The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(97)

She swallowed. “So it’s not from . . . Portugal?”

“No, it’s from chasing you through the bloody dark. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I thought you were dead!” she cried.

He looked at her. “I’m not.”

“Well, I see that now.”

They stood there for several moments, watching each other from across the room. Not warily, just . . . with care.

“How did you get free?” she asked. She had so many questions, but this seemed the most important.

“Mr. Walpole arranged it. It took almost a fortnight, though. And then I needed several days in Lisbon to settle my affairs.”

“Senhor Farias?”

“He is well. His daughter had the baby. A boy.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. He must be so pleased.”

Andrew nodded, but his eyes stayed on hers in a way that reminded her that they had other things to discuss.

“What did everybody say?” she asked. “In the dining room?”

“Well, I think they’ve figured out that we know each other.”

A horrified laugh welled up in her throat. She looked over at the door—the one both she and Andrew had entered through. “Are they coming after us?”

“Not yet,” he said. “George has it minded.”

“George?”

Andrew shrugged. “He nodded when I looked at him and said his name as I left the room. I think he knew what I meant.”

“Brothers,” she said with a nod.

Another bolt of lightning shot through the air, and Poppy braced herself for the thunder. “My aunt is going to kill me,” she said.

“No.” Andrew waited through the boom. “But she’s going to have questions.”

“Questions.” Another hysterical bubble of laughter jumped within her. “Oh dear God.”

“Poppy.”

What was she going to say to her family? What was he going to say to his?

“Poppy .”

She looked at him.

“I’m going to start walking toward you,” he said.

Her lips parted. She wasn’t sure why he was saying this so explicitly. Or why it made her so nervous.

“Because,” he said, once he’d halved the distance between them, “if I don’t kiss you right now, I think . . . I might . . .”

“Die?” she whispered.

He nodded solemnly, and then he took her face in his hands, and he kissed her. He kissed her so long and so thoroughly she forgot everything, even the thunder and the lightning, which flashed and crashed around them. He kissed her until they were both breathless—literally—and they pulled apart, gasping as if they didn’t know which they needed more—air or each other.

“I love you, you stupid man,” she mumbled, swiping her arm across her face to mop up the tears and the sweat and God knew what else.

He stared at her, dumbfounded. “What did you say?”

“I said I love you, you stupid man, but I’m just so . . . bloody . . . angry right now.”

“With me?”

“With everyone.”

“But mostly with me?”

“With—” What? Her mouth fell open. “Do you want it to be mostly with you?”

“I’m just trying to figure out what I’m up against.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

He reached out and took her hand, twining their fingers one by one. “You did say that you love me.”

“Against my better judgment, I assure you.” But when she looked down at their hands, she realized she didn’t want him to let go. She didn’t want to let go.

And sure enough, his fingers seemed to tighten around hers. “Saying it was against your better judgment? Or actually falling in love?”

“Both. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. It’s just—I thought you were dead.”

“I know,” he said solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t know what that feels like.”

“I do,” he said. “A little. I did not know if you’d reached Mr. Walpole safely until I was rescued nearly two weeks later.”

Poppy went still. It had never occurred to her that he might have gone through the same anguish that she had. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Oh my God, I’m sorry. I’m so selfish.”

“No,” he said, and his voice shook just a little as he brought her hand to his mouth for a kiss. “No. You’re not. I’ve known you were safe since I spoke with Walpole. I was on my way to find you. I was going to leave in the morning. I thought you were in Dorset. Or maybe Somerset.”

“No, I was here,” she said, even though it was obvious.

He nodded, and his eyes glistened as he said, “I love you, Poppy.”

She wiped her nose inelegantly with the back of her hand. “I know.”

A surprised smile touched his face. “You do?”

“You’d have to, wouldn’t you? To have run after me? To argue with me like this?”

“I had no trouble arguing with you before I fell in love.”

“Well, that’s just you,” she muttered. “You’re very argumentative.”