“A decision I still cannot comprehend.” She snorted. “You do realize that if we were anywhere else, you’d have to marry me.”
This made him grin, and it was a lethal, devilish thing. He leaned toward her. “Why, Miss Bridgerton, are you asking for my hand?”
“No!” she practically howled. “You’re twisting my words.”
“I know,” he said, almost sympathetically. “You make it so easy.”
She scowled. “I take back everything I said about your being a gentleman.”
Still, he kept smiling. The wretched man found this amusing . Or more to the point, he found her amusing, which was considerably worse.
“As it happens,” he said, “I have decided to sleep in my navigator’s cabin tonight. There are indeed two berths there.”
“You just said—”
He held up a hand. “A wise man never argues when he’s getting his way. The same goes for women, I should think.”
He was right, damn it. Still . . . “What brought on this change of heart?” she asked suspiciously.
“Oh, let’s see . . . My sore neck, my aching back, and the fact that I nearly fell asleep at the wheel this morning.”
“Really? ”
“No, not really,” he retorted. Then he might have groaned. “But I wanted to.”
Poppy tried to appear contrite. She really did. But there was something delicious about the thought of him falling asleep while on duty, and she hadn’t been able to keep all the glee from her voice.
Schadenfreude, meet Poppy Bridgerton.
“I have taken measure of the crew’s mood,” Captain James said, “and I am confident that you will remain unbothered.”
She nodded demurely. She had won. She had won! But she knew men, and she knew she had to let him think the victory was his. So she gave him a pretty smile and said, “Thank you.”
He crossed his arms. “You will, of course, keep the door locked.”
“As you wish.”
“And you must understand that this is still my cabin, and I will be in and out during the day.”
“All of your things are here,” she murmured agreeably, although she might have ruined it when she added, “See how agreeable I am?”
Chapter 10
Agreeable, indeed. The chit was up to something. Although what, Andrew could not envisage. He’d believed her when she said she wasn’t plotting an escape. She was far too intelligent for that. He supposed she might try something when they were back on British soil, but certainly not before.
But when they were back on British soil . . . well, he wanted to be rid of her then, didn’t he?
“Is something wrong?” he heard her ask. “You look very skeptical all of a sudden.”
He looked over at her. Brown hair, green eyes, blue dress . . . everything was the same. And yet he felt different.
But it wasn’t because of her , he told himself. True, her presence had turned this voyage into one like no other, but she was not the reason for his unease. He’d been feeling not quite right for several months now.
Something inside of him had jolted out of place. He felt off-center.
Restless.
It was a sensation that he usually took to mean it was time to set sail. His wasn’t a soul that was meant to remain too long in one place. This was a basic fact of his existence, as much a part of him as his cheeky humor, his blue eyes, or his fascination with all things mechanical. It was why he’d begged his parents to allow him to withdraw from Eton in his final year and join the navy. It was why they’d let him, even though he knew they would have rather he finished his studies.
They didn’t even try to suggest that he go on to Cambridge, despite the fact that Andrew had always had a passion for engineering and architecture and could have probably used some tutelage.
He could never have made it through three years at university. Not then, at least. He could barely sit still. Lectures and seminars would have been absolute torture.
But it was a different sort of restlessness that had recently taken root in his chest. A need for change, yes, but not constant change. He saw that cottage again, the one that had been lurking for so long at the back of his mind. It altered a little each time he thought of it . . . a trellis here, new stonework there . . . And of course he was never quite sure how large it ought to be. Did he want to live by himself? Have a family?
It couldn’t be too small, he decided. Even if he never had a family of his own, he’d want plenty of room for his nieces and nephews. Children needed room to run wild, to explore. His own childhood had been magnificent. The Rokesby and Bridgerton children had formed their own little tribe, and they’d had the entirety of two estates to roam. They’d fished and climbed, and created all sorts of sketches of the imagination with princes and knights, pirates and kings. And of course Joan of Arc and Queen Elizabeth, because Billie Bridgerton had refused to be cast as a damsel in distress.
When it rained, they played games and built houses out of cards, and Andrew supposed there had to have been lessons in there at some point, but even those had been made enjoyable by his parents’ expert picks for tutors. They had understood that learning could be fun, that there was nothing to be gained by a slavish devotion to discipline, at least not with children whose ages remained in the single digits.
His parents were remarkably wise people. How ironic and, he supposed, logical, that none of their children would truly realize this until they too were adults.
He really needed to get back to see his family. It had been much too long.
“Captain James?”
Miss Bridgerton was standing next to him now; he had not even realized she’d got up from the table.
“Captain James?” she said again. “Are you all right?”
“Sorry.” He gave himself a mental shake. “I was just thinking . . .” Well, honestly, there was no reason not to tell her the truth. “I was thinking about my family.”
“Ah yes, your brother,” she said, her eyes crinkling with something approaching mischief. “The one who does not exaggerate. Married to a gruesome hater of strawberries.”
And just like that, she made him laugh. “I assure you, she’s hardly gruesome. You’d like her, actually. She—”
He stopped. He’d been about to tell her how Cecilia had crossed an ocean to look for her wounded brother, how she had feigned marriage to a man who had lost his memory so that she might continue to nurse him through his injuries. Cecilia had not thought herself particularly daring or headstrong—she still didn’t—and she often said that she’d be happy never to travel more than fifty miles from her home again. But when she needed it—when others had needed it—she had found her strength.
But he could not reveal more information about his family. He shouldn’t even have mentioned Edward’s name, but honestly, what family didn’t have an Edward in a recent branch of their tree? If he started talking about George and Nicholas and Mary, however . . . That combination of names was considerably more distinctive. And with the aforementioned George married to Poppy’s cousin Billie . . .
“Do you miss them?” Miss Bridgerton asked.
“My family? Of course. All the time.”
“And yet you’ve chosen a life at sea.”
He shrugged. “I also like the sea.”
She considered this for a moment, then said, “I don’t really miss mine.”
He looked at her with frank astonishment.
“I mean, of course I miss them. But I wasn’t meant to be with my family right now, anyway.”
“Ah yes,” he recalled. “You were visiting your friend in Charmouth. Mrs. Armitage.”
She blinked in surprise. “You remember her name?”
“I have to return you to her, don’t I?”
Her mouth opened, but then he saw her expression and realized—
“For the love of Christ, woman, you didn’t think I was just going to drop you at the docks, did you?”
Her lip caught between her teeth. “Well . . .”
“What sort of man do you think I am?” He stalked away, furious at her assessment of him. “Bloody hell, woman, you’re the one who keeps insisting I’m a gentleman. How could you think I would not see you safely to your friend’s doorstep?”