The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  “I’m steady now,” she said, setting her hand on the table to reassure him. Or maybe herself.

  He released her and took a polite step back. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “I am not usually so clumsy.”

  Another lie. Another kindness. He hadn’t been clumsy. To the contrary; she had been the one to stumble. She should have repaid his generosity with her own by saying so, but all she could manage was “I’m done with the tooth powder.”

  It took him a moment longer than she would have expected to respond, and when he did, it was with a distracted “Of course.” He took a step, and this time she made sure to wait a half second so that she could see his direction and step out of his way.

  “Thank you,” he added.

  It was all very awkward. Which, Poppy thought, was how it ought to be. “I’ll just get into bed now,” she said.

  He was busy with his teeth, but he turned his back to give her privacy. Why, she wasn’t sure, as they both knew she would be sleeping in her clothes. Still, it was a considerate gesture, and yet another indication of his status as a gentleman.

  “I’m in,” she called out.

  He finished with his teeth and turned back around. “I’ll have the lanterns off shortly.”

  “Thank you.” She pulled the covers up to her chin so that she could loosen the sash of her dress without him seeing. She was going to burn this frock when she got back home. She might have an identical one made up, because she did rather like the fabric, but this one . . .

  To the fire pit.

  She rolled onto her side and faced the wall, affording him the same privacy he’d given her. She could hear his every move, though, setting up his sleeping area, pulling off his boots.

  “Oh, the pillow!” she suddenly remembered. She grabbed it from beneath her head and lobbed it over her shoulder. “Here you are!”

  She heard a soft thunk, and then a soft grunt.

  “Impeccable aim,” he murmured.

  “Did I hit you?”

  “Square on.”

  Poppy smiled. “Face?”

  “You should be so lucky.”

  “I couldn’t see,” she demurred.

  “Shoulder,” he told her, snuffing the last of the lanterns. “Now be quiet and go to sleep.”

  Amazingly, she did.

  Chapter 9

  The problem, Andrew realized as he turned the ship the following morning just enough to keep the sails flush with wind, was that Poppy Bridgerton wasn’t awful.

  If she’d been awful, he could have shut the cabin door and forgotten about her.

  If she’d been awful, he might have even taken some vaguely undignified pleasure in her predicament.

  But she wasn’t awful. She was a bloody miserable nuisance—or rather, her presence was—but she wasn’t awful.

  And that made all of this so much more complicated.

  The girl’s safety was surely worth the price of her boredom, but somehow that didn’t make him feel any better about having sequestered her in the cabin, with nothing but a few books and an ocean view to keep her company.

  Andrew had been up and about for several hours already; he rarely slept past sunrise. Billy would have brought her breakfast by now, so that was something. The boy wasn’t the most sparkling of conversationalists, but now that he’d got over his terror of their female guest, surely he could provide a few moments of diversion.

  At least she wouldn’t have to eat a cold breakfast. Miss Bridgerton wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  She wasn’t the kind to ever make the same mistake twice.

  Still, he should check on her. It was only polite. She was his guest.

  In a way.

  Regardless, he was certainly responsible for her. And that included her mental well-being along with the physical. Besides, he’d thought of something that might alleviate the monotony. He didn’t know why it had not occurred to him earlier—probably because he’d still been so aghast at their unexpected predicament.

  He had a wooden puzzle, modeled after the dissected maps that had become all the rage in London. But his was considerably more intricate. It had taken him several hours to put together when he’d given it a go. It wasn’t much, but it would help her fill her time.

  She’d love it. He knew this with a certainty he couldn’t explain, except that he’d loved it, and he and Miss Bridgerton seemed to have the same sort of analytical, problem-solving mind. He rather suspected they’d have been jolly good friends if she hadn’t put national secrets at risk when she trespassed in his cave.

  Or if he hadn’t kidnapped her. That too.

  “Jenkins, take the wheel,” he called out, ignoring the speculative look on his second’s face. Andrew had given over far more of his wheel time than usual. But there was no law saying that a captain had to spend a prescribed amount of time in—

  “Oh for the love of God,” he muttered. He didn’t need to explain himself to anyone, much less himself.

  Jenkins, thankfully, assumed command without comment, and Andrew took the steps two at a time down to the main deck, and then triple-pace down to his cabin.

  He gave a sharp rap before inserting his key into the lock, letting himself in before Miss Bridgerton had a chance to call out a greeting.

  She was seated at the table, her chestnut hair pinned somewhat haphazardly on her head. The scant remains of her breakfast—three berries and a bit of toast—sat on the tray in front of her.

  “You don’t like strawberries?” he asked, plucking the largest of the three off her plate.

  She glanced up from the book she was reading. “They make me ill.”

  “Interesting.” He took a bite. “My sister-in-law is the same. I’ve not seen it, but Edward—that’s my brother—says it’s a sight to behold.”

  She marked her place in the book—a slim guide to Lisbon, he noted; rather practical of her even if he had no plans to let her so much as touch a toe to Portuguese soil—then set it down. “I imagine it’s a sight one wishes not to behold.”

  “Indeed.” He shuddered. “I believe the word gruesome was used, and my brother is not given to hyperbole.”

  “Unlike you?”

  He laid a hand over his heart. “I exaggerate only when absolutely necessary.”

  “Your brother sounds delightful.”

  “He’s married,” Andrew immediately retorted.

  “This makes him less delightful?” She seemed to find this terribly amusing, which should have irritated him, but instead he felt . . . awkward?

  Green?

  It had been a long time since his glib tongue had failed him so.

  Thankfully, however, Miss Bridgerton did not seem to require a response. Instead she pushed her plate in his direction. “Have the rest if you wish.”

  Andrew accepted her offering and ate one whole, leaving only the green leafy cap in his fingers. Setting it down on her plate, he rested his hip against the side of the table and asked, “Are you gruesome?”

  She let out a surprised laugh. “Right this minute?”

  He tipped his head, a small salute to her riposte.

  “No,” she said, a touch of humor making her voice delightfully warm. “I get rather itchy, though, and somewhat short of breath. Two things I’d rather avoid, frankly, while confined in a cabin.”

  “I’ll tell the cook,” Andrew said, finishing off the last berry. “He can give you something else.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

  He regarded her for a moment, then said, “Alarmingly civil, aren’t we?”

  “Alarming that we find it so alarming,” she returned.

  “There is much to dissect in that comment,” he said, pushing off from the edge of the table, “but alas, I haven’t the time.”

  “And yet you spared some for me,” she remarked. “To what do I owe this pleasure of your company?”

  “A pleasure, is it?” he murmured, heading over to his wardrobe. He did not let her reply before adding, “No? It will
be.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He enjoyed her befuddled tone, but he didn’t bother with further conversation as he dug through his belongings. It had been some time since he’d brought out the puzzle, and it was wedged at the back of the wardrobe behind a broken kaleidoscope and a pair of socks. The wooden pieces were stored in a velvet pouch, purple with a gold drawstring. All in all, quite regal.

  He set it down on the table. “I thought you might enjoy this.”

  She looked at the velvet pouch and then at him, her brows arched in question.

  “It’s a dissected map,” he told her.

  “A what?”

  “Have you never seen one?”

  She shook her head, so he opened the pouch and let the pieces spill out onto the wooden tabletop. “They were very popular about ten years ago,” he explained. “A cartographer by the name of Spilsbury fixed a map onto a wooden board and then cut the countries and seas at their borders. He thought it would help to teach geography. I believe the first few went to the royal family.”

  “Oh, I know what you’re talking about,” she exclaimed. “But the ones I’ve seen had nowhere near so many pieces.”

  “Yes, this one is unique. I had it commissioned myself.” He took a seat diagonal to her and spread out a few of the pieces, flipping them over so that the map side was up. “Most of the dissected maps are cut along borders—national boundaries, rivers, coasts—that sort of thing. I already know my geography, but I rather like to put things together, so I asked if mine could instead be cut into many random small shapes.”

  Her lips parted with wonder, and she picked up one of the pieces. “And then you have to fit them together,” she said almost reverently. “That’s brilliant! How many pieces are there?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “Never say it!”

  “Give or take,” Andrew admitted modestly. “I haven’t counted them.”

  “I’ll count them,” Miss Bridgerton said. “It’s not as if I don’t have the time.”

  She didn’t seem to have said it as a complaint, so he turned a few more pieces over and said, “The best way to get started is to look for—”

  “No, don’t tell me!” she cut in. “I want to figure it out for myself.” She picked up a piece and squinted at it.

  “The writing is small,” he said.

  “My eyes are young.” She looked up, aforementioned eyes glinting with delight. “It says IC. Not terribly helpful. But it’s blue, so it could be the Baltic. Or the Atlantic.”

  “Or the Pacific.”

  She looked surprised. “How big is the map?”

  “The known world,” he told her, a little surprised by the boastfulness in his voice. He was proud of the puzzle; as far as he knew, no other map had been dissected into quite as many pieces. But that wasn’t why he’d been bragging, and it wasn’t because she was so obviously happy for the first time since he’d met her. It was—

  Dear God, he’d wanted to impress her.

  He jolted to his feet. “I have to get back.”

  “Yes, fine,” she said distractedly, far more interested in the puzzle than anything he had to say. “I’ll be here, as you know.”

  He watched her as he walked to the door. She didn’t glance at him even once. He should be glad that she had not noticed his abrupt change in disposition. “Billy will bring you something to eat this afternoon,” he said.

  “That will be nice.” She picked up another piece and examined it, taking a sip of tea before setting it down to study another.

  He tapped the handle of the door. “Do you have any preferences?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “For food. Do you have any preferences? Other than the strawberries, of course.”

  She looked up and blinked, as if she was surprised he was still there. “I’m not terribly fond of asparagus, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “You’re unlikely to encounter that on board,” he said. “We do try to keep fruits and vegetables, but never anything that expensive.”

  She shrugged and turned back to the puzzle. “I’m sure anything will be fine.”

  “Good.” He cleared his throat. “I’m pleased you’re getting on so well. I realize it is not an ideal situation.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  He cocked his head to the side, watching her as she started flipping pieces over so the map side faced her. “It’s really too bad I don’t have another one of those puzzles,” he said.

  “Hmmm.”

  “I’ll be going, then.”

  “Hmm-mmm.” This one came out with an up-and-down lilt, as if she were saying good-bye.

  “Well,” he said gruffly. “Good-bye.”

  She lifted a hand in farewell, even as her attention remained fixed on the wooden pieces. “Bye!”

  Andrew stepped out of the cabin and into the corridor, making sure the door closed and locked behind him. She could get out, of course. It would have been irresponsible of him to have left her there without a means to evacuate. The Infinity had never had a problem, but one had to be careful at sea.

  He unlocked the door and barged back in. “You do know you have a key?”

  This got her attention. “I beg your pardon?”

  “A key. Right over there in the top drawer. It’s highly unlikely, but if there were an emergency, you would be able to leave the cabin.”

  “You wouldn’t come get me?”

  “Well, I would try . . .” He suddenly felt most awkward. It was not a pleasant—or a familiar—sensation. “Or I could send someone. But it’s important that you have the ability to evacuate if necessary.”

  “So what you’re saying,” she said, “is that you are trusting me not to leave the cabin.”

  He had not quite thought of it that way, but— “Yes,” he replied. “I suppose I am.”

  “That is good to know.”

  He stared at her. What the devil did that mean?

  “Thank you for the puzzle,” she said, changing the topic with unsettling speed. “I’m not sure if I actually said as much. It really was most thoughtful of you.”

  “It was nothing,” he said, and his head and shoulder did a little twitch. His cheeks felt warm too.

  She smiled—a lovely, warm thing that thoroughly reached her eyes, and he started to think that their color was more moss than leaf, although it might just be the light coming through the windows . . .

  “Didn’t you say you were needed?” she reminded him.

  He blinked. “Yes, of course.” He gave his head a little shake. “I was just thinking for a moment.”

  She smiled again, this time with a vague air of amusement. Or maybe impatience. She clearly wished to be rid of him.

  “I’ll take my leave, then.” He made a quick bow with his head and moved toward the door.

  “Oh, wait!” she called.

  He turned around. But not eagerly. Not eagerly at all. “Yes?”

  She motioned with her hands toward her breakfast. “Would you mind removing the tray? I’ll need more room for the puzzle, wouldn’t you think?”

  “The tray,” he echoed dully. She wanted him to carry her tray. He was the captain of his own bloody ship.

  “I would very much appreciate it.”

  He took the tray. “Until this evening, Miss Bridgerton.”

  Until this evening. Absolutely. He would not be going back to check on her before then. Certainly not.

  Poppy was just about a quarter of the way through the puzzle when she heard a single sharp rap on the door, followed by the sound of the key turning in the lock.

  “Captain James!” she said with some surprise. As usual, he looked ridiculously handsome. What was it with men and windblown hair? And unlike this morning, his shirt was open at the neck. She didn’t mind, really, but out of politeness, she averted her eyes and turned her attention back to the puzzle piece in her hand. She thought it might belong in Canada. Or maybe Japan.

  “Did you think I was Billy?”
he asked.

  “No, he would never knock with such authority. But you said you’d not be back until evening.”

  He cleared his throat and motioned toward the far wall. “I need to retrieve something from my wardrobe.”

  “A cravat, perhaps,” she murmured. She’d only ever seen her brothers in such a state of undress. But her brothers had not looked like this. Or if they had, she’d hardly cared.

  The captain, on the other hand—well, she had already admitted to herself that he was good-looking. As long as she did not admit it to him, she had nothing to worry about.

  He touched his throat, and she suspected he’d forgotten that he’d removed his neckpiece. “We often dispense with formalities on board.”

  “Is it very warm today?”

  “When one is in the sun.”

  That was probably how his hair had come to be so liberally streaked with gold. She’d wager that it had not been so lustrous when he was living year-round in England.

  Lustrous? She gave herself a mental shake. Adjectives such as that had no business in her head while she was stuck on this ship. It was fanciful and silly and . . .

  True, dash it all. Weren’t pirates meant to be filthy and coarse? Captain James looked like he might take tea with the queen.

  Provided he wore a cravat.

  She watched as he rummaged about in his wardrobe. (His back was to her and thus she had no reason not to stare.) After a few moments, he pulled something out, but he tucked it into his pocket before she could see what it was.

  She turned back to the puzzle just as he turned around.

  “How is it coming along?” he asked.

  “Very well, thank you,” she said, relieved that he had not caught her watching him. “I started with all of the edge pieces.” She gazed down at her work. She was rather proud of the rectangular frame she’d created.

  His voice came from right behind her. “Always a sound plan.”

  She startled. She hadn’t realized he was so close. “Ehrm . . . I’ve been trying to sort the rest of the pieces by color. It’s difficult, though. Most are very pale, and . . .”

  Why was he so warm? He wasn’t even touching her, and yet she could feel the heat radiating from his body. She dared not turn around, but how close was he?