The Other Miss Bridgerton
“Birds have wings.”
He shrugged. “We can build wings.”
“Then why haven’t we done so?”
“Men have tried.”
She blinked. “They have?”
He nodded.
People had built wings and tried to fly and she didn’t know ? The injustice was astounding. “No one tells me anything,” she grumbled.
He barked out a laugh. “I have difficulty believing that to be true.”
Her eyes narrowed for what had to have been the tenth time in their conversation. “Why?”
“Your aforementioned curiosity.”
“Just because I ask doesn’t mean people tell me things.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Did you ask anyone about men building wings?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you can’t complain.”
“Because I didn’t know to ask,” she protested, jumping right in over his words. “One needs a certain base of knowledge before one can ask sensible questions.”
“True,” Captain James murmured.
“And it goes without saying,” Poppy continued, only somewhat mollified by his easy agreement, “that I have not been given the opportunity to study physics.”
“Do you want to?”
“Study physics?”
He made a courtly gesture with his hand.
“That’s not the point,” she said.
“Well, it is, actually, as pertains to aerodynamics.”
“My point exactly!” She jabbed her finger toward him with enough suddenness that he blinked. “I didn’t even know that was a word.”
“It’s self-explanatory,” he said. “One doesn’t need—”
“That’s not the point.”
“Again with the points,” he said, sounding almost impressed.
She scowled. “I can deduce the meaning once you say it. That’s not the—” She bit her tongue.
“Point?” he offered helpfully.
She gave him a look. “Women ought to be allowed an equal education,” she said primly. “For those who want it.”
“You’ll get no objection from me,” the captain said, reaching for his pie. “Awfully small piece,” he muttered.
“It’s very good, though,” she told him.
“It always is.” He took a bite. “Your slice was larger?”
“Of course.”
He gave her a vaguely approving nod, as if he’d expected no less, and Poppy sat quietly as he finished his pie.
“Do you always dine so late?” she asked, once he had sat back in his chair.
He glanced up, almost as if he’d forgotten her presence. “Not always.”
“What were you doing?”
He seemed slightly amused by the question. “Other than captaining the ship?”
“I was hoping you might tell me what captaining a ship entails .”
“I will,” he surprised her by saying. “Just not tonight.” He yawned and stretched, and there was something astonishingly intimate about the motion. No gentleman of her acquaintance would ever have done such a thing in her presence—aside from her family, of course.
“Forgive me,” he murmured, blinking as if he’d only just remembered that he no longer had sole free rein of his quarters.
She swallowed and rose awkwardly to her feet. “I think I’ll get ready for bed.”
He nodded. He suddenly looked exhausted, and Poppy was struck by the most inconvenient burst of compassion. “Was it a particularly tiring day?” she heard herself ask.
“A bit.”
“Was it because of me?”
He cracked a wry smile. “I’m afraid I can’t blame everything on you, Miss Bridgerton.”
“Much as you would like to?”
“If you can conspire a way to take responsibility for a torn topgallant sail, a vexing wind, and three cases of putrid stomach, I would be much obliged.”
Almost apologetically, she said, “I’m afraid the wind requires a supernatural talent I do not possess.”
“As opposed to the torn sail and the putrid stomachs?”
“I could manage those, given a bit of time to plan.” She made a vaguely sarcastic motion with her hand. “And access to the deck.”
“Alas, I am too cruel.”
She leaned her elbow on the table, her chin resting thoughtfully in her hand. “And yet I don’t think it is your nature.”
“To be cruel?”
She nodded.
He smiled, but just a little, as if he were too tired to make a proper go of it. “It has been but a day, and yet you already know me too well, Miss Bridgerton.”
“Somehow I think I have barely scratched the surface.”
He regarded her curiously. “You almost sound as if you wish to.”
Their voices had softened, the hard edges of the conversation worn down by fatigue. And maybe respect.
Poppy stood, unsettled by the thought. She did not respect Captain James. She could not. And she certainly shouldn’t like him, no matter how likeable he could be.
She was tired. Her defenses were low. “It’s late,” she said.
“Indeed,” he replied, and she heard him rise from his chair as she made her way over to the basin of water Billy had brought sometime between her entrée and dessert. She needed to clean her face and teeth, and brush her hair. She did so every night, and she was determined to maintain her routine at sea, no matter how odd it felt to be performing her ablutions in front of a man.
And yet it was strangely less odd than it should have been.
Needs must , she told herself as she retrieved the tooth powder. That was all. If she was getting used to his presence, it was because she had to. She was a practical woman, not given to hysterics. She prided herself on that. If she had to brush her teeth in front of a man she’d only just met, she certainly wasn’t going to cry over it.
She glanced over her shoulder, sure that the captain somehow knew she was thinking about him, but he seemed to be immersed in his own tasks, riffling through some papers on his desk.
With a resigned exhale, Poppy looked down at her finger and sprinkled some of the minty powder on it. She wondered if she should switch hands with each brushing. All this tooth powder might irritate her skin.
She took care of her teeth, splashed some water on her face, and, after making sure the captain was not watching, pulled the pins from her hair and ran her fingers through it, doing her best approximation of the boar bristle hairbrush she used at home. Once she’d fashioned a sleeping plait, there was nothing left to do except get into bed.
She turned, taking a step toward the bunk, but then there he was, somehow much closer than she’d expected.
“Oh!” she yelped. “I’m sorry, I—”
“No, it’s my fault entirely. I didn’t think you were going to turn and—”
She stepped left.
He stepped right.
They both made awkward noises.
“Sorry,” he grunted.
He stepped left.
She stepped right.
“Shall we dance?” he joked, and she would have made a similar riposte, but the ship swept up and then down on a wave, sending her stumbling to the side, saved only by two warm hands at her waist.
“Now we really are—” She looked up, and it was such a mistake. “Dancing,” she whispered.
They did not move, did not even speak. Poppy was not sure if they even breathed. His eyes held hers, and they were so bright, so astonishingly blue, that Poppy felt herself being drawn forward, pulled in. She didn’t move, not an inch, but still, she felt it, the pull.
“Do you like to dance?” he asked.
She nodded. “When there is music.”
“You don’t hear it?”
“I can’t hear it.” She wondered if he knew that she really meant she must not. Because it was there, and she felt it on her skin—the soft music of the wind and the waves. If she were anyone else—no, if he were anyone else—this would be a moment made of romance and breathless anticipation.
In another lifetime, another world, he might lean down.