” she muttered, and he could not tell if she was embarrassed or chagrined.

He let out a breath. Surely this was the end of the conversation. He’d not led a saintly life, but he’d done nothing to deserve this .

But no. Poppy pressed her lips together, and in an uncharacteristically officious voice said, “My cousin told me.”

He cleared his throat. “Your cousin told you.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Why do you keep repeating everything I say?”

Because he had a feeling he was going stark, raving—

“It’s probably a sign of how much I do not wish to have this conversation,” he said instead.

She ignored this. “My cousin Billie is married, and—”

He fought the urge to howl with bitter, inappropriate laughter. He knew Billie Bridgerton—Billie Rokesby now. She was his sister-in-law and one of his oldest friends.

“Billie is a woman,” Poppy said, obviously misinterpreting the horror on Andrew’s face. “It’s a very unusual nickname, I know. But it suits her. Her given name is Sybilla.”

“Of course it is,” he muttered.

She looked at him with a queer expression. Or rather, she looked at him as if he had a queer expression. Which he undoubtedly did. He felt a little sick, to be honest. She was talking about Billie, and if there had ever been a time for him to tell her who he really was, this was it.

And yet he couldn’t do it.

Or maybe he could.

Would it make her safer? Could the knowledge of his true identity somehow give her a tool that would help her get home? Or was the opposite true? Perhaps she was better left in the dark.

“Andrew. Andrew!”

He blinked.

“You’re not listening to me. This is important.”

Everything was important now. Every moment.