The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(96)

“Portugal,” Andrew said, never taking his eyes from Poppy’s face.

“Portugal. Yes, of course. It must be lovely there this time of year.”

“It is,” Andrew said.

Finally, Poppy looked up.

“Miss Bridgerton,” he murmured. He pressed his lips to the back of her hand and held it longer than propriety allowed.

Her breathing was shallow; he could see it. But he could not tell what was in her eyes.

Anger?

Yearning?

Both?

“Captain,” she said quietly.

“Andrew,” he insisted as he released her hand.

“Andrew,” she said, unable to rip her gaze from his.

“Andrew!” his mother exclaimed.

Because it was far too soon for him to ask a lady to use his given name. They all knew that.

“Do allow Miss Bridgerton to take her seat,” his mother added. Her tone was studiously mild, signaling clearly that she had many questions.

He didn’t care. Poppy had just sat down right next to him. The world had become a very bright place indeed.

“You almost missed the soup, Miss Bridgerton,” Nicholas said.

“I—” Her voice cracked. She was clearly flustered. Andrew lost the battle to suppress his grin. But then he looked up and saw Lady Bridgerton looking very intently at Poppy, and his mother looking even more intently at him.

Oh yes, there would be questions.

“It’s very good,” Nicholas said, sending an awkward glance around the table. He clearly did not know what to make of the strange atmosphere. “Oyster bisque.”

A bowl was set down before Poppy. She stared at it as if looking away might cause her ruin.

“I love the soup,” he said to her.

He saw her swallow. Still, she stared down at her bowl.

He fixed his gaze on her face, willing her to look up as he said, “I really, truly love it.”

“Andrew,” admonished Billie, sitting across from him, “she hasn’t even had the chance to try it.”

Poppy didn’t move. He could see the tension in her shoulders. Everyone was watching her by now, and he knew he shouldn’t have put her at the center of attention, but he did not know what else to do.

Slowly, she picked up her spoon and dipped it into the oyster bisque.

“Do you like it?” Nicholas asked, once she’d taken a very small sip.

She nodded, a tiny, jerky motion. “It’s very good. Thank you.”

Andrew could no longer restrain himself. Under the table he reached out and took her hand.

She did not pull away.

Softly, he asked, “Do you think you might want more?”

Her neck seemed to go rigid, as if it was taking every ounce of her will just to hold herself steady. And then she seemed to snap. Her chair lurched backward as she ripped her hand from his.

“I really really love the soup,” she cried out. “But I also hate it so much .”

And she ran from the room.



Poppy had no idea where she was going. She’d never been to Crake House, but weren’t all these grand homes somewhat the same? There would be a long row of public rooms and if she just kept running through them she’d end up . . .

Somewhere.

She didn’t even know why she was running. She only knew that she couldn’t remain in that dining room for one second longer, with everyone looking at her, and Andrew saying how much he loved the soup, and they both knew he wasn’t talking about soup, and it was all just too much.

He was alive.

He was alive and—goddamn it —he was a Rokesby. How could he have kept that from her?

And now—and now—

Had she just told him that she loved him?

Had she just said it in front of his family and hers?

Either that, or the entire county of Kent would soon think she’d gone stark, raving mad.

Which was also possible.

To wit: she was running blindly through the home of the Earl of Manston, she could not see a thing for the tears streaming down her face, and she had just wailed something about soup.

She was never eating soup again. Never.

She skidded around a corner into what looked like a smaller drawing room and paused briefly to catch her breath. The rain was still coming down, hard now, and it beat against the window in a furious tattoo.

It beat against the whole house. Zeus or Thor or whatever god was in charge this miserable day hated her.

“Poppy!”

She jumped. It was Andrew.

“Poppy!” he bellowed.

She looked frantically around the room. She wasn’t ready to see him.

“Poppy!”

He was getting closer. She heard a stumble, then a crash, followed by “Bloody hell.”

She almost laughed. She might have smiled a little.

She was still crying, though.

“Pop—”

Lightning streaked through the sky, and for a split second the entire room was illuminated. There was the door!

Poppy ran toward it, flinching when thunder cracked the night open. Good heavens, that was loud.

“There you are,” Andrew growled from the opposite doorway. “Jesus Christ, Poppy, would you hold still?”

She paused with her hand at the door. “Are you limping?”

“I think I broke my mother’s favorite vase.”