She laughed, and it was a glorious thing. “I’m sorry, I’m not being terribly clear. But that’s your own fault for leaving me to my own devices for so long. I’ve had far too much time to do nothing but think.”
“And this has led you to sweeping conclusions about social discourse and the Ethiopian Empire?”
“It has.” She said it quite grandly, stepping back as if that might broaden her stage. Not that there was anyone else to listen; they’d passed only two crewmembers on the way to the beakhead, and both men had wisely made themselves scarce.
It wasn’t often they saw their captain hand-in-hand with a lady, even if it was just so he could pull her along behind him.
But Poppy’s step back meant that he had to release his hold on her hips, which was a damn shame.
When she was confident of his attention, she made her pronouncement. “There are two types of people in this world.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“For the purposes of this conversation, yes. There are people who want to visit Ethiopia, and people who don’t.”
Andrew fought very hard to maintain an even expression. He failed.
“You laugh,” she said, “but it’s true.”
“I’m sure it must be.”
“Just listen to me. Some of us have an adventurous, wandering soul, and some of us don’t.”
“And you think a person has to want to travel to the east of Africa to prove he has a thirst for adventure?”
“No, of course not, but as an indicator—”
“You, Miss Bridgerton, have an adventurous soul.”
She drew back with a pleased smile. “Do you think so?”
He swept his arm through the air, motioning to the sea and the sky, to their spot at the bow of a cleverly crafted pile of wood that could somehow carry them from one land to another, across liquid depths no man could withstand on his own.
“It doesn’t count if it’s under duress,” she reminded him.
Enough. He planted his hands on her shoulders. “There are two types of people in this world,” he told her. “The ones who would curl up in a ball and sob their way through this sort of unexpected voyage, and—”
“Those who wouldn’t?” she interrupted.
He shook his head, and he felt the tiniest of smiles tugging at his lips as he touched her cheek. “I was going to say you .”
“So it’s me against the world?”
“No,” he said, and something began to tumble inside him. He was weightless, and it was like the time he’d fallen from a tree, except there was nothing below, just an empty expanse of space and her .
“No,” he said again. “I think I’m on your side.”
Her eyes grew wide, and although it was clearly too dark to make out the color of her irises, it still somehow felt as if he could see it, the dark moss giving way to flecks of something paler. Younger, like new shoots in the grass.
Something light and luminous began to rise within him. That heady, fizzy feeling of infatuation, of flirtation and desire.
No, not desire. Or not just desire.
Anticipation.
The moment before . When you could feel the beat of your heart in every corner of your body, when every breath felt as if it reached all the way down to your toes. When nothing could quite compare to the perfect curve of a woman’s lips.
“If I kissed you,” he whispered, “would you let me?”
Her eyes grew soft, with something like amusement.
Amusement?
“If you kissed me,” she replied, “I would not have the opportunity to let you or not let you. It would be done.”
Trust this one to split hairs. He would not allow her to get out of the question so cleanly.
“If I leaned toward you, like this . . .” He followed his words with actions, and the space between their faces grew smaller. “And if my eyes dropped to your mouth, in what we all know is a universal signal that one is pondering a kiss, what would you do?”
She licked her lips. He doubted she even realized that she’d done so. “I’m not sure,” she whispered.
“But it’s happening right now. I’ve leaned in.” He reached out, brushed her skin. “I’m touching your cheek.”
She turned almost imperceptibly into his hand.
Andrew felt his voice grow husky, even before he formed words. “It’s no longer what would you do but what will you do.”
He moved even closer, so close that his eyes could no longer focus on her face. So close that he could feel the light touch of her breath on his lips.
But still not a kiss.
“What will you do, Poppy?”
And then she leaned. She swayed. Just a little, but that was all it took for her lips to brush softly against his.
It was the lightest of kisses.
It shot through his heart.
His fingers landed on her shoulders, and some very small corner of his mind realized it wasn’t to pull her close, but rather to keep himself from doing so. Because if he did . . .
And heaven knew he wanted to.
Dear God, he wanted so much. So much of her .
He wanted the length of her body against his. He wanted the curve of her back beneath his hand, the heat of her as he nudged his leg between hers.
He wanted to press himself against her, so that she would feel his desire, so that she would know it, and she would know what she had done to him.
He wanted all that, and then he wanted more, which was why he drew an unsteady breath and stepped back.
To continue would be heaven.
To continue would be madness.
He turned away, needing a moment to catch his breath. That kiss . . . it had lasted less than a second, but he was undone.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough and scratchy in his throat.
She blinked several times. “You are?”
He looked back at her. Her fingers were lightly touching her lips, and she looked dazed, as if she wasn’t quite sure what had just happened.
Welcome to the club.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, because it seemed slightly kinder than saying it shouldn’t have happened. Although he wasn’t sure why.
“It’s . . .” Her brow wrinkled, and she looked as if she was thinking very hard about something. Either that or she couldn’t figure out what she ought to be thinking about.
“Poppy?”
Her eyes flicked back to his, as if something inside her had woken up. “It’s all right,” she said.
“All right?” he echoed. That sounded . . . tepid.
“It’s not your fault,” she said. “I kissed you .”
“Please,” he said patiently, “we both know—”
“I kissed you.” She said it firmly, between her teeth. “You dared me to.”
“I—” But he said no more. Was it the truth? Had he dared her? Or had he just been making sure she had wanted it too? Because even just one kiss . . . it could ruin her.
It may well have ruined him.
“That’s what happened,” she said. “That’s what happened, and I don’t regret it.”
“You don’t?”
“No. Weren’t we just discussing the irony of my being bored while on the adventure of my life? You are many things, Captain James, but you are not boring.”
His mouth might have gone slack. “Thank you?”
“But we will never speak of it again.”
“If that is your wish.” It wasn’t his wish, but it should be.
She regarded him with an oddly penetrating expression. “It has to be, don’t you think?”
He had no idea what he thought any longer, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. “I bow to your judgment, Miss Bridgerton.”
She gave a little snort, as if she didn’t believe that for a second. He supposed he deserved it; he was usually employing some degree of irony when he said such things.
“Very well,” he said. “We shall pretend it never happened.”
She opened her mouth as if she might argue—and in fact he was quite certain she wanted to argue; he’d seen that expression on her face enough times to know what it meant. But in the end she didn’t say anything. She snapped her mouth shut and nodded her agreement.