The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  He turned. Softly, he said, “Tell me.”

  It took her a moment to speak, and when she did, her voice was solemn in a way he’d not heard before. “I do miss my family. Not the way I think you do. I’m—I’m not away from them as frequently as you are, or for the same duration. But I miss my brother. The one who died. I miss him all the time.”

  She allowed him to see her face for only a second before turning away, but even if he had not seen the grief in her eyes, he would have known it by the bleak stance of her shoulders, the way some of the life seemed to have leeched from her limbs.

  “I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said.

  She nodded, her throat working as she looked down at the puzzle pieces, focusing on nothing. “He was my favorite.”

  “What was his name?”

  She looked at him, and in her eyes he saw a tiny flash of gratitude that he’d asked.

  “Roger,” she said. “His name was Roger.”

  Andrew thought about his own siblings. He didn’t have a favorite, or at least he didn’t think he did. But even though his were all living, Andrew could more keenly imagine her pain than one might think. His brother Edward used to be an army officer, and he had gone missing in America, during the war. Andrew had believed that he’d perished. He had not said as much to anyone; his mother in particular would have blistered his ears if he’d so much as hinted at the fact that he had lost hope.

  In his heart, though, Andrew had begun to mourn.

  He’d believed his brother dead for almost a year, and he would have liked to offer words of empathy to Poppy, but he could not. The story of Captain Edward Rokesby’s return from the dead was too well-known. And so Andrew just sat beside her and said again, “I’m sorry.”

  She acknowledged this with a jerky nod. But then, after only a few moments, her mouth tightened resolutely. She tapped her fingers several times on the table, then reached out to grab the puzzle piece she’d recently had in her hand.

  “I have to say,” she told him, in a voice that made it clear she was changing the subject, “it doesn’t much look like a horn.”

  Andrew took the piece from her fingers with a smile. “I believe it is named for Hoorn.”

  “For who?”

  He chuckled. “Hoorn. It is a city in the Netherlands.”

  This did not seem to impress her. “Hmmph. Well, I’ve not been there either.”

  He leaned toward her, just enough for his shoulder to make a conspiratorial bump against hers. “Nor I.”

  “That is surprising,” she said, glancing ever so slightly in his direction. “I’d assumed you’d been everywhere. Except Norway, apparently.”

  “Alas, no. My business keeps me on familiar routes.” It was true. Most of Andrew’s time was spent ferrying documents to the same three or four countries. Spain and Portugal, most of all.

  “How do you spell it?” she suddenly asked.

  “Hoorn? H-O-O-R-N. Why?”

  “Just wondering if there is a city of Good H-O-O-P-E out there somewhere.”

  He laughed at that. “If so, I should like to visit.”

  She was not, however, done with her queries. “Do you know which was named first?”

  “Of the capes? I think it was Good Hope. If I recall correctly, the name was bestowed upon it by a Portuguese king.”

  “Portuguese, you say? It’s settled then. We’ll stop in Good Hoope on the way back from Lisbon.” Her eyes lit with merriment. “Do you think Mr. Carroway knows the way?”

  “If he’s read that bloody awful navigation guide he will.”

  She laughed gaily at that, and it was a marvelous sound, rich with humor and joy. It was the sort of sound Andrew wasn’t used to hearing while he was at sea. The sailors had their jokes, but they were coarse, masculine things, nothing so clever as Poppy Bridgerton’s bon mots.

  Poppy. The name really did suit her. What a shame it would have been if she’d turned out drab and pinched.

  “Good Huuuupe,” she chortled, adopting an accent he was quite sure existed nowhere but inside this cabin. “Guuuuuuuud Huuuuuupe.”

  “Stop,” he said. “I can’t bear it.”

  “Guud Huuuuuuuuuuuuupe,” she practically sang. “The most hopeful spot in Portugal.”

  “Honestly, your accent might be the most frightful thing I have ever heard.”

  She turned with mock outrage. “You don’t think I sound like a Dutchwoman?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  She let out a mock huff. “Well, that is disappointing. I was trying so hard.”

  “That much was clear.”

  She jabbed him with her elbow, then motioned with her head toward the puzzle pieces. “I don’t suppose you see the Cape of Good Hope among this mess.”

  He glanced sideways at her. “I thought you didn’t want help.”

  “I don’t want unsolicited help,” she clarified.

  “I’m afraid I only like to offer help when it is not wanted.”

  “So you don’t see it.”

  He grinned unrepentantly. “Not at all.”

  She laughed again, her head falling back with her mirth. Andrew was transfixed. He’d thought she was pretty, but in that moment she became something much more. Pretty was a dull, static thing, and Poppy Bridgerton could never be that.

  “Oh my goodness,” she said, wiping her eyes. “If you’d told me when I arrived that I’d be laughing . . .”

  “I certainly wouldn’t have believed you.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Her words trailed off, and he could see the moment her thoughts forced her back to propriety. Her expression grew shuttered, and just like that, the magic was gone. “I would still rather be at home.”

  “I know,” he said, and he had the most intense urge to cover her hand with his.

  But he didn’t.

  She spoke haltingly, her words coming out in small batches, and though she lifted her eyes to his, she did not hold them there for long before shifting her gaze toward a spot somewhere past his shoulder. “I don’t want you to think . . . that just because I might occasionally laugh . . . or even appreciate your company . . .”

  “I know,” he said. She didn’t need to finish the sentence.

  He didn’t want her to finish the sentence.

  But she did anyway. “You shouldn’t think that I forgive you.”

  He knew that too, but as blows went, it was still spectacularly well aimed.

  And surprisingly deep.

  He stood. “I should go.”

  She didn’t say anything until he reached the door. Her good manners must have got the best of her, though, because before he could leave she said, “Thank you again. For the puzzle.”

  “You’re most welcome. I hope you enjoy it.”

  “I will. I . . .” She swallowed. “I am.”

  He bowed, a crisp, regimented dip of his chin that offered every respect he had to give.

  And then he got the hell out of the cabin.

  Andrew was already on deck before he took a moment to pause and take a breath. He hadn’t meant to leave so suddenly, but Miss Bridgerton had got under his skin, and—

  Oh bloody hell, who did he think he was kidding? He hadn’t even been planning to go down to his cabin until evening, but for some idiotic reason he’d wanted to see how she was getting on with the puzzle, and then he’d had to make up an excuse for his being there.

  He didn’t even know what he’d grabbed from his wardrobe. He reached into his pocket and pulled out . . .

  A pair of his smalls.

  Good God.

  He briefly considered tossing them over the side. The last thing he needed was one of his men coming across him holding his undergarments like some sort of demented laundress.

  But he could not bring himself to dispose of a perfectly good piece of clothing just because she . . .

  No, because he . . .

  It was certainly not because they . . .

  He balled up the linen and shoved it in hi
s pocket.

  This, he thought. This was the curse his men kept yammering about. A woman on board wasn’t going to cause lightning to strike the mast or bring on a plague of rats and locusts. Instead, he would go mad. By the time they reached Portugal he’d have lost half his mind, and by the time they made it back to England he’d be a stark, raving lunatic.

  Stark. Raving—

  “Something wrong, Captain?”

  Andrew looked up, not even wanting to imagine what expression he’d made so that one of his men felt emboldened to inquire such a thing. A newish young sailor named John Wilson was just a few feet away, watching him with either curiosity or concern, Andrew couldn’t tell which.

  “Nothing,” Andrew said sharply.

  Wilson’s already ruddy cheeks took on more color and he gave a jerky nod. “’Course. M’pologies for asking.”

  Bloody hell, now Andrew felt the worst sort of heel. “Er, what duty have you today?” he asked, hoping the show of interest would take the sting out of his previous tone. Besides, the inquiry was not out of character. It was entirely normal that he might ask this upon coming across one of his men.

  When he didn’t have a pair of his own smalls stuffed in his pocket.

  Because he couldn’t admit he’d wanted to see a girl.

  God in heaven, this voyage could not be over soon enough.

  “Been aloft,” Wilson said, with a nod toward the rigging. “Checking the ropes.”

  Andrew cleared his throat. “All in order?”

  “Yes, sir. Only one in need of repair, and it wasn’t nothing serious.”

  “Excellent.” Andrew cleared his throat. “Well. I won’t be keeping you.”

  “It’s no trouble, sir. My shift just ended. I was just heading below. It’s my turn for a hammock.”

  Andrew gave a nod. Like many similar ships, the hammocks were shared. The men did not all sleep at the same time; they could not. The bridge could never be left unattended, and a skeletal portion of the crew was required to work through the night. The wind did not stop when the sun went down.

  The sleeping quarters were already crowded. It would have been a waste of space to have provided enough hammocks for every sailor to have his own. Andrew wasn’t sure what sort of rotation the men had worked out to share them. He’d seen it done in different ways on different ships. But regardless, he had not been joking when he told Poppy he refused to sleep below. He’d done his time in the hammocks, back when he’d first entered the navy.

  He was captain of the Infinity. He’d earned the right not to sleep in some other man’s sweaty ropes.

  But Mr. Carroway’s spare berth would have to do for the rest of the voyage. Andrew was no stranger to discomfort, but why sleep on the floor when there was a perfectly good bed across the hall? Maybe not as nice as his bed, but as his bed was currently occupied by Poppy Bridgerton . . .

  His bed.

  Poppy Bridgerton.

  Something clenched within him. Something suspiciously close to lust.

  “No,” he said aloud. “No.”

  “Captain?”

  Bloody hell, Wilson had still been in earshot.

  “Nothing!” Andrew snapped, this time not caring if he scared the piss out of the man with his tone.

  Wilson scurried away, and Andrew was left alone.

  With a terrible sense of foreboding.

  And a pair of underwear in his pocket.

  Chapter 11

  The next few days passed without incident. Poppy finished the puzzle, took it apart, and then put it together again. It wasn’t nearly as satisfying the second time, but it was a better pastime than her other options, which, since she had already finished reading the bookshelf’s sole work of fiction, consisted of such gems as Engineering Methods of the Ancient Ottomans and Agrarian Masterpieces of Kent.

  Why a ship captain needed a guide to agrarian masterpieces, she couldn’t imagine, but she did get a few moments of pleasure from the section on Aubrey Hall, the country estate where her father had grown up, and where her cousins still lived.

  Poppy had visited Aubrey Hall several times, although not recently. When her family gathered with their aristocratic cousins, they were more likely to do so in London. It made sense, Poppy supposed. Lord and Lady Bridgerton of Kent maintained a magnificent residence in the capital, which meant that Mr. and Mrs. Bridgerton of Somerset did not have to. The current viscount, her father’s older brother, was a generous man, and he would not hear of his siblings and their families staying anywhere else. Fortunately, he had plenty of room. Bridgerton House was a grand, stately manse with a sizable ballroom and over a dozen bedchambers, right in the heart of Mayfair.

  It was where Poppy had lived during both of her London Seasons. Her parents had remained in the country; neither was particularly fond of city life. It was probably why they had happily accepted Lady Bridgerton’s offer to supervise Poppy’s presentation and debut. That and the fact that Aunt Alexandra was a viscountess, and thus a powerful sponsor for a young lady looking for marriage.

  Although apparently not powerful enough, as Poppy had gone through two Seasons without finding a spouse. That wasn’t Aunt Alexandra’s fault, though. Poppy had received a proposal, and while the gentleman had means and looks, he’d possessed a moralizing side that Poppy feared would strengthen and grow mean with age. Even Aunt Alexandra, who was eager to see her charge well-settled, had agreed with her on this.

  Several other gentlemen had also expressed interest, but Poppy had not encouraged them. (Aunt Alexandra had not been nearly so agreeable about this.) But Poppy had held firm. She was going to have to spend the rest of her life in the company of her future husband, whoever he turned out to be. Was it too much to hope for someone who was interesting to talk to? Someone who could make her laugh?

  The people she’d met in London seemed to talk only about one another, and while Poppy was not wholly averse to gossip (honestly, it was a liar who said he was) surely there was more to life than discussions of horse races, gambling debt, and whether a certain young lady’s nose was too large.

  Poppy had learned not to ask the questions that so frequently popped into her head. It turned out that the young ladies her aunt had selected as suitable companions were not interested in why some animals had whiskers and some didn’t. And when Poppy had wondered aloud if everyone saw the same blue sky, three separate gentlemen had looked at her as if she were having some sort of madness attack, right in front of their eyes.

  One had even backed nervously away.

  But honestly, Poppy could not imagine why everyone did not think about this. She had never been inside anyone else’s mind. Maybe what she thought was blue was what they thought was orange.

  There was no way to prove it wasn’t.

  But Poppy didn’t want to live out her life as a spinster. And so she’d resigned herself to another Season in London the following year, provided Aunt Alexandra was willing to sponsor her again.

  But all that had changed. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it might change. Who knew what the state of her reputation would be when the Infinity returned to England? There was still the chance that she might slip back into Briar House with no one (except Elizabeth Armitage) the wiser, and Poppy held on to that possibility, but it was a slim hope, indeed.

  Perhaps she should count herself lucky that she seemed to have landed among the world’s only band of scrupulous pirates. Or privateers, or traders, or whatever they wished to call themselves. She supposed she was lucky; her situation could have been far worse. She could have been beaten. She could have been violated.

  She could be dead.

  But she wasn’t going to be grateful. She refused to feel gratitude for the men who had most probably ruined her life forever.

  The hardest part—for now, at least—was the uncertainty. This was not a case of Will I enjoy the opera tonight, or will I find it tedious? It was Will my life continue on as normal, or will I forevermore be an outcast to society?
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br />   The strangest thing was, she had a sense she would feel differently if she knew that Elizabeth had managed to keep her disappearance quiet. If she knew that no one would ever point to her and say, “There’s the wicked, fallen girl who ran off with pirates.” (Because they would say that; it was far more delicious than the truth, and in matters of reputation the woman was always to blame.) If Poppy could be certain that she’d regain precisely the same life she had left behind . . .

  She might think she was enjoying herself.

  Oh, she was still bitter that she was stuck in this cabin and had not had so much as a breath of fresh air in nearly a week. She really would have liked to have explored the rest of the ship. Poppy doubted she would have the occasion to take such a voyage again, and she’d always been curious about the way things worked. A sailing ship was full of such puzzles: How did the men hoist the sails, for example? Did it take more than one? More than three? How was the food stored, and had anyone done a review to determine if it could be done in a more hygienic manner? How was the work distributed, and who made the schedule?

  She’d asked the captain dozens of questions, and to his credit, he’d answered most. She’d learned about hardtack, and why she should be grateful that she didn’t have to eat it. She now knew that the sun rose and fell more quickly near the equator and that a massive ocean wave was called a tsunami, and no, Captain James had never experienced one, but he’d met someone who had, and the description still gave him nightmares.

  Poppy loved to ask him about the sailors on the Infinity, and he told her that they hailed from twelve different countries, including two from the Ethiopian Empire. (Which she could now locate easily on a map.) Captain James had tried to describe them to her, explaining that their features were quite different from the men he’d met from the western side of the continent, but Poppy was much more interested in their customs than how they looked.

  She wanted to talk with these men who had grown up on a different continent, to ask them about their lives and their families, and how to pronounce their names (because she was fairly certain Captain James wasn’t doing it right). She was never going to have an opportunity like this again. London was a cosmopolitan city, and during her two Seasons in the capital, Poppy had seen many people of different races and cultures. But she had never been allowed to speak to any of them.