The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(98)

He leaned his forehead on hers. “Poppy Louise Bridgerton, will you marry me?”

She tried to speak. She tried to nod, but she didn’t quite seem to have control over herself, and anyway, right at that moment they heard the sound of people coming their way.

Lots of people.

“Wait,” Andrew said. “Don’t answer yet. Come with me.”

Anywhere , she thought as he took her hand. Anywhere.



They did not get far. Even Andrew had to admit that there could be no debauchery with his mother, his father, two of his brothers, two of her cousins, and her aunt and uncle all bearing down on them.

As Andrew had predicted, there were questions. The interrogation had taken over two hours, and by the end of it, he and Poppy had told their families everything.

Almost everything.

In the initial commotion, though, Andrew had managed to pull Lord Bridgerton aside to assure him that he fully intended to marry Poppy.

But he did not want his proposal to take place in a crowded drawing room. Or worse, immediately following an angry demand from her relatives.

They agreed that Andrew would call upon her the following morning, but as it turned out, the Bridgertons could leave that night. The thunderstorm took a violent turn, and it was not deemed safe for them to make even the short journey home.

Which was how Andrew came to be standing outside the door to Poppy’s bedroom a few hours past midnight.

He couldn’t sleep. And neither, he suspected, could she.

The door opened before he could knock.

“I heard you outside,” she whispered.

“Impossible.” He had been moving with great stealth, well aware that hers was not the only bedroom on this hall.

“I might have been listening for you,” she admitted.

He grinned as he stepped inside. “You’re very resourceful.”

She was wearing a white nightgown—whose, he did not know—and her hair had been twisted into a sleeping plait.

He reached out for the end.

“Are you going to pull my hair?” she murmured.

“Maybe.” He gave it a tiny tug, just enough to urge her forward by half a step. “Or,” he said, his voice growing low and husky with need, “I might finally indulge myself.”

She looked at the tip of her braid, and then up at him, her eyes bright with amusement.

He started to unwind the three sections, slowly, savoring the silky strands that played across his fingers until the whole length of it spilled across her shoulders.

She was so beautiful. The entire time he was back in Lisbon, in that godforsaken room waiting for rescue, he’d thought of her. He’d closed his eyes and pictured her face—her impish smile, the way her eyes seemed extra green just before the sun went down.

But his imagination was nothing next to the real thing.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” she whispered, and it sang through his heart.

They kissed, and they laughed, and the rain beat steadily against the window. It seemed fitting somehow, but not because it was stormy.

It was because here, inside this room, they were warm and safe.

And together.

“I have a question,” he said, after they’d tumbled onto her bed.

“Oh?”

“Can we agree that I’ve thoroughly ruined you?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it ruined,” she said with faux thoughtfulness. “That would seem to imply I’m upset about the outcome.”

He rolled his hand in the air, palm down to palm up. “Nevertheless . . .”

“And not to put too fine a point on it, but the only people who have any idea that something untoward occurred are your family and mine. Surely they would not breathe a word of hurtful gossip.”

“True, but we mustn’t forget Mr. Walpole.”

“Hmmm. He’s a problem.”

“A huge problem.”

“But then again,” she said, clearly enjoying the conversation, “he’s quite bullish on national security. I don’t think he would ever acknowledge having met me.”

“So you don’t want to invite him to the wedding.”

“The wedding?”

He leaned in. Wolfishly. “I did ruin you.”

“I believe we were still debating that.”

“It’s settled fact,” he said firmly. “More to the point, we need to decide what to do about now .”

“Now?”

He nipped at her bottom lip. “I very much wish to make love to you.”

“You do?” Her voice came out a bit like a squeak. He thought it delightful.

“I do,” he confirmed. “And while I do understand that it is not quite de rigueur to anticipate our vows in such a thorough manner—”

“A thorough manner?” she repeated. But she was smiling. She was definitely smiling.

“When I make love to you,” he said, “I hope to do it very thoroughly.”

She caught her lip between her teeth. It made him want to bite her.

Good Lord, she was practically turning him feral.

He crawled over her, grinning as she giggled.

“Quiet,” he whispered. “Your reputation . . .”