The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

“How did you do that?” he murmured.

  Poppy wasn’t sure what he was asking, but she didn’t care. She brought her arms back up to his neck, the motion causing her hips to tilt forward, pressing against his powerful thighs.

  “Poppy,” he moaned. “My God, Poppy.”

  “Andrew,” she whispered. She’d used his name so infrequently. It felt like a caress on her lips.

  “I love your hair,” he said, using it to tug her face toward his. “Every night it was torture, watching you taking it down and braiding it.”

  “But I tried to do that when you weren’t watching.”

  “Tried,” he emphasized. “I’m a sneaky bastard. I couldn’t decide how I liked it best. Down, so I could watch the play of light on every strand”—he dropped the lock in his hand, letting it bounce against her back—“or up, so I could imagine taking the pins out myself.”

  “What about the braid?”

  “Oh, I loved that too. You have no idea how much I wanted to pull it.”

  “So you could dip it in a pot of ink?” she teased, remembering how her brothers had liked to do that to her.

  “Now that would be a crime,” he murmured. “Didn’t I just tell you I love to watch all the colors?” He ran his fingers through her hair. Poppy couldn’t imagine what he found so interesting, but he clearly loved it, and God help her, it made her feel beautiful.

  “At first,” he said, bringing the ends to his lips for a kiss, “I wanted to yank it because you were so . . . bloody . . . annoying.”

  “And now?”

  He pulled her more tightly against him. “Now you vex me in a different way.”

  Poppy felt her body arch, instinctively seeking his heat. He was hard, and strong—every bit of him—and she felt the evidence of his desire pressing insistently against her belly.

  She knew something of the mechanics of intercourse. As Andrew liked to tease, she was curious about everything. When her cousin Billie told her a little bit of what to expect when she married, Poppy had been confused enough that she asked for more details. Honestly, it had not made much sense the first time Billie had explained it.

  But then, with a lot less embarrassment than Poppy would have predicted, Billie had explained that the male member changed when it became aroused. It lengthened, it grew harder. And then when it was done, it went back to normal.

  Poppy had thought this most peculiar. Imagine if some part of her mutated when she felt passion or desire. She’d laughed at the thought of her ears suddenly developing points or her hair springing up into curls. Billie had laughed too, but it had been a different kind of laughter—not unkind, just different. She told Poppy that some things could not be explained, only experienced.

  Poppy had been dubious, but now it almost made sense. She felt so different on the inside that it was impossible to believe she might be physically unchanged. Her breasts felt heavy, and yes, bigger. Her nipples had ruched into tight peaks, much like when the temperature dropped, and when his hand had skimmed across the material of her bodice, not even touching her skin, it had sent jolts of electricity to her very core.

  That had not happened the last time she’d been cold.

  She felt hungry . . . hungry at her core. She wanted to wrap her legs around him and pull him close. She wanted to feel that hardness pressed against her. She needed contact. She needed pressure.

  She needed him.

  As if he’d read her mind, his hands dipped past her bottom to the tops of her thighs, and he hoisted her up, only to then tumble her down upon the bed. He was above her in under a second, moving like a cat, predatory and sleek.

  His eyes devoured her.

  “Poppy,” he groaned, and her heart soared at the sound of her name on his lips. It didn’t seem to matter that he’d said it before; it felt different now, as if the two simple syllables had become part of the very structure of his kisses.

  The weight of him pressed her into the mattress, and even though he was the one who had her pinned, she felt powerful. It was thrilling to think that she had brought him to this point. That she was the reason this unflappable man was nearly out of control.

  And that power . . . it did something to her. It made her bold. It made her hungry.

  It made her crave his touch, his strength.

  She wanted to be as audacious as he was, to reach out and take what she wanted. But she didn’t know—couldn’t have known—where to start.

  She wanted to learn.

  She brought her eyes to his. “I want to touch you.”

  “Do it,” he commanded.

  He’d long since disposed of his cravat, and so she reached out and touched the warm skin of his neck, trailing her fingers along the tightly corded muscles that ran down to his shoulder.

  He shuddered.

  “Do you like that?” she whispered.

  He moaned. “So much.”

  She caught her lip between her teeth, fascinated by his reaction. When her fingers dipped under the edge of his shirt, his body jerked. She started to pull away, but his hand immediately came to cover hers.

  Their eyes met. Don’t go, his seemed say.

  Slowly, he lifted his hand, and she resumed her lazy exploration, drawing circles and scribbles on his skin. She could have done this all night, might even have tried to, but he let out a hoarse groan and pulled himself back.

  He sat upright, straddling her as he yanked his shirt up and over his head.

  Poppy stopped breathing.

  He was beautiful.

  He had the body of a man who used it, a man who worked, and worked hard. His muscles were exquisitely sculpted under his skin, and she could not help but wonder what movement had built each one.

  “What are you thinking?” he whispered.

  She looked up, only then realizing that she’d been staring at him.

  “I was wondering how you got this.” She laid her hand over his breast, marveling over the way the hard curve of his muscle filled her palm.

  He sucked in his breath. “Jesus, Poppy.”

  “What sort of movement builds each muscle?” She moved her hand to his upper arm. It flexed beneath her fingers, the bulge of it sliding and changing shape under his skin.

  Their eyes met again. Keep going, his seemed to say.

  She drew lightly downward, over his elbow to the softer skin of his inner arm. “How does one get this sort of muscle?” she wondered, sliding around to the muscle just below his elbow. “Lifting a crate?”

  “Gripping the wheel.”

  She looked up. He’d sounded breathless.

  She’d made him sound that way. Again, she felt power.

  She was power.

  “Which do you use when lifting a crate?”

  “My back,” he murmured. “And my legs.” He brought his hand to her upper arm, his long fingers nearly encircling it. “And this.”

  She looked down, mesmerized by the contrast between his skin and hers. He’d spent hours in the sun, and his skin had been burnished to a golden tan. The texture too told of time spent out of doors—in the wind, in the water. It was rough, and calloused. And beautiful.

  “I like your hands,” she said abruptly, taking one between both of hers.

  “My hands?” He smiled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

  “They’re perfect,” she said. “Large and square.”

  “Square?” He sounded amused, but in the best possible way.

  “And capable.” She brought his hand to her chest, placed it over her heart. “They make me feel safe.”

  He drew a shaky breath, and his touch seemed to grow heavier on her skin. His palm rotated, inching down her torso until his hand lay over her breast. He squeezed gently, and she moaned with surprised pleasure.

  His eyes caught hers. “Are you asking me to stop?”

  No.

  “Not yet,” she whispered.

  She’d loosened her dress earlier, trying to make herself more comfortable, and now, when he curled his finger under the ed
ge of the bodice, the fabric slid easily over her shoulders.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

  “So are—”

  “Shhhh.” He put a finger to her lips. “Do not contradict me. If I want to call you beautiful, I will do so without interruption.”

  “But—”

  “Shush.”

  “I—”

  His mouth found hers again, hungry and mischievous, nibbling at the edge of her lips as he murmured, “There are many ways to silence you, but none so pleasant as this.”

  Poppy had only wanted to say that he was beautiful too, but as he kissed his way down to the edge of her gown, it no longer seemed so imperative. And when she felt the fabric slide ever further down her body, almost baring her breasts, she could do nothing but arch her back to ease the way.

  He looked up, his eyes hot but clear. “Do you want me to stop?”

  No.

  “Not yet,” she whispered.

  And then his lips found her, closing over the peak of her breast in a kiss more intimate than she could ever have dreamed. She gasped his name and arched off the bed, barely able to comprehend the electricity he seemed to spark within her.

  He kissed and touched and stroked, and Poppy was helpless against his onslaught. He knew exactly where to kiss, exactly how to touch—firmly, gently, with his teeth. Everything he did brought pleasure—but it was an agonizing pleasure, because she needed more.

  Something was building inside her.

  “What are you doing to me?” she gasped.

  He went still. Looked up. “Do you want me to stop?”

  No.

  “Not yet,” she whispered.

  And then his hand moved between her legs, touching her more intimately than she had ever done herself.

  She was wet, unnaturally so—or so she thought. She nearly scooted out from under him, so embarrassed was she by the flood of moisture between her legs. But then he groaned and said, “You’re so wet for me. So ready.”

  And she realized that maybe it wasn’t so unnatural. Maybe it was what her body was supposed to do.

  His fingers slid inside, and she gasped again. She knew this was where he would eventually join with her, but still, it was a surprise. She felt stretched, and tickled, and it was downright bizarre that someone might be able to touch her from the inside. Bizarre, and yet still . . . right.

  “Do you like that?” he whispered.

  She nodded. “I think so.”

  His fingers went still, but he did not pull them away. “You’re not sure?”

  “It’s just very strange,” she admitted.

  He rested his forehead against hers, and though she could not see his expression at such close distance, she felt him smile. “That could be interpreted in many ways,” he said.

  “No, I . . . I like it. I just . . .” She could not remember the last time she’d been so inarticulate. But if she’d ever had cause, this was it. “It just feels like it is all moving forward and I don’t know where. Or how.”

  He smiled again. She felt it.

  “I know where,” he said.

  His words seemed to reach inside her body, arousing her from the inside out.

  “And I know how.” His lips found her ear. “Do you trust me?”

  He should have known by now that she did, but she still was grateful that he asked. So she nodded, and then when she wasn’t sure he saw, she said, “Yes.”

  He kissed her once, lightly on the mouth, and then his fingers began to move again. It was everything, and it wasn’t enough, and when she gasped, he only seemed to redouble his efforts, bringing her closer . . .

  And closer . . .

  “Andrew?” She sounded panicked. She hadn’t meant to sound panicked. But she didn’t know what was happening. Her body was no longer her own.

  “Just let go,” he murmured.

  “But—”

  “Let go, Poppy.”

  She did.

  Something inside her clenched and then burst open, and she had no idea what had just happened to her, but she rose off the bed with enough power to lift him with her.

  She could not speak.

  She did not breathe.

  She was suspended . . . transformed.

  Then she collapsed.

  She still could not speak, but at least now she was breathing. It took a moment for her eyes to focus, but when they did, she saw Andrew gazing down at her, smiling like a cat in cream.

  He looked very proud of himself.

  “I saw stars,” she said.

  This made him chuckle.

  “Actual stars. On the insides of my eyelids, but still.” She closed her eyes again. “They’re gone now.”

  His chuckle grew, and he flopped down onto the bed beside her, shaking the mattress with his mirth.

  Poppy lay boneless. She had no words to describe what had just happened, although if she thought about it, I saw stars came pretty close.

  “Not bad for a first kiss,” Andrew said.

  “Second kiss,” she murmured.

  It made him laugh. She loved to make him laugh.

  She turned to look at him. His beautiful chest was illuminated by the candlelight, and he was watching her with a tenderness that made her long for something more.

  She wanted time.

  She wanted more time right now, but mostly she wanted a guarantee of tomorrow.

  She reached out to touch his shoulder, and he sucked in his breath at the contact.

  “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 giv
e 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.