The Other Miss Bridgerton

Andrew grinned. It was always a joy to be greeted like an old friend. “Senhor Farias, it is my pleasure entirely. Tell me, how fares your family?”

“Very good, very good. My Maria is now married, you know. I will soon be—how do you call it—not father, but . . .” He rapidly snapped his fingers in the air, his preferred motion whenever he was trying to think of something. Andrew had seen him do it many times.

“Avô , avô ,” he said. “Not father, but—”

“Grandfather?”

“Yes! That’s it.”

“Congratulations, my friend! Senhora Farias must be very pleased.”

“Sim! Yes, she is very happy. She loves the little babies. But who is this?” Senhor Farias finally noticed Poppy standing just a little behind and to the side of Andrew. He took her hand and kissed it. “Is this your wife? Have you been married? Parabéns , Captain! Congratulations!”

Andrew stole a glance at Poppy. She was blushing furiously, but she did not seem to be truly embarrassed.

“She is my cousin,” Andrew said, since that seemed the safest lie. If his men had not already come to Taberna da Torre for a meal, they would soon, and would surely impart the news that the Infinity had been sailing with a woman on board. “She is a guest on our voyage.”

“Then she is a guest in my taberna ,” Senhor Farias said, leading her to a table. “I will bring only our best food.”

“Are you telling me that some of your food is not the best?” Andrew teased.

“No,” Senhor Farias said with conviction. “My wife cooks nothing bad. It is all best. So I will bring your cousin everything.”

Poppy opened her mouth and for a moment looked as if she might refuse, but instead she said, “That would be wonderful .”

Senhor Farias planted his hands on his hips. “Does the captain not feed you?”

“The food on the Infinity is very good,” Poppy said, allowing Senhor Farias to link his arm in hers. “But I have never tried Portuguese food—well, except for malasadas —and I am very curious.”

“She is a very curious lady,” Andrew called, trailing after them.

Poppy shot him a look. “That can be interpreted in several ways.”

“They’re all accurate.”

She did a funny thing with her mouth that was clearly the equivalent of rolling her eyes, and then happily went with Senhor Farias to his best table.

“Sit, sit,” he urged. He looked from her to Andrew and back. “I will bring wine.”

“He’s lovely!” Poppy gushed as soon as they sat down.

“I thought you would like him.”

“Are all the Portuguese so friendly?”

“Many, but none so much as he.”

“And he’s going to be a grandfather!” Poppy clasped her hands together, her smile enough to light the room. “It makes me so happy and I don’t even know him.”

“My mother often says that it is the mark of a truly good person if she is happy for those she has never met.”

She frowned. “That’s odd. My aunt says the same thing.”

Andrew bit the inside of his cheek. Damn it, of course Lady Bridgerton said the same thing. She and his mother were the closest of friends. “It’s a common phrase,” he said. This was probably a lie, but maybe not. For all he knew, all the ladies in his mother’s set said the same thing.

“Really? I’ve never heard anyone else say it, but then again, my circle of acquaintances is not so broad.” And then, alleviating any worry he might have had that she’d found his comment suspicious, she leaned forward with an eager expression and said, “I can’t wait to see what Senhor Farias brings. I’m so hungry.”

“As am I. Two malasadas do not a meal make.”

She wagged a finger in his direction. “It was your choice to let me have one of yours.”

“Three would not have done either. And apparently,” he said, wagging his finger right back at her, “nor does four.”

She only laughed, smiling at Senhor Farias when he came to pour wine. When the tavernkeeper left, she leaned forward with gleaming eyes and said, “I want to try everything.”

Andrew lifted his glass. “To everything,” he said.

She smiled as if it were the most charming toast she’d ever heard. “To everything.”

Andrew sat back, watching her with a strange sense of pride. It had been a long time since he’d shown someone the sights of a city—any city. Most of his business—whether for the government or not—was conducted on his own. And when he did venture into town with men from his ship, it was not the same. They were friends, but they were not equals, and that would always stand between them.

But with Poppy every moment had been a delight. And he was beginning to think that perhaps her presence on the Infinity would not be as much of a disaster as he’d feared.

He’d known at the start that he might have to marry this girl, but he was starting to wonder if this really was such a burden. Where was he going to find someone else who found Pombaline cages interesting? Who could take every one of his dry statements and twist it, turn it upside down, and toss it back with even greater wit?

She was a clever one, his Poppy.

And she’d kissed him. She’d kissed him with tiniest, most fleeting touch of the lips he’d ever felt. Yet somehow it was more .

Poppy Bridgerton had kissed him, and it was monumental.

He felt it in his blood, he felt it across his skin. And when he finally found sleep later that night, it had burned through his dreams. He woke up aching and hard, nothing like his usual morning erection. He couldn’t even do anything about it, since he was bunked in his navigator’s cabin.

Carroway was a solid chap, but every friendship had its limit.

Come to think of it, every friendship had this limit. Or if it didn’t, it damn well should.

“What are you thinking about?” Poppy asked.

There was no way he was going to tell her the truth, so he said, “I was wondering if we ought to bring a meal to José. He was working with such vigor this morning.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “You’re terrible.”

“You keep saying so, but you’ve yet to convince me.”

“I can hardly believe I’m the first to try,” she said with a snort.

“Oh, certainly not. My family has long since given up the attempt to instill a sense of propriety in my soul.”

She looked at him shrewdly. “That’s an awful lot of words to say that you behave very badly.”

“Indeed it is. And probably why I get away with it so well.” He leaned toward her with a wicked smile. “Silver tongue and all that.”

“All that indeed.”

He chuckled at her waspy tone. “Did I tell you that I hold the record for the most times getting sent down from Eton?”

“You went to Eton?”

“I did,” he confirmed, and it occurred to him that he didn’t much care that he’d revealed such a distinguishing fact about his background.

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes shining almost emerald with her curiosity. “Who are you?”

It wasn’t the first time she’d uttered the question. It wasn’t even the first time she’d done so in that same incredulous voice. But it was the first time his response was something more than a flashed grin or condescending chuckle.

It was the first time the answer had to be teased out of his heart.

“It’s an odd thing,” he said, and he could hear in his voice that the words were coming from some untapped corner of his spirit, “but I think you know me as well as anyone now.”

She went still, and when she looked at him, it was with an astonishingly direct gaze. “I don’t know you at all.”

“Is that what you think?” he murmured. She didn’t know his true name, and she didn’t know his history, or that he’d grown up alongside her cousins in Kent. She didn’t know that he was the son of an earl, or that he worked clandestinely for the crown.

She didn’t know any of these details, but she knew him . He had the most terrifying feeling that she might be the first person who ever had.