by Julia Quinn
“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.”
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 couldn’t 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?” She gave him a sly glance. “I don’t recall accepting a propos
al.”
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 . . .”
“Oh, I think that ship has sailed.”
“Bad pun, Miss Bridgerton. Very bad pun.”
“Time and tide wait for no man.”
He drew back an inch. “I’m not sure how that’s relevant.”
“It was all I could think of,” she admitted. “And you know, you never let me answer your question.”
“I didn’t?”
She shook her head.
“And which question is that?”
“You’ll have to ask it again, Captain.”
“Very well. Will—”
He kissed her nose.
“You.”
Her left cheek.
“Marry.”
Her right cheek.
“Me?”
Her mouth. Her beautiful, perfect mouth.
But just a light kiss. Swift. She still needed to answer.
She smiled, and it was glorious. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
He wasn’t sure there were words for such a moment, even among two so glib as they. So he kissed her instead. He kissed her mouth, worshipping her in all the ways he’d dreamed of these last few weeks. He kissed her cheek, her neck, the perfect hollow above her collarbone.
“I love you, Poppy Bridgerton,” he murmured. “More than I could ever imagine. More than I can even conceive.”
But not, he thought, more than he could show her. He slid her nightgown from her body, and his own dressing robe somehow melted away. For the first time, they were skin to skin.
“So beautiful,” he whispered, gazing at her as they kneeled in front of each other. He wanted to kiss her everywhere, to taste the salt of her skin, the creamy essence between her thighs. He wanted to swirl his tongue around the tight pink buds of her breasts. She’d liked that, he remembered, but what if he nibbled? What if he tugged?
“Lie down,” he ordered.
She gave him an amused, questioning look.
His lips found her ear in a hungry growl. “I have plans for you.”
He felt her pulse leap, and she started to lower herself down. When her bottom touched the bedsheets, he scooted her legs out from under her, leaving her breathlessly on her back.
“You were too slow,” he said with a wolfish smile. She didn’t say anything, just watched him with a glazed passion, her breasts rising and falling with each breath.
“I hardly know where to start,” he murmured.
She licked her lips.
“But I think . . .” He trailed his finger down her body, from her shoulder to her hip. “I’ll start . . .” He moved inward, then lower. “Here.”
Both of his hands moved to her hips, his thumbs pressing against the soft skin of her inner thighs. He slid her open, and then he lowered his head for the most intimate of kisses.
“Andrew!” she gasped.
He smiled as he licked. He loved making her gasp.
She tasted like heaven, like sweet wine and tangy nectar, and he could not resist sliding a finger inside her, glorying in the way she instinctively tightened around him.
She was close. He could take her over the edge with one single graze of his teeth, but he was selfish, and when she came, he wanted to be inside her.
She moaned with frustration when he drew back, but he quickly replaced his mouth with his cock. He nudged at her opening, his body shuddering with desire as her legs wrapped around his. “Do you want me to stop?” he whispered.
Their eyes met.
“Never,” she said.
And so he pushed forward, finding a home in her warmth, wondering how he had lived twenty-nine years on this earth without making love to this woman. He slipped into a rhythm, each stroke bringing him closer to the edge, but he held back, straining against his own release until she found hers.
“Andrew,” she gasped, arching beneath him.
He leaned down, rolled his tongue across her breast.
She whimpered. She moaned.
He turned his attention to the other one, this time giving it a little suck.
She let out a keening cry, high-pitched but quiet, and her body tightened beneath him.
Around him.
It was his undoing. He pumped forward once, then again. And then he exploded within her, losing himself in her scent, her essence.
In her. He lost himself in her, but somehow, in that moment, he found his home.
Several minutes later, when he’d finally caught his breath and was lying on his back beside her, he reached down between their bodies to hold her hand.
“I saw stars,” he said, still amazed.
He heard her smile. “On the insides of your eyelids?”
“I think I saw them on the insides of yours.”
She laughed, and the bed shook.
And then, far sooner than he would have anticipated, they shook the bed again.
Epilogue
Nine months later
Andrew had thought that he wanted a girl, but as he held his newborn son in his arms, he could only think that this amazing miraculous creature was perfect in every way.
There would be plenty of time to make more babies.
“Ten fingers,” he told Poppy, who was resting with her eyes closed in their bed. “Ten toes.”
“You counted?” she murmured.
“You didn’t?”
She opened one eye. “I was busy.”
He chuckled as he touched his son’s tiny little nose. “Your mother is very tired.”
“I think he looks like you,” Poppy said.
“Well, he’s certainly handsome.”
She rolled her eyes. Even with her eyes closed he could see that she rolled them.
Andrew turned his attention back to the baby. “He’s very clever.”
“Of course he is.”
He looked over at her. “Open your eyes, Pops.”
She did, with a look of surprise at the nickname. He’d never used it. Not once.
“I think we should name him Roger,” he said.
Poppy’s eyes grew round and wet, and her lips trembled before she spoke. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”
“Roger William,” Andrew decided.
“William?”
“Billy would like that, don’t you think?”
Poppy smiled widely. Billy had come to live at Crake several months earlier. They’d found him a position in the stables, although it was understood that he was to be given time off every day to attend school. He was doing very well, although the stablemaster had complained about the number of cats now taking up residence.
Andrew and Poppy were also living at Crake, although not for much longer. The house that Andrew had been building in his mind for so many years was almost a reality. Another month, maybe two, and they would be able to move in. There was a large, sunny nursery, a library just waiting to be filled with books, and even a small greenhouse, where Andrew planned to cultivate some of the seeds he’d collected on his many travels.
“I will have to
take you outside when it’s warmer,” Andrew said to Roger as he walked him around the room. “I shall show you the stars.”
“They won’t look the same as they do from the Infinity,” Poppy said softly.
“I know. We will make do.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I will tell him how the ancient gods built a ship so tall and so strong that the mast split the sky and all the stars fell out like diamonds.”
This earned him a smile. “Oh, you’ll tell him that, will you?”
“It’s the best explanation I’ve ever heard.” He walked over to the bed, settling Roger in his mother’s arms before stretching out next to both of them. “Certainly the most romantic.”
Poppy smiled, and he smiled, and even though he had been told by many women that newborns did not smile, he liked to think that Roger did, too.
“Do you think we’ll ever see the Infinity again?” Poppy asked.
“Probably not. But maybe a different ship.”
She turned to look at him. “Are you feeling restless?”
“No.” He didn’t even have to think about it. “Everything I need is right here.”
Her elbow jabbed gently into his side. “That’s far too pat an answer, and you know it.”
“I take back everything I’ve ever said about you being romantic,” he said. “Even that bit about the stars.”
She gave him a look as if to say, I’m waiting.
“I have found,” he said thoughtfully, “that I rather like building things.”
“Our new home?”
He looked down at Roger. “And our family.”
Poppy smiled, and she and the baby drifted off to sleep. Andrew sat next to them for a long while, marveling at his good fortune. Everything he needed really was right here.
“It wasn’t too pat an answer,” he murmured. Then he waited; he wouldn’t put it past his wife to say, even in her sleep, “Yes, it was.”
But she didn’t, and he eased himself off the bed and walked over to the French doors that led out to a small Juliet balcony. It was close to midnight and perhaps a little too cold to be going out in stocking feet, but Andrew felt a strange pull toward the inky night.
It was overcast, though, and not a single star twinkled above. Until . . .
He squinted up at the sky. There was a patch that was much darker than the rest. The wind must have cleared a small hole in the clouds.
