by Julia Quinn
She lurched back to attention. “Sorry. I was just, er . . . remembering something.” She cleared her throat. “One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never.”
“Men are flighty creatures,” Lady Bridgerton said.
“Not all men,” her husband said.
“Darling, no,” she said. “Just no.”
“Then sigh not so, but let them go,” Poppy continued, barely hearing the conversation around her. “And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe . . .”
Would Shakespeare always make her think of Andrew? Would everything make her think of him?
“Into Hey nonny, nonny,” Georgie finished for her. She gave Poppy a queer look before turning to her father. “I knew that part.”
He yawned and closed his eyes.
“He always falls asleep in carriages,” Georgie said.
“It’s a skill,” Lord Bridgerton said.
“Well, it’s a skill that shall have no reward this evening,” Lady Bridgerton said. “We’ve arrived.”
Lord Bridgerton sighed audibly, and the rest of them gathered their gloves and bags and whatnot, preparing to alight.
As Lady Bridgerton had predicted, they were led inside under the cover of umbrellas, but the wind had picked up, and they all got a bit wet on the way in.
“Thank you, Wheelock,” Lady Bridgerton said to the butler as he took her cloak. “It is so very dreary tonight.”
“Indeed, my lady.” He handed the cloak to a footman and moved to help Georgie and Poppy. “We shall dry these as best we can during dinner.”
“Is the family in the drawing room?”
“They are, my lady.”
“Wonderful. No need to take us in. I know the way.”
Poppy shrugged her arms from her cloak and followed her aunt and uncle to the drawing room.
“Have you ever been here before?” Georgie asked.
“I don’t think so. I haven’t really spent that much time in Kent.” It was true. Poppy saw her cousins in London far more than she did in the country.
“You will adore Lady Manston,” Georgie assured her. “She is like a second mother to me. To all of us. Dining here is always informal. It’s just like family.”
“Informal is a relative term,” Poppy murmured. Back on the Infinity she hadn’t worn shoes for a week. Tonight she had dressed just as grandly as she would for any meal out in society. The pink dress she’d borrowed from Georgie was a hair too short, but it wasn’t very noticeable. And the color seemed to suit her.
She was trying to get on with her life. She really was.
The hard part was that there was nothing she could do. She did not know where Andrew was from, who his family was. It certainly did not help that the surname he used was James—surely one of the most common in all of England.
How many common surnames were also common Christian names? James, Thomas, Adam, Charles . . . They all seemed to be male names. Even Andrew could be a surname. Hadn’t she met someone before with that name? In London, perhaps . . .
“Poppy!”
She looked up. How was she in the drawing room already? Her cousin Billie was regarding her with amusement.
“Sorry,” Poppy mumbled. “Just woolgathering.”
“I dare not ask what you were thinking about. It is always the strangest thing.” But Billie said this with the greatest affection. She took Poppy’s hands and leaned in for a double-cheeked kiss. “I’m so glad you’re here. You’ll get to meet George’s brother.”
“Yes,” Poppy murmured. She hoped they weren’t trying to match her with Nicholas. She was sure he was perfectly amiable, but the last thing she wanted right now was a flirtation. And wasn’t he quite young? Just a year older than she was.
“He’s not down yet,” Billie said. “He was quite travel-worn when he arrived.”
From London? How difficult was it to travel from London?
“Let me get you a glass of sherry. I’m sure you need it. The weather is frightful. You’d hardly know it’s summer.”
Poppy accepted the glass and took a sip, wondering who the young gentleman across the room was if not Nicholas. He looked the correct age, and he and Georgiana were laughing like old friends.
But Billie had said he had not come down yet.
Odd. Poppy gave a mental shrug. She wasn’t curious enough to ask, so she took a few steps farther into the room, smiling politely as she watched Lady Manston enter the drawing room through a doorway in the far wall.
“Alexandra!” Lady Manston called out, hurrying over to embrace Lady Bridgerton. “You will never guess who arrived this afternoon.”
Georgie appeared at her side and tugged her sleeve. “Come over and meet Nicholas.”
Nicholas? Poppy frowned. Then who—
“Andrew!” Lady Bridgerton cried.
Andrew. Poppy looked away from the gathering, horrified by the moisture pooling in her eyes. Another common name, just like James. Why couldn’t the bloody man have been named Marmaduke? Or Nimrod?
Enough. She had to get through the evening. With renewed determination she turned back to the room, her eyes finding her aunt, who was now across the room, embracing someone.
Someone with brown hair, sun-streaked with gold.
Pulled back in a tidy queue.
Dear God, he looked just like—
Andrew.
She didn’t feel her glass of sherry slip through her fingers, didn’t even know she’d dropped it until Billie, standing next to her, cried out, “Oh!” and caught it, splashing them both from face to hem.
But before she could say anything, even think anything other than his name, Billie deftly spun her around and started moving them both toward another door Poppy hadn’t realized was literally right behind them.
“We’ll get you cleaned up,” Billie was saying. “Oh my goodness, it’s in your eyelashes!”
“Billie!” someone called from across the room. “What are you—”
Billie swiped her sleeve across her face and poked her head back out into the drawing room. “Please do go in to dinner, we will follow presently. No no, I insist.”
And then she turned back to survey Poppy briefly before summoning a maid for some water and a rag. “We’ll get this righted in just a moment and everything will be back as it was.”
Back as it was.
Poppy almost started to laugh.
Chapter 23
Five minutes later, Andrew was seated in his usual spot at the table in his family’s formal dining room. He wasn’t sure he had ever been quite so happy to be home . . . or so eager to leave.
It had been glorious to wash in an actual full-sized bathtub, and he was very much looking forward to a proper meal, but his head—and his heart—were already one foot on the road toward Poppy.
“George!” his mother exclaimed. “We are waiting for your wife. She said she would be here presently.”
Andrew looked across the table with a bit of a smirk. His older brother had a half-eaten dinner roll in his hand.
“You’re as hungry as I am,” George said to him. “You just haven’t the guts to go ahead with it.”
“And defy her?” Andrew returned, with a tip of his head toward their mother. “Never.”
“It’s why he’s my favorite,” Lady Manston said to the table at large. “For this evening, at least.”
“Feel free to demote me tomorrow,” Andrew said cheerfully. He was quite sure she would, once she realized he’d left home again, but there was no need to inform her of his plans just yet.
George took a sip of his wine. “Billie could be three minutes or thirty. She told us not to wait.”
Lady Manston did not look convinced, but any further objection was cut off at the pass by Lord Manston, who picked up his roll and said, “I’m starving. I say we eat. Billie will understand.”
And thus the soup was served.
Oyster bisque. Andrew’s favorite. He barely resisted the urge to pick up the bowl and
slurp the whole thing down.
“This is delicious,” Lady Bridgerton said to Lady Manston. “Is it a new recipe?”
“I don’t think so. It might have a touch more salt, but other than that . . .”
Andrew paid no attention as he savored each spoonful. After the last drop, he actually closed his eyes in appreciation and sighed.
“Sorry to be delayed,” he heard Billie call out. “I’m so glad you did not wait.”
Andrew heard all of the chairs move as the gentlemen stood. He opened his eyes, glancing down to catch his napkin as he too rose to his feet. A lady had entered the room, after all.
And then time seemed to slow. Billie swished into the room, saying something over her shoulder to another woman, who was looking down, fiddling with something on her dress.
And yet as she moved, as the light hit her hair . . .
As she breathed . . .
He knew.
It was Poppy.
It made no sense, but then—of course it made sense. These were her cousins. And if Poppy had also been put on a boat to Kent instead of Dorset . . .
But it made no difference why . . . She was here.
He had half a mind to leap over the table just to get to her faster.
But she had not seen him yet.
Or he didn’t think she had. She seemed to be examining a floral arrangement in the far corner of the room.
She certainly wasn’t looking anywhere near the table.
Even as she walked to the table, she wasn’t looking anywhere near it.
She knew he was there.
Andrew was suddenly filled with crashing, warring emotions—relief, elation, and that gravest fear of all men: female fury.
He stared at her like a starving man, a huge, stupid smile battling the requisite bland countenance required by manners.
He had a feeling the huge, stupid smile was winning.
But she wasn’t going to be able to avoid him all night. There were only two empty seats at the table: one to his left, and one directly across. And he was fairly certain Billie planned to take the one across.
“Poppy and I decided the sherry was so tasty we ought to incorporate it into our wardrobe.” She swept her hand across her mid-section as if to say, Just like so.
“Will I be forgiven if I do not follow suit?” Georgiana teased, and everyone laughed at that.
Except Poppy, who was staring ferociously at a spot on the wall behind Billie.
And Andrew, who could not stop staring at Poppy.
And Nicholas, who Andrew suddenly realized was also watching Poppy with rather a lot of interest.
That was going to have to be nipped in the bud. It would not do for his brother to be ogling his wife.
Because, oh yes, he was going to marry this woman. This amazing, brave, clever, and beautiful woman was going to be his wife.
Though first she’d need to look at him.
Actually, first she’d need to be formally introduced to him.
“Poppy,” Billie said, stopping by Nicholas’s chair, “may I present George’s youngest brother, Mr. Nicholas Rokesby? He is recently graduated from Cambridge. Nicholas, this is Miss Poppy Bridgerton of Somerset. My cousin.”
Nicholas took Poppy’s hand and brushed his lips across the back.
Andrew gritted his teeth. Turn to me, damn it. To me.
“And this,” Billie said, “is yet another of George’s brothers, Captain Andrew Rokesby. He returned only just today from a voyage at sea. To . . .” Billie’s brow furrowed. “Spain?”
“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,” Andrew 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.”
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.”
