The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  “What’s he saying?” Poppy asked.

  “He’s speaking too quickly for me,” Andrew admitted, “but I’m fairly certain he’s trying to convince us that the malasadas are too small for us to eat only one each.”

  “Pequeno,” the man said earnestly. “Muito pequeno.”

  “Quatro,” Andrew said, holding up four fingers.

  The man sighed dramatically and returned the gesture with six fingers. “Seis.”

  “I can eat three,” Poppy chirped. “I could probably eat six.”

  Andrew gave her a look. “You don’t even know how big they are.”

  “I could still eat six.”

  He held his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Seis,” he said to the street vendor. He turned to Poppy. “Do you want yours rolled in sugar?”

  She drew back, clearly aghast at the question. “Of course.”

  “Sorry,” he said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “That was a stupid question.”

  “Really.”

  It was hard not to laugh, but Andrew managed to contain his mirth to a smile, watching Poppy as she watched the Portuguese man scoop chunks of dough from the bowl, then expertly roll them into identically sized spheres. One by one—but still quite quickly—he dropped them into the oil, motioning for Andrew and Poppy to step back, away from the splatter.

  “The dough is very yellow,” Poppy said, rising to her tiptoes as she peered in the bowl. “He must use a great many eggs.”

  Andrew shrugged. He had no idea what went into malasadas. He just knew he liked to eat them.

  “Do you know how to say egg in Portuguese?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “I thought you needed to understand the language for your business here.”

  For once he didn’t think she was fishing for information about his work. “I don’t actually need to know much,” he said. “And eggs rarely enter the conversation.”

  “It smells so good,” Poppy said with an almost sensual sigh. “How long does he need to cook them?”

  “I would think not much longer,” Andrew said, trying to ignore the little bolt of electricity her groan had lit within him.

  “Ooooooh . . . I can’t wait.” She was nearly jumping with excitement, rocking on her feet, rising to her toes and then back down again.

  “One would think we didn’t feed you on the Infinity.”

  “You don’t feed me these.” Poppy arched her neck to peer into the vat. “I think they’re almost done.”

  Sure enough, the street vendor picked up a long pair of tongs and extracted the first malasada. It glistened golden brown as he held it up and asked Andrew, “Açúcar?”

  Poppy would likely stage a full-force revolt if he refused the sugar, so Andrew said, “Sim, por favor.”

  The vendor dropped the malasada in a bowl of spiced sugar and then repeated his actions until all six had been removed from the oil. Using the tongs, he rolled them around in the sugar bowl until they were coated with the sweet powder.

  As Andrew reached into his pocket for a few coins, he glanced over at Poppy, who was still practically vibrating with anticipation. Her hands were up near her chest, her fingers rubbing against her thumbs as if she was trying to keep herself from reaching out and grabbing a treat.

  “Go ahead,” he said, unable to suppress the amusement in his voice. “Take one.”

  “They won’t be too hot?”

  “There’s only one way to find out.”

  With a giddy grin she reached out and plucked one of the malasadas from the bowl. She brought it to her lips and took a tiny, careful bite. “Not too hot,” she announced, then took a real bite.

  “Oh,” she gasped.

  “Like it?”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Ohhhhh.”

  Andrew suddenly felt the need to adjust his cravat. And maybe his breeches. Dear God, he’d been with women who’d climaxed with less passion.

  “All right!” he said, a little too brightly. “We need to be off.” He handed the street vendor what was surely too many coins, then grabbed the rest of the malasadas out of the sugar and gave Poppy a little shove toward town.

  “We don’t want to be late,” he said.

  “For what?”

  He handed her two malasadas. “I said I was going to show you everything possible, didn’t I? If I’m to keep my promise, we need to get going.”

  She shrugged and smiled agreeably, then ate another one. “I could never live here,” she said, eyeing her final ball of dough with something approaching wistfulness. “I would eat fourteen of these every day and be fat as a house.”

  “Fourteen?”

  “Or more.” She licked the sugar from her fingers. “Probably more.”

  Andrew’s lips parted as he watched her tongue dart out for the sugar. He was mesmerized, nearly paralyzed by the urge to kiss the sugar from her lips himself. He couldn’t let himself move, not even an inch, or he’d . . .

  He didn’t know what he’d do. Something he shouldn’t. Not here. Not with her.

  But she looked so goddamn beautiful out here in the sunshine.

  No, not beautiful. Radiant. Whatever it was that had him so transfixed, it came from the inside. She was so happy, so full of joy and delight, she almost seemed to glow with it, pulling in everyone within her orbit.

  It was impossible to be near her and not feel the same joy.

  “What are you looking at?” she asked, still grinning.

  “You have crumbs on your face,” he lied.

  But he quickly realized what a foolish idea that had been, because she immediately brought her hand to her face and said, “Where? Here?”

  “Er, no, over . . . ah . . .” He made a vague motion that would tell her absolutely nothing.

  “Here?” she asked dubiously, touching a spot near her ear.

  “Yes,” he said, with perhaps a little more enthusiasm than was warranted. But he wasn’t lying this time; the act of trying to locate the nonexistent crumbs had actually deposited a few of them on her skin.

  Poppy brushed them away. “All better?”

  No.

  “Yes,” he said. He wasn’t sure he was going to feel all better unless he hauled her around the corner and kissed her.

  Which was not going to happen.

  Or so he kept telling himself.

  Chapter 16

  Poppy was in heaven.

  Or it might have been Lisbon.

  To hell with it, she decided. Tomorrow heaven could go back to being whatever it really was, with angels on high and whatnot. For today, it was Lisbon, Portugal, and no one could convince her otherwise.

  She still could not quite believe that Captain James had changed his mind and taken her ashore with him. It was almost enough to make her rethink her pledge against gratitude.

  Almost.

  Or . . .

  She looked around, at the blue sky and the magnificent ruined castle up on the hill, and the little grains of sugar and cinnamon that were stuck under her fingernails.

  Maybe she could rethink her vow for just one day.

  For today—for as long as heaven had been transformed into a city in Portugal—Poppy Bridgerton would feel grateful to Captain James for having taken her there.

  Tomorrow she could go back to trying not to think about what might await her at home.

  That reminded her . . . She had no idea how long he planned to remain in Lisbon. “Do we sail tomorrow?” she asked him. “Have you completed your business?”

  “I have. Normally we would remain in Lisbon for a few days, but given our current situation”—the captain accompanied this with a wry nod in her direction—“I think it is best that we return as quickly as possible, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” Poppy said, and she meant it. Every day she was gone added to the probability that Elizabeth would report her disappearance. That Poppy would spend the rest of her life under a cloud of scandal.


  But she could not help but think how much she would enjoy another day in Lisbon. She was having a marvelous time, and she did not think it was only because she had finally escaped the (admittedly comfortable) confines of the cabin.

  There was so much more to it. As she walked through the lively streets of the Portuguese capital, it occurred to her that this wasn’t just the first time she had been to a foreign land, it was the first time she had traveled to a place that was so wholly unfamiliar.

  Which wasn’t the same thing at all.

  Poppy had been to a number of locations within England, but even if the towns were new, they had never felt as if they were unknown. Her ears heard the same language she herself had always spoken; her eyes saw the sorts of shops and churches she could find in her own home village. Anything that was new to her was still easily understood.

  But today it was as if someone had taken her world and twisted it like a rotating tray on a table, depositing her into a place where nothing was quite as she knew it.

  She could not read the signs—well, she could read them, of course; the Portuguese used mostly the same alphabet as the English—but she rarely could figure out what they meant.

  It was strange—and thrilling—to listen to the chatter of another language, to realize that hundreds of people were having ordinary conversations, and she hadn’t a clue as to the meaning. She thought of all the times she’d overheard the chatter of passersby as she and her aunt had walked through London (the only place she’d ever been that was more crowded than Lisbon). She never meant to eavesdrop, but it was impossible not to hear bits and pieces: two women discussing the price of wool, a child begging for a sweet.

  Now she could only guess, based on the facial expressions and the tones of voice. A man and a woman were arguing across the street—nothing too vehement, but to Poppy’s mind, they were husband and wife, and the woman was cross with her husband for coming home so late the night before.

  From the man’s sheepish expression, Poppy did not think he had a good excuse.

  Up ahead, at the door to a fashionable milliner’s establishment, two young ladies were speaking with great animation. They were clearly well-to-do; off to their right stood an older lady with an expression of utmost boredom—surely she was one of their chaperones.

  At first Poppy thought the ladies might be discussing the hats they had just purchased, but she quickly revised her theory. Their eyes were flashing with too much excitement; the blonde in particular looked almost as if she might burst with joy.

  She was in love. Poppy was sure of it. They were talking about a gentleman, she decided, and whether he was about to propose marriage.

  From the excited giggles, Poppy predicted that he was.

  The people and the language weren’t all that was foreign. The city was vivid in a way that London never could be. Maybe it was the crystal clarity of the sky, or the bright red roofs of the buildings.

  Or maybe it was the four malasadas she’d eaten just an hour earlier.

  Poppy was entranced.

  Captain James was proving to be a most charming and informative guide. He did not complain when she stopped to peer in every shop window, or when she insisted upon going inside a church to gaze upon each and every stained glass window. In fact, he seemed to take joy in her delight.

  “Oh, look at these,” she said, for what she knew had to have been the tenth time in the last five minutes. At every shop or stall she’d found something worth pointing out.

  This time it was a bolt of fine, pale linen, exquisitely embroidered at the hem. It could be used for a dress, Poppy thought, with the intricate cutwork at the hem, or maybe for a tablecloth, although she’d be terrified someone would spill wine on it. She’d never seen needlework of this particular style before, and she had spent more than her fair share of time in the most elegant shops in London.

  “You should buy it,” the captain said.

  She gave him a doubtful look. “I don’t have any money, and furthermore, how on earth would I explain its existence when I return home?”

  He shrugged. “You could say you got it in Cornwall.”

  “Cornwall?” Where had that idea come from? And furthermore—“Do they even make such things in Cornwall?”

  “I have no idea. But that’s the beauty of it. I doubt anyone else does either.”

  Poppy shook her head. “I can’t very well go around saying I went to Cornwall for two weeks. That’s almost as improbable as Portugal.”

  “Almost?” he echoed, not quite mocking her.

  “It would be equally difficult to explain,” she said.

  He did not look convinced.

  “You have no idea what awaits me back in England,” she told him. Honestly, she was a little put off by his flippancy.

  “You don’t know what awaits you either,” he said. And although he was correct, and his words were not unkind or argumentative, she thought the statement belied a lack of understanding of her predicament.

  No, that wasn’t it. He understood her predicament perfectly. What he did not appreciate was how difficult it was for her to blindly await her fate.

  Maybe he was the kind of person who could wait until he had all of his information before making plans, but she was not. If it meant she had to come up with a dozen ideas for every one she actually carried out, so be it.

  To wit:

  She had considered the (wonderful) possibility that Elizabeth hadn’t told anyone Poppy had gone missing.

  She had considered the possibility that Elizabeth had told Poppy’s family but no one else.

  But what if Elizabeth’s husband had returned home early?

  What if Elizabeth’s maid promised Elizabeth she would keep quiet but then said something to her sister?

  What if the maid didn’t have a sister? What if she was alone in the world except for her dearest childhood friend and frequent correspondent who happened to live in London and worked for the Duchess of Wyndham?

  Poppy had only met the duchess once, and she did not think the great lady had liked her very much. Certainly not enough to keep that sort of news quiet.

  But what if the Duchess of Wyndham had gambling debts that she didn’t want her husband to know about? Poppy had never heard rumors to this effect, but it was certainly possible. And if the duchess did have gambling debts, her thoughts might turn to blackmail over profit.

  These were the questions that—well, no, they did not keep Poppy up at night. In truth, she was sleeping quite well; the ocean seemed to rock her like a cradle. But she stewed about these questions all day long. She stared at the ocean and stewed and stewed and stewed.

  But she did not want to argue, not today at least, so she did her best not to sound combative when she said, “It is true that I do not know what awaits me. It could be that every single thing that could have gone right has gone right. And wouldn’t that be splendid? But that hasn’t stopped me from imagining every possible outcome, then trying to devise a plan to deal with each.”

  He looked at her with a frank, penetrating stare. “Tell me,” he said.

  She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tell me one of your plans.”

  “Now?”

  He shrugged, as if to say, Why not?

  Her lips parted with surprise as she glanced around the shop. It seemed an unlikely spot for so delicate a conversation.

  “No one can understand us,” he said. “And even if someone could, you don’t know anyone here.”

  “Later,” she said. She was glad that he had asked, but she certainly wasn’t prepared to discuss her future in the middle of a Portuguese fabric shop. She was almost amused that he had suggested it. It was such a man thing to do.

  “At supper,” he said. “I shall remind you.”

  She nodded her agreement. “Will we be taking our supper back on the ship?”

  “I would not do that to you,” he said gamely. “This is your one day in Lisbon. We will go to a tavern I like to frequent. I think yo
u will like it. Now then”—he motioned to the bolt of fabric—“shall I buy this for you?”

  Under normal circumstances Poppy would not consider accepting such a gift from a gentleman. But although these were not normal circumstances, she still had to refuse. “I can’t,” she said regretfully. “But I shall try to remember the details. I might be able to learn this type of stitching.”

  “You embroider?” He sounded surprised. She didn’t know why; most women did some sort of needlework.

  “Not this well,” she told him, lightly brushing her fingers over the elegant parade of stitches. “But I enjoy it. I find it soothing. It clears my mind.”

  Now he looked surprised. “Forgive me if I have difficulty believing that your mind is ever clear.”

  Well, if that wasn’t just the oddest statement. If it had been said in any other tone of voice, Poppy might have taken it as an insult. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You’re always thinking.”

  “Isn’t that what it means to be human?”

  “You’re different,” he said, and strangely, she rather liked that he felt that way.

  “Do you have anything like that?” she asked. “Something you can do with your hands so that your mind can become quiet?”

  He looked at her with a curiously intense stare, and she wasn’t sure if he understood what she’d meant.

  “The sort of thing you can do and still carry on a conversation if necessary, but it . . . settles you.” She gave a helpless little shrug. “I don’t know how else to explain it.”

  “No, I understand,” he said. He hesitated for a moment, or maybe he was simply choosing his words with care. But then he reached out and touched the drawn-thread embroidery she had just been admiring.

  “I like to build houses out of playing cards,” he said.

  She was momentarily struck speechless. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Have you never made a house of cards? You use regular playing cards, and then you set the first two into a T-shape.” He demonstrated with his hands, as if he were holding actual cards. “Then you bring in a third, and make an H. There’s really no other way to start. Well, I suppose you could try building in triangles, but that’s very advanced. I would not recommend it.”