The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(82)

“My apologies,” he said. “My thoughts are racing.”

“As are mine!”

He took a moment to compose himself. It didn’t work. He took a breath, then another, then adopted a bland expression and looked her in the eye. “How can I help you?” he said.

His resolute affability seemed to take her off guard. But only for a moment.

And then Andrew saw his downfall unfold on her face.

Was it possible that he’d once thought that he loved to watch her think? He was an idiot, clearly.

Her lips parted and then pursed. Her gaze flitted up and to the right as was so often her habit. She turned her head—not a tilt but a turn—to the side.

He’d seen her do all these things. He’d thought them enchanting. But now, as she turned back to look at him, her dark eyelashes sweeping up until her green gaze met his, he knew that his life was about to be forever altered.

“Kiss me,” she said.

He froze.

“Please,” she added, as if that were the reason he had made no response. “I know there is more to a kiss.”

Her words hung in the air. It was like one of those awkward moments when all conversation stops, and one person is talking too loudly, and then everyone hears a shout.

Except Poppy had not been shouting.

“Isn’t there?” she asked.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t even bring himself to nod.

“If I’m going to die, I’d like to have a proper kiss.”

“Poppy,” he finally managed to say. “I—”

She looked at him expectantly, and God help him, his gaze dropped to her lips.

The universal signal.

He wanted to kiss her so bad.

But he said, “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Of course it isn’t. But I want to do it, anyway.”

So did he. But wasn’t going to.

One of them was insane. He was sure of it. He just didn’t know which.

“Do you not want to kiss me?” she asked.

He nearly burst out in laughter at that. Not want to kiss her? At that moment he wanted it more than he wanted to breathe .

“I want— Bloody hell, Poppy, I want—” He swore, again, and the vehemence of it seemed to turn his head. He looked past his shoulder, down to the hard wood floor. His words, when he found them, felt ripped from his soul. “I’ve already wronged you in so many ways.”

“Oh, now you’re trying to be a gentleman.”

“Yes,” he practically barked. “Yes, I am. And my God you’re making it difficult.”

She smiled.

“Don’t,” he warned.

“It’s just a kiss,” she said.

“That’s your tactic now?” He mimicked her tone. “It’s just a kiss .”

She deflated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never tried to convince a man to kiss me before.”

Andrew closed his eyes and groaned. This need he felt for her—it had been simmering for days, a low, steady flame he knew how to control.

Until now.

He might be able to withstand her if they were back on the ship. Or if the flicker of the candlelight didn’t send such tantalizing shadows dancing across her chest.

He could stay firm if they weren’t sitting on a bed, for God’s sake, if she had not turned to him with those perfect lips and endless green eyes and asked him to kiss her.

That slow burn . . . the one so quiet and constant he’d almost gotten used to it . . .

It wasn’t quiet anymore.

“If I kiss you,” he said, each word its own brand of torture, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”

“Of course you will,” she said, almost brightly.

He could only stare. Was she trying to reassure him?

“You’re a gentleman,” she said, as if that were enough explanation for her. “You will stop the moment I ask you to.”

He let out a rough, humorless laugh. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

It took a moment for him to realize that his head was shaking in disbelief. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said hoarsely. Hell, he wasn’t sure he knew what he was saying either. He barely knew what he was thinking right now.

But she was undeterred. “I know exactly what I’m saying, and I know you .”

“Poppy . . .”

“Earlier today you said that I know you as well as anyone. I’m telling you, I know that you will stop the moment I ask you to.”

And then, before he could formulate a reply, she said, “You will probably stop before I ask you to.”

“Christ ,” he burst out, practically jumping off the bed. “You have no idea. No bloody idea. Do you know anything of what it means to be a man?”

“I might die,” she whispered.

“That’s no reason to barter away your innocence.”

She climbed down from the bed and stood in front of him. “All I want is a kiss.”

He grabbed her. Pulled her close. “It won’t be just a kiss, Poppy. It could never be just a kiss between us.”

And then—God help him—she whispered, “I know.”