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 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.