The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(90)

Case in point: Georgie was presently striding across the lawn at a fierce clip, beaming as she approached. Poppy sighed. The last thing she wanted just then was to sit and have a conversation with someone so obviously cheerful.

Or any conversation, really.

“How long have you been out here?” Georgie asked once she’d sat down at Poppy’s side.

Poppy shrugged. “Not long. Twenty minutes, perhaps. Maybe a little more.”

“We have been invited to Crake for dinner this evening.”

Poppy nodded absently. Crake House was the home of the Earl of Manston. It was just a mile or so away. Her cousin—Georgie’s older sister Billie—lived there. She had married the earl’s heir.

“Lady Manston has returned from her trip to London,” Georgie explained. “And she’s brought Nicholas.”

Poppy nodded some more, just to show she was listening. Nicholas was the youngest Rokesby son. Poppy didn’t think she’d ever met him. She hadn’t met any of the Rokesby sons, actually, except for Billie’s husband, George. She thought there were four of them. Or maybe five.

She didn’t really wish to go out to dinner, even if it would be nice to see Billie. Supper on a tray in her room sounded delightful. And besides— “I haven’t anything to wear,” she told Georgie.

Georgie’s blue eyes narrowed. Poppy had woven a compelling tale (if she did say so herself) to explain her lack of luggage upon her arrival, but she had a feeling Georgie found the whole story most suspicious.

Georgiana Bridgerton was a lot shrewder than her family seemed to give her credit for. Poppy could easily imagine her sitting in her room, throwing mental darts at Poppy’s story, just to find the holes.

It wasn’t that Georgie was malicious. She was just curious.

A malady with which Poppy was well-acquainted.

“Don’t you think your trunk should have arrived by now?” Georgie asked.

“I do,” Poppy said with wide-eyed earnestness. “I’m shocked, in fact, that it hasn’t.”

“Maybe you should have taken the other lady’s trunk.”

“That doesn’t seem fair. I don’t think she took mine on purpose. And anyway”—Poppy leaned in with a bit of a smirk—“her taste in clothing was abysmal.”

Georgie eyed her skeptically.

“It’s better this way,” Poppy said blithely. “The coaching company said they would find her and make the switch.”

She had no idea if the coaching company would behave with such largesse; likely they would tell her it was her own fault for not noticing that someone had taken her trunk. But Poppy didn’t have to convince the coaching company, just her cousins.

“Lucky for me we’re of a size,” she said to Georgie. In actuality Poppy was an inch taller, but as long as they did not socialize, she could get away without adding lace to the hems of Georgie’s gowns.

“You don’t mind, do you?” Poppy asked.

“Of course not. I just think it’s strange.”

“Oh, it is. It absolutely is.”

Georgie’s face took on a thoughtful expression. “You don’t feel somewhat . . . rootless?”

“Rootless?” It was probably an innocent question, but Poppy was so tired, so just plain exhausted of trying to keep her stories straight. And it wasn’t like Georgie to wax philosophical, at least not with Poppy.

“I don’t know,” Georgie mused. “Not that things should be the measure of a person, but I can’t help but think it must be disorienting to be separated from one’s belongings.”

“Yes,” Poppy said slowly. “It is.” And yet, what she wouldn’t give to be back aboard the Infinity , where she’d had nothing but the clothes on her back.

And Andrew. For a brief moment, she’d had him too.

“Poppy?” Georgie asked with some alarm. “Are you crying?”

“Of course not,” Poppy sniffled.

“It’s all right if you are.”

“I know.” Poppy turned to brush away something on her cheek that was not moisture. “But it doesn’t matter because I’m not.”

“Ehrm . . .” Georgie seemed not to know what to do when confronted with a crying female. And why would she, Poppy thought. Her only sister was the indomitable Billie Rokesby, who once rode a horse backward for heaven’s sake. Poppy was fairly certain Billie had never cried a day in her life.

As for Poppy, she wasn’t sure when she’d shed a tear. She had been so proud of herself for not crying when she’d been hauled aboard the Infinity . At first, she supposed it was just because she was so bloody angry—the rage had blotted out everything else. After that, it was more because she refused to make such a show of weakness in front of Andrew.

She’d wagged her finger and told him he should thank his lucky stars that she wasn’t a crying sort of female. Now she almost laughed at that. Because all she wanted to do was cry.

And yet somehow the tears never came.

She felt as if everything inside her had been scooped out and left somewhere far, far behind. Maybe Portugal, maybe the Atlantic, thrown overboard on the miserable journey home. All she knew was that here, in England, she was numb.

“Hollow,” she whispered.

Beside her, Georgie turned. “Did you say something?”