The Other Miss Bridgerton

by Julia Quinn

  Some people broke rules.

  Others merely wished to.

  Poppy wasn’t sure to which category she belonged. Maybe neither. For some reason, that depressed her.

  “How old are you, Miss Bridgerton?” the captain inquired.

  Poppy was immediately on her guard. “Why do you ask?”

  He did not answer her question, of course. He just kept watching her with that heavy-lidded stare. “Humor me.”

  “Very well,” she said, when she could not think of a reason she ought not reveal her age. “I am two and twenty.”

  “Old enough to be married, then.”

  There was an insult in there somewhere, even if she wasn’t quite sure what it was. “I am not married because I do not wish to be,” she said with clipped formality.

  He was still standing too close, and she was uncomfortably near the bed, so she tried to put a halt to the conversation by stepping around him. She moved to the window, but he followed her pace for pace.

  His voice held equal parts arrogance and amusement when he asked, “You do not wish to be married or you do not wish to be married to any of the men who have asked for your hand?”

  She kept her gaze firmly on the azure view. “I do not see how that is any of your business.”

  “I ask,” he murmured, moving slightly closer, “if only to ascertain your skills.”

  She drew back, looking at him despite all of her best intentions. “I beg your pardon?”

  “In the art of flirting, Miss Bridgerton.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Goodness, you jump to conclusions.”

  She fought to keep her teeth from grinding into powder. “I am not, as you have so deftly demonstrated, up to your standards in that realm.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment, even though I’m fairly certain it wasn’t meant as such.” He stepped away then, giving her his back as he wandered over to his desk.

  But Poppy had not even managed to exhale before he abruptly turned around and remarked, “But surely you agree that flirting is an art, and not a science.”

  She had no idea what they were talking about anymore. “I will agree to no such thing.”

  “You think it a science, then?”

  “No!” she almost yelled. He was baiting her, and they both knew it, and she hated that he was winning this twisted competition between them. But she knew she had to remain calm, so she took a moment to compose herself. Several moments, actually. And one very deep breath. Finally, with what she felt was admirable gravity, she tipped her chin up by an inch and said, “I don’t think it’s either, and it’s certainly not an appropriate conversation between two unmarried individuals.”

  “Hmmm.” He made a show of considering this. “I rather think two unmarried individuals are precisely the sort of people who ought to be having such a conversation.”

  That was it. She was done.

  If he wanted to talk, he could do so until his eyes bled, but she was through with this conversation. She returned to her breakfast, buttering her toast with such fervor that the knife poked through and jabbed her hand. “Ow,” she muttered, more at the surprise than the pain. It was just a butter knife, too dull to break her skin.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She took an angry bite of toast. “Don’t talk to me.”

  “Well, that’s rather difficult, seeing as how we’re sharing a cabin.”

  Her hands came down on the table with startling force and she jerked herself to her feet. “Are you trying to torture me?”

  “You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I rather think I am.”

  She felt her mouth grow slack, and for a moment she could do nothing but stare at him. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “You annoy me.”

  “Well, you annoy me too,” she shot right back.

  And then he laughed. He laughed as if he couldn’t help it, as if it were the only possible reaction to her words. “Oh come now, Miss Bridgerton,” he said when he caught her watching him as if he’d gone mad, “even you must admit we’ve hit a new low.” He chuckled some more, then added, “I feel as if I’ve been tossed back into a childhood spat with one of my siblings.”

  She felt herself thawing, but only a little bit.

  He offered her a conspiratorial grin. “I have the most astonishing urge to pull your hair and say, ‘You annoy me more.’”

  She pressed her lips together, because she didn’t want to say what she was dying to say, which was “You annoy me even more.”

  He looked at her.

  She looked at him.

  Eyes went narrow on both sides.

  “You know you want to say it,” he goaded.

  “I’m not talking to you.”

  “You just did.”

  “Are you three?”

  “I believe we have already concluded that we are both acting like children.”

  “Fine. You annoy me even more. You annoy me more than all of my brothers put together. You annoy me like a wart annoys the bottom of one’s foot, like rain annoys a garden party, like misquoted Shakespeare annoys my very soul!”

  He looked at her with renewed respect. “Well,” he murmured, “nothing can come of nothing.”

  She glared at him.

  “What? That was perfectly quoted. King Lear, I believe.” He cocked his head to the side. “Also, do you have warts?”

  She threw up her arms. “Oh my God.”

  “Because if you do, it would be only polite to inform me. They’re highly contagious, you know.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” she said, her statement more of an incredulous conclusion than a rant. “By the end of this voyage, I will have strangled you. I am quite certain of it.”

  He reached down and swiped a piece of her bacon. “It’s harder than you think, strangling a man.”

  She shook her head in disbelief. “Dare I inquire how you know such a thing?”

  He tapped his chest and said, “Privateer,” as if that were explanation enough. “One often ends up in unsavory locales. Not that I’ve strangled anyone, mind you, but I’ve seen it attempted.”

  He spoke so offhandedly, as if he were discussing village gossip or an impending change of the weather. Poppy couldn’t decide if she was appalled or fascinated. This had to be somewhere on the list of Things One Ought Not to Bring Up at Breakfast, but still . . .

  She couldn’t resist. “I know I shouldn’t ask but—”

  “I intervened,” he said, taking the lid off the tea and peeking inside. He glanced up, the blue of his eyes glinting devilishly through his lashes. “That was your question, I assume.”

  It was unsettling how easily he deduced her thoughts, but surely anyone of sound mind would have had the same question. “It was,” she confirmed, “but I assure you I don’t want to know the details.”

  “Please, Miss Bridgerton. You know that you do.” He rested his hip against the edge of the table and leaned roguishly toward her. “But I shan’t tell you the story. You’ll have to beg for it later.”

  Poppy shook her head, refusing to be trapped into another juvenile exchange. At this rate they’d be stuck in an endless loop of will-not, will-too until they reached Portugal. Besides, she’d seen enough of his skill with double entendre not to make a fuss over any statement containing the word beg.

  “Is that a pelican?” he asked, his arm reaching out even as he looked toward the window.

  She slapped his hand. “Not the bacon.”

  So he took her last triangle of toast. “It was worth a try.”

  “Captain James,” she asked, “how many siblings do you have?”

  “Four.” He bit off one corner of the toast. “Three brothers and one sister. Why do you ask?”

  She cast a cynical glance at the purloined toast, bitten down into a slightly off-kilter rhombus. “I knew you had to have several.”

  He grinned. “Aren’t you perceptive.”

  “I’d wager you’re not the oldest.”

  “Well, that much is obv
ious. If I were the heir, I’d not be out here on the water, would I?”

  Not the heir . . . “Interesting,” she murmured.

  “What?”

  “You referred to your brother as the heir. One has to come from a specific sort of background to do that.”

  “Not necessarily,” he said, but she knew he was trying to cover his tracks. He’d let slip another detail of his background, which meant she now knew two things about him: he had served in the navy, and his family were likely members of the landed gentry.

  He had not confirmed either detail, of course, but she had faith in her conclusions.

  “Regardless . . .” she said, deciding not to pursue it further for now. Better to tuck the tidbit away for future use. “You don’t act like the oldest.”

  He nodded in a most courtly manner, acknowledging her point.

  “But I’d also wager you’re”—she touched a finger to her mouth as she pondered this—“not the youngest.”

  He seemed to find this amusing. “But . . . ?”

  “The second to youngest. Most definitely.”

  “Why, Miss Bridgerton, you are correct. May I ask how you came to your conclusion?”

  “You’re not spoiled,” she said with an assessing eye, “so I wouldn’t think you the youngest.”

  “You don’t find me spoiled? I’m touched.”

  She rolled her eyes. “But as you’ve so ably just demonstrated, you’re highly irritating. Enough so to be the second youngest.”

  “Highly irritating?” He let out a bark of laughter. “From you I take that as the highest of compliments.”

  She nodded graciously. “Please do, if it gives you comfort.”

  He leaned toward her, his voice growing husky. “I am always in need of comfort,” he murmured.

  Poppy’s cheeks caught fire. Score another one for him, damn it.

  His grin made it quite clear that he was not oblivious to her distress, but he must have taken pity on her, because he popped the last bite of toast into his mouth and said, “And now I must ask where you fall in your own family order.”

  “Right in the middle,” she replied, relieved to have returned to the previous topic. “Two brothers on one side, and two on the other.”

  “No sisters?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, that explains a lot.”

  She rolled her eyes. Again.

  He looked mildly disappointed that she did not ask him to elaborate, but knowing him, he probably assumed she’d beg for that story later too. “I’ll be on my way, then,” he said. “The ship won’t steer itself.”

  “But surely Mr. Jenkins or Mr. Carroway can do so.”

  “Indeed they can,” he allowed. “But I do like to keep an eye on things. I rarely spend much time in my cabin during the day.”

  “Why did you come down?”

  He looked at her blankly for a moment, then said, “Oh yes, the book.” He picked it up, made a little emphasizing motion with it in the air, and said, “Must give this to Mr. Carroway.”

  “I would tell you to give him my regards, but of course I do not know him.”

  He gave her a wry half smile. “Your greatest pleasure.”

  “For now, at least.”

  He acknowledged her quip with an approving nod. “Well done, Miss Bridgerton.”

  Out the door he went, leaving her alone with her breakfast and her thoughts, which unfortunately consisted of one part pleasure at his compliment and twelve parts annoyance with herself for feeling that way.

  She supposed she’d better get used to such inner conflict. She had a hunch it would be with her the rest of the voyage.

  Chapter 8

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Poppy found a novel she hadn’t noticed on the shelf the night before and gave it a try, moving—as boredom dictated—from the bed to a chair, to a different chair, and then back to the bed. When the sky began to dim, she went to the windows, but they must have been facing east, because the sky went from blue to dark blue to black without even a speck of orange or pink.

  There might have been a moment of indigo in there somewhere, but that was probably just wishful thinking.

  It stood to reason, though, that if she was facing east on the way to Portugal, she’d be facing west on the way back. She consoled herself with the knowledge that there would be sunsets galore as she voyaged home. She supposed she could rouse herself early to watch the sun rise, but she knew her habits well enough to know that was not going to happen.

  Billy’s timid knock sounded at the door, and even though Poppy knew he had a key, she got up to greet him. It seemed only polite, as she assumed he was carrying a heavy tray.

  “Good evening, miss,” he said when he saw her.

  Poppy moved aside to let him pass. “Come in. Dinner smells delicious.”

  “Chicken in sauce, miss. I had some earlier. ’Twas good, it was.”

  “What kind of sauce?”

  Billy set the tray on the table and frowned. “I don’t right know. It’s kind of a brown, I think.”

  “Brown sauce,” she said with a friendly smile. “It is one of my favorites.”

  Billy grinned back, and she suspected he’d be calling whatever this dish was Chicken in Brown Sauce for the rest of his life.

  “Will the captain be dining here tonight?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, miss. I brought enough food for two, but he’s very busy above deck.”

  “Busy? I hope nothing is wrong.”

  “Oh no,” he said reassuringly. “He’s always got a lot to do. We just thought you’d be getting hungry.”

  “We?”

  “Me an’ Brown an’ Green,” Billy said. He took an empty plate from the tray and began to set her a place. “We’ve been talking about you.”

  “Do I want to know what you’ve been saying?”

  “Well, I’ve had only nice things.”

  Poppy winced. “Brown and Green and I did not get off to the best of beginnings.”

  “Well, you can’t be blamed for being angry,” Billy said loyally.

  “That’s very ki—”

  “And they was just doing their jobs.”

  Poppy decided not to push the issue. “So they were.”

  “The captain said they’re allowed to come see you. If I’m busy, that is.” Billy gave her a sympathetic look. “He said no one else, though. But he said it in an awful strange way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said—” Billy made a scrunched-up grimace. “I’m probably going t’get this wrong. He speaks right fancy sometimes.”

  “What did he say, Billy?”

  “He said . . .” Billy paused again, his head bobbing up and down as he mouthed the words before actually saying them. “He said ’twould be his greatest pleasure if you did not have occasion t’meet any of the other men.”

  Poppy clapped a hand over her mouth, but she couldn’t quite stifle her bubble of laughter.

  “I think it might mean he fancies you,” Billy said.

  “Oh no,” she said with great alacrity. “I assure you it does not.”

  Billy shrugged. “He’s never talked about any other lady before.”

  “Quite possibly because I’m the only one who has ever had cause to be aboard,” Poppy replied, with no great lack of irony.

  “Well, that’s true,” Billy confirmed, “at least as far as I know.” He went back to setting her place, then did the same for the captain. “In case he comes for supper. That is t’say he will come and dine. He has to eat, and he always takes his meal in his cabin. It just might not be at the same time you do.” He stepped back, then motioned to the covered dish at the center of the table. “It’s one of his favorite meals. Chicken in brown sauce. He loves it.”

  Poppy stifled a smile. “I’m sure it will be delicious.”

  “I’ll come back for the tray at— Well, no I won’t,” Billy said with a frown. “I don’t know when I’ll come back for the tray, see
ing as how I don’t know when the captain will be eating.” He thought for a moment. “Don’t worry, I’ll figure out something.”

  “I have every faith in your powers of deduction,” Poppy said gamely.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Billy said with great enthusiasm, “but I think it’s good.”

  “It’s very good,” Poppy said with a laugh. “I promise.”

  He gave her a friendly nod and let himself out. Poppy just smiled and shook her head. She could hardly believe he was the same boy who wouldn’t even look at her the day before. She considered it a personal victory that she’d got him to speak to her. A rather fortunate personal victory considering that Billy was now her only friend on the ship.

  “Be glad you have a friend,” she admonished herself. This could be worse. That was what she had been telling herself all afternoon. Back in England, her entire life might already have fallen apart—she wouldn’t know for sure until she returned—but for now she was in good health, unmolested, and—she took the lid off the serving dish and took a whiff of her supper—being fed remarkably well.

  “Chicken in brown sauce,” she murmured. It was as good a description as any. She put a piece on her plate, along with a serving of an unfamiliar rice dish, then set the lids back in place so that the food would remain warm for Captain James.

  Not like her eggs. Or her tea.

  That wasn’t his fault, she reminded herself. There was a preposterous number of other things that were his fault, but she could not blame him for her breakfast.

  She ate in silence, staring out the window at the fathomless sea. There must have been a moon, because she could see its ethereal reflection on the waves, but it didn’t do much to illuminate the night. The sky was inky dark and endless, with stars peeking through like pinpricks. The heavens felt huge out on the water, so different from at home. Or maybe it wasn’t different at all, and it was just that right now she felt so very much more alone.

  How different this voyage might have been under more auspicious circumstances. She tried to imagine taking to the sea with her family. It would never happen, of course; neither of her parents cared for travel. But Poppy imagined it all the same—standing on deck with her brothers, laughing as the wind and the waves set them off-balance. Would any of them have grown seasick? Richard, most likely. There were any number of foods that did not agree with him. In their childhood, he’d thrown up more than the other four put together.