The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(86)

“Did I hurt you?” she asked, confused.

“No, I’m just . . . a little . . .” He adjusted his position. “Uncomfortable.”

Poppy frowned at the cryptic words, until—

She swallowed awkwardly. How selfish she was. “You didn’t . . .”

She couldn’t finish the sentence. He would know what she meant.

“It’s all right,” he said.

She wasn’t sure that it was, though. If this was their final night on earth, shouldn’t he get to experience the same pleasure that she had?

“You . . .” She had no idea how to say this, wasn’t even sure if she meant it. “Maybe I—”

“Poppy .”

There was something in his voice. She went silent.

“There is a chance that you will reach safety and I won’t,” he said.

“Don’t say that,” she whispered, tugging her dress back over her shoulders. She sat up. This was the sort of conversation for which one ought to be upright. “We are both going to escape.”

Or neither , she thought. But she would not give voice to that. Not now.

“I’m sure that’s true,” he said in a tone that she knew was meant to reassure. “But I’ll not leave you with an illegitimate child.”

Poppy swallowed and nodded, wondering why she felt so hollow when he had done exactly what she’d asked of him. He’d shown far more sense and restraint than she had. Just as she’d predicted, he had stopped before she’d asked him to. He had known, even when she did not, that if he had pressed forward, she would not have refused him.

She would have welcomed it and hang the consequences.

She could no longer deny the truth exploding in her heart. She loved him. And even now, knowing that she might indeed reach safety without him, some very impractical corner of her heart wanted to take a piece of him with her.

Her hand went to her abdomen, to the spot where there was most assuredly not a child.

“It turns out you were right about me,” Andrew said. His lips curved into a tiny smile, but he sounded sad. Sad and ironic.

Regretful.

“I am a gentleman,” he said. “And I will not compromise you if I cannot give you the protection of my name.”

Poppy James . She could be Poppy James.

It was strange to her ears, and yet somehow lovely.

Maybe not impossible.

But not likely.

“Poppy, listen to me,” Andrew said, his voice taking on a new, sudden urgency. “I’m going to give you an address. You must memorize it.”

Poppy nodded. She could do that.

“It is the home of the British envoy.”

“The Brit—”

“Please,” he said, holding up a hand. “Let me finish. His name is Mr. Walpole. You must go alone and tell him I sent you.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You know the British envoy?”

He nodded once, curtly.

Her lips parted, and the silence between them stretched taut. “You’re not just a ship’s captain, are you?”

His eyes met hers. “Not just, no.”

She had a hundred questions. And a thousand theories. She was not sure if she was angry—or if she was, whether she even had a right to be. After all, why would he have told her about his secret life? She’d come aboard as a prisoner. He’d had no reason to trust her until recently.

But still, it pricked.

She waited, holding her tongue for a moment or two, hoping he would elaborate. But he did not.

When she finally spoke, her words felt stiff. “What else should I tell him?”

“Everything that has happened since we docked,” he said. “Tell him precisely what happened at the Taberna da Torre. To me, to you, to Senhor Farias and Billy. Everyone.”

She nodded.

He got out of bed and pulled on his shirt. “You must also tell him who you are.”

“What? No! I don’t want anyone to know who—”

“Your name carries weight,” he said sharply. “If ever there was a time you must use it, it is now.”

She got down from the bed; it felt awkward to be so indolent while he was pacing about the room. “Won’t it be enough that I’m a gentlewoman?”

“Probably. But the Bridgerton name will lend greater urgency to the matter.”

She acquiesced. “Very well.” It could end in disaster for her, but if it meant Andrew had a greater chance of rescue, she would tell the British envoy who she was.

“Good,” Andrew said briskly. “Now listen, there is one more thing you must say.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“You must say that you long for blue skies.”

“Blue skies?” Poppy gave a dubious frown. “Why?”

Andrew’s eyes bore down on hers. “What will you say to him?”

“Is it some sort of code? It must be a code.”

He closed the distance between them and his hands landed heavily on her shoulders, forcing her to look up at him. “What will you say to him?” he repeated.

“Stop! Fine. I’ll say that I long for blue skies.”

He nodded, slowly, and with something that almost looked like relief.

“But what does it mean?” she asked.