by Julia Quinn
“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 the 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.
But then he realized that it wasn’t terrifying at all, that he thought it should be terrifying, but in reality it was . . .
Rather nice.
His family had always viewed him as something of a jokester, and he supposed he had done little to convince them otherwise. He had been sent down from Eton on multiple occasions—never for academic failings, though. He had been far too restless a boy to earn top marks, that was true, but he’d acquitted himself tolerably well in his studies.
His transgressions had always been of the behavioral variety. A prank intended for a friend that somehow ended on the doorstep of a tutor. A prank intended for a tutor that somehow ended on the doorstep of the head of school. Inappropriate laughter in the dining hall. Inappropriate laughter in church. Inappropriate laughter, frankly, just about everywhere.
So if his family saw him as silly, or at the very least unserious, he supposed they had cause.
But that wasn’t all he was. He did important things. Important things that no one knew about, but that couldn’t be helped.
It didn’t bother him.
Well, it didn’t bother him much.
He looked across the table at Poppy, marveling that all of this had flashed through his mind in under a second.
“Do you think you know me?” she asked.
“I do.” He didn’t even need to think about it.
She let out a snort. “That’s preposterous.”
“I know you like puzzles,” he said.
“Everyone likes—”
“No they don’t,” he cut in. “Not like you and me.”
His vehemence seemed to surprise her.
“I also know,” he said, “that if you set yourself a task, you cannot rest until you have completed it.” At her nonplussed expression he added, “Again, not everyone is that way. Even among those of us who like puzzles.”
“You’re the same,” she said, a touch defensively.
“I’m aware.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me.”
Her chin rose a notch. “Nor me.”
He couldn’t help but be amused by her attitude. “I’m not accusing you of something nefarious. To my mind, it’s a compliment.”
“Oh.” She blushed a little, and it was really rather entertaining the way she seemed to fidget within herself, as if she couldn’t quite absorb the praise. “What else do you think you know about me?” she asked.
He felt himself smile. “Fishing for compliments?”
“Hardly,” she scoffed. “I have no reason to expect that your answers will be uniformly flattering.”
“Very well.” He thought for a moment. “I know that you don’t like to hide your intelligence.”
“When have you ever known me to do so?”
“Precisely,” he said. “But you haven’t had to. I know enough of society to know that you’re under far different strictures in London than on the Infinity.”
“I should say I’m under no strictures,” she said pertly, “except for the one that confines me to one cabin.”
“Says the lady dining in a Lisbon café.”
“Touché,” she admitted, and he thought she might be biting back a smile.
He leaned toward her, just a bit. “I know that you can’t speak French, that you don’t get seasick, and that you miss your brother Roger with all your heart.”
She looked up, her eyes somber.
“I know that you adored him even though he tortured you as all good older brothers do, and I know that he loved you back far more fiercely than yo
u ever knew.”
“You can’t know that,” she whispered.
“Of course I can.” He tipped his head, quirked a brow. “I’m a brother too.”
Her lips parted, but she seemed not to know what to say.
“I know you’re loyal,” he said.
“How could you know that?”
He shrugged. “I just do.”
“But you—”
“—have spent much of the last week in your company. I do not need to witness a display of loyalty to know that it is a characteristic you possess.”
She blinked several times, her lashes sweeping up and down over unfocused eyes. She seemed to be staring at a spot on the far wall, but it was clear that everything she saw was inside her own head. Finally, just when he was about to give her a verbal nudge, she straightened and brought her gaze to his.
“I know about you,” she said.
He did not point out that she had just said that she didn’t know him at all. He was far too curious to hear what she had to say.
But before he could ask, Senhor Farias arrived at the table with a plate of cod fritters.
“Bolinhos de bacalhau!” he announced. “But you must wait. They are much too hot.”
Poppy peered at them. “Goodness, they are still sizzling.”
Senhor Farias was halfway back to the kitchen, and he didn’t even turn around as he snapped his fingers over his head and called out, “Too hot!”
Poppy grinned, and Andrew knew that he ought to allow their conversation to turn to the glorious meal ahead of them, but she had been about to say something important, and he could not let it go.
“You said you know me,” he reminded her.
“Hmm?” She reached out and gingerly touched a fritter.
“Too hot!” Senhor Farias yelled.
Poppy snapped to attention, her head whipping back and forth as she looked for the tavernkeeper. “How did he see that?” she marveled. “He’s not even here.”
“Poppy.”
“Do you think they’re ready?”
He said it again: “Poppy.”
She finally looked up, smiling pleasantly as she met his gaze.
“Before Senhor Farias arrived with the fritters,” he said. “You said you know me.”
“Oh yes, that’s right. I did.”
He made a rolling motion with his hand, his usual visualization of Well?
“Very well.” She straightened, almost as if she were a schoolteacher, preparing to deliver a lesson. “I know that you are not as hard-edged as you would like others to believe.”
“You think so?”
She gave him an arch look. “Billy told me that you will not permit him to go out and about in Lisbon by himself.”
“He’s a child.”
“Who has left home and is living on a ship,” she retorted. “Do most boys in his position face similar restrictions?”
“No,” Andrew admitted, “but he doesn’t speak the language. And he’s very small for his age.”
Her smile was lopsided but triumphant. “And you care about him.”
Andrew tugged at his cravat. It was ridiculous to feel embarrassed by such a thing. He was only protecting a small boy. Everyone should aspire to such behavior.
“You also treat your men very well,” she said.
“That’s just good business. We talked about that.”
She laughed. Right in his face. “Please. You said quite specifically that the main reason to feed one’s men well is not because it is good business, but rather because they are human.”
“You remember that, eh?” he muttered.
“I remember everything.”
This, he did not doubt for a second. But he was oddly uncomfortable with her praise—for this sort of thing, at least. Which was utter bollocks. He was only doing right by his crew. But men were taught to take pride in their strength and power, not in their good works, and he wasn’t quite sure how to simply say thank you.
“I think they’re ready,” he said, nodding toward the fritters.
Poppy, who had been so eager to try them she’d nearly burned her finger, just shrugged.
“You don’t want to eat?” He knew that she did. She was just trying to make some convoluted, completely unimportant point.
He motioned again to the food on the table. “We’re wasting time.”
“Is that what you think?” she murmured, and her tone was so precisely the same as his had been when he’d uttered the same words a few minutes earlier, it could not have been coincidence. Not from her.
He reached out and stabbed a fritter with his fork.
“Are we not meant to use our fingers?”
“Just being careful in case they’re—”
“Not too hot!” Senhor Farias called out.
Andrew looked up and grinned. “Fingers it is.”
Poppy took one and bit into it, drawing back in surprise as she tasted it. “I thought it would be sweet!”
He laughed, only then realizing that neither he nor Senhor Farias had told her—in English—what they were. “Salted cod,” he told her. “It is a huge favorite here, and it is said that the Portuguese have as many recipes using it as days of the year. This is one of the most common preparations.”
“It’s a bit like—” Poppy smacked her lips a few times, half a fritter still pinched daintily between her fingers. “Never mind, I’m not exactly sure what it’s like. But— Oh, look!” She waved her free hand toward the door. “There is Billy!”
She smiled and beckoned him over.
“Miss Poppy! The captain let you out!” Billy’s eyes went wide with horror when he realized he’d blurted this out in front of his employer. “Begging your pardon, sir. I didn’t— That is to say . . .”
Billy swallowed, his small Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I’ve been telling her you’re not so bad, sir. In fact, I told her you’re the best of men. I promise.”
Andrew looked over at Poppy, raising one eyebrow and then the other in an exaggerated attempt to pretend that he was judging Billy’s statement. “What do you say, Miss Bridgerton? Is Master Suggs telling the truth?”
“Is that your surname?” Poppy asked the boy. “I don’t think I ever knew it.”
Billy nodded nervously, and Andrew decided to take pity on him. “There is no need to apologize, Billy. I did indeed ‘let her out.’”
Poppy leaned forward with a conspiratorial air. “And you can rest assured he’s going to ‘put me back in’ for the voyage home.”
Billy’s chin drew back, and his eyes went comically wide.
“It’s a joke, Billy,” Poppy said. “Well, it’s not a joke, I suppose, since it’s true, but I was joking about it.”
“Ehrm . . .” Billy looked to Andrew for help, but he only shrugged. Best that the boy learn early that women could be deuced hard to follow in conversation.
“Did you come here alone?” Poppy asked. “I was just praising Captain James for his requirement that you be accompanied by an adult.”
Billy shook his head with vehemence. “Brown brought me on his way into town. Said he’d come to collect me in a bit.”
Poppy looked perplexed. “You wished to spend time by yourself here?”
“Senhor Farias lets me feed his cat,” Billy explained with a grin. “His name is Whiskers. Well, that’s what I call him. He’s got a name in Portuguese, but I can’t pronounce it. He’s awful friendly, though. Lets me rub his belly and everything.”
As Billy dashed out the side door, Andrew turned to Poppy and said, “He comes here every time we’re in Lisbon. Spends hours with that creature.”
“He really is a little boy at heart,” she murmured. “I forget sometimes— I suspect he’s had to grow up faster than I did.”
Andrew nodded in agreement. When he was Billy’s age, he was still running wild with his siblings and neighbors. His biggest concern was how cold the lake would be if his brother pushed him in.
“Don’t you have a cat o
n the ship?” Poppy asked.
He looked up, about to explain that the ship’s cat was a wretched, unpleasant beast, when a sudden movement to his left caught his attention. He glanced discreetly over his shoulder, but all he saw was Senhor Farias. Except . . .
That was odd.
The jovial tavernkeeper was standing still. Too still.
Senhor Farias never stood still. He greeted customers, he poured wine, but he never stood still. Certainly not as he now was: shoulders pressed stiffly against the wall, eyes twitching back and forth.
Something was not right.
“Poppy,” he said in a quiet voice, “we need to go.”
“What? No. I haven’t fin—”
He kicked her under the table. “Now.”
Her eyes went wide, and she gave a tiny nod.
Andrew made eye contact with Senhor Farias. Andrew then looked to the door, signaling his intention to leave. Senhor Farias flicked his eyes to a rough-looking trio of men by the far window, signaling the source of the problem.
Andrew stood, but not so quickly as to appear in a rush. “Obrigado,” he said in a hearty voice, reaching out and grabbing Poppy firmly by the hand. “I will see you next time I am in Lisbon, yes?”
He hauled Poppy to her feet as Senhor Farias nodded and said, “Sim, sim,” with perhaps a little too much enthusiasm.
“Thank you, senhor,” Poppy said as she hurried to match Andrew’s pace.
Senhor Farias smiled tightly, and they almost made it. They really did. But when they were just a few feet from the door, Poppy suddenly jerked her hand free of Andrew’s and exclaimed, “Oh, but Billy!”
Andrew lunged forward to grab her hand again, but she was already hurrying toward the side door. “Poppy,” he called out, taking care not to sound panicked. “We can get him later.”
She shook her head, clearly unwilling to leave the young boy in a place of danger. She said something—probably about Billy being right outside; Andrew couldn’t hear clearly—and poked her head out the back.
Damn it all. Billy was far safer where he was. Whatever—or whomever—these men wanted, it wasn’t a thirteen-year-old boy from Portsmouth. But that didn’t mean he was safe. If Billy got in their way, they would cut him down without a moment’s thought.
