The Other Miss Bridgerton Page 5

She sucked in her upper lip, refusing to entertain him by rising to his bait.

  “Are you enjoying your roll?” he asked felicitously.

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Hunger can make anything taste good,” he remarked.

  “Nonetheless,” she said honestly, “it’s rather tasty.”

  “I shall convey your compliments to the chef.”

  “You have a chef aboard?” she asked, surprised.

  He shrugged. “He fancies himself French. I’ve always suspected he was born in Leeds.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Leeds,” Poppy said.

  “Not unless you’re a French chef.”

  A tiny laugh crossed her lips, taking her completely by surprise.

  “There now, Miss Bridgerton,” the captain said as she finished the second roll, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  “Chewing, you mean?” she asked innocently. “I’ve always been rather good at that. At least since I grew teeth.”

  “Sharp ones, I’m sure.”

  She smiled. Slowly. “Positively wolfish.”

  “Not the most appealing of images, and I’m sure you knew I was referring to our conversation.” He tilted his head to the side, which somehow made his small smile more lopsided—and more devastating. “It’s not so terribly difficult to laugh in my company.”

  “The more pertinent question would be— Why do you wish me to?”

  “Laugh, you mean?”

  She nodded.

  He leaned forward. “It’s a long voyage to Portugal, Miss Bridgerton, and at heart, men are lazy creatures. I’m forced to have you aboard, in my very cabin even, for at least two weeks. It will require far less energy on my part if you’re not spitting mad the entire time.”

  Poppy managed a half smile that was every bit a match with his. “I assure you, Captain James, I never spit.”

  He laughed aloud. “Touché, Miss Bridgerton.”

  Poppy sat quietly for a moment. She’d finished both rolls, but supper had not yet arrived, leaving her without anything with which to occupy herself. It made the silence awkward, and she hated that she was staring at her hands to avoid staring at him.

  It was hard to look at him. It wasn’t that he was so handsome, although that was certainly true. And while Poppy was usually comfortable in most social gatherings, she was the first to admit that there were some people who were simply too beautiful. One almost had to look away, else risk turning tongue-tied and stupid.

  But that wasn’t why Captain James made her feel so inept. She was pretty enough, but she was used to being around people who were more attractive than she was. London was full of ladies and gentlemen who spent hours upon hours on their appearance. Poppy could barely sit still long enough for her maid to dress her hair.

  The problem with Captain James wasn’t his beauty, it was his intelligence. More specifically, he had too much of it.

  Poppy could see it in his eyes. She’d spent most of her life being the cleverest person in the room. It wasn’t braggadocio, it was fact. But she wasn’t so sure she had this man beat.

  She stood abruptly and walked to the windows, gazing out over the endless sea. She hadn’t had the chance to explore the cabin, not really. Her time on the bed had been spent tied up and staring at the ceiling. And when she was writing the letter to Elizabeth, she’d been far too focused on the task—and on keeping up with the clever captain—to truly examine her surroundings.

  “These are very fine windows,” she said. The glass was of obvious quality, perhaps a little weather-beaten, but not warped or wavy.

  “Thank you.”

  She nodded, even though she wasn’t looking at him. “Are all captain’s cabins this commodious?”

  “I can’t say I’ve done a thorough study on the subject, but of the ones I’ve been in, yes. Military ships, especially.”

  She turned. “You’ve been aboard a military ship?”

  He glanced to the side—not even for a full second—but it was enough to let Poppy know that he’d not meant to let such a detail slip.

  “I’d wager you were in the navy,” she said.

  “Would you now?”

  “Either that or you were there as a prisoner, and strange as it seems to say this, since you did kidnap me, that doesn’t seem likely.”

  “Because of my high moral fiber?”

  “Because you’re too clever to get caught.”

  He laughed at that. “I shall take that as the highest of compliments, Miss Bridgerton. Mostly because I know how grudgingly it was given.”

  “It would be foolish of me to underestimate your intelligence.”

  “Indeed it would, and if you will permit me to pay you a compliment, it would be equally foolish for me to underestimate you.”

  A little thrill ran through Poppy’s chest. Men so rarely acknowledged intelligence in a woman. And the fact that it was he . . .

  . . . had nothing to do with it, she told herself firmly. She walked over to his desk, set against the far wall. Like the table, it was a finely crafted piece of furniture. In fact everything about the cabin spoke of wealth and privilege. The books squeezed tightly on the shelf were those of an educated man, and she was fairly certain the carpet was imported from the Orient.

  Or maybe he’d gone to the Orient and brought it back himself. Still, it was quality.

  She had always thought ship cabins would be tiny and cramped, but this one was quite spacious. Nothing compared to her bedchamber at home, of course, but still, she could take ten paces between the two walls, and she’d always had a lengthy stride.

  “Do you get seasick, Miss Bridgerton?” Captain James asked.

  She turned sharply, surprised that she had not yet considered this. “I don’t know.”

  This seemed to amuse him. “How do you feel right now?”

  “Fine,” she said, the word drawn out long as she paused to take stock of her insides. Nothing was churning, nothing was queasy. “Almost normal, I suppose.”

  He gave a slow nod. “That’s a good sign. I’ve seen men reduced to invalids even here in the calm waters of the channel.”

  “This is calm?” Poppy asked. They might not be pitching and rolling, but the floor was definitely unsteady beneath her feet. Nothing like the times she’d been rowed out on a lake.

  “Relatively,” he replied. “You’ll know rough waters once we reach the Atlantic.”

  “We’re not—” She cut herself off. Of course they were not yet in the Atlantic. She knew her geography. She just had never had reason to put it to firsthand use before.

  She schooled her features back into what she hoped was a composed expression. “I have never been to sea,” she said stiffly. “I expect we will soon learn how I fare.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment a knock sounded at the door, and whatever he might have said was supplanted by “That will be supper.”

  Poppy scooted out of the way as a towheaded boy of perhaps ten or twelve carried in a tray with covered dishes and a carafe of what looked to be red wine.

  “Thank you, Billy,” the captain said.

  “Sir,” Billy grunted, setting the heavily laden tray on the table.

  Poppy smiled at the boy—there was no need to be rude to everyone—but he was clearly trying to avoid looking her way.

  “Thank you,” she said, perhaps a little too loudly.

  Billy flushed and gave a jerky nod.

  “This is Miss Poppy,” the captain said, laying a hand on Billy’s shoulder before he could flee. “Aside from me, you will be the only person allowed in this cabin to tend to her. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” Billy said, still not looking at her. He seemed downright miserable. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “No, that will be all. You may return in three quarters of an hour to clear the tray.”

  Billy nodded and practically sprinted from the room.

  “He’s at that age,” the captain said with a wry lift of his
brows, “when there is nothing so scary as an attractive female.”

  “It’s nice to know I scare someone,” Poppy half muttered.

  The captain let out a bark of laughter. “Oh, you need not worry on that score. Brown and Green are thoroughly terrified.”

  “And you?” Poppy asked as she took her seat. “Do I scare you?”

  She held her breath as she waited for his answer. She wasn’t sure what foolish devil had compelled her to ask such a question, but now that she had, her skin prickled with anticipation.

  He took his time in answering, but Poppy didn’t think it was with the intent to draw out her unease. His expression grew thoughtful as he lifted the lid on the main dish. “Rabbit in wine,” he murmured, “and no, you don’t scare me.” He looked up, his eyes meeting hers in a startling blaze of azure.

  She waited for him to elaborate, but he did not, instead ladling the fragrant stew into their bowls.

  “What does scare you?” she finally asked.

  He chewed. Swallowed. “Well, I don’t much like spiders.”

  His answer was so unexpected she gave a little snort. “Does anyone?”

  “Must be someone, I imagine,” he said with a one-shouldered shrug. “Don’t people study such things at university? Naturalists and the like?”

  “But if you were a naturalist, wouldn’t you rather study something sweet and fluffy?”

  He glanced down at his bowl. “Like a rabbit?”

  She tried not to smile. “Point taken.”

  “I’ll be honest,” he said, uncovering a small serving dish filled with parsleyed potatoes. “I don’t think either of us had a point.”

  This time, she couldn’t help it. She did smile. But she also rolled her eyes.

  “See,” he said, “I’m not so dreadful.”

  “Neither am I,” she shot back.

  He sighed.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, instantly suspicious.

  “What?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You sighed.”

  “Am I not allowed to?”

  “Captain James.”

  “Very well,” he said, sighing again, and for the first time his face looked almost weary. “I was not dissembling. You don’t scare me. But I’ll tell you what does.”

  He paused, and she wondered if it was for dramatic effect or simply so he might consider his words.

  “I am petrified,” he said with slow deliberation, “by everything you represent.”

  For a moment, Poppy could do nothing but stare. “What does that mean?” she asked, and she didn’t think she sounded defensive. She didn’t think she was defensive. But she was curious. After a statement like that, how could she be otherwise?

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as his hands formed a steeple. “You, Miss Bridgerton, are a lady of gentle birth. I suspect you’re already aware that I have some experience with this particular species.”

  She nodded. It was clear that Captain James had been born a gentleman. It was right there in everything he did, everything he said. She saw it in the way he moved and spoke, and she wondered if a person could ever truly throw off the customs with which he was raised.

  She wondered if the captain had wanted to.

  “Simply put, Miss Bridgerton,” he continued, “creatures such as yourself have no place on a ship.”

  Poppy gave him an arch look. “I believe I have already concurred on this point.”

  “So you did. But much to our joint dismay, there are forces at work which precluded my being able to redeposit you ashore.”

  “Forces such as what?”

  He gave her a practiced smile. “Nothing you need worry your pretty head about.”

  This time she was quite sure he was trying to rankle her. But his condescending statement didn’t bother her nearly so much as the fact that he’d known it would.

  She did not like being so easily read.

  She especially did not like that he was the one to do so.

  So she smiled prettily and thanked him when he spooned potatoes onto her plate. And when she caught him regarding her with a curious expression, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of her nonreaction, she allowed herself some small satisfaction. But just a tiny bit, because frankly, she didn’t think she would be able to keep it off her face if she allowed herself to truly savor her triumph.

  She did not want to think about what it meant that this was what now passed for a triumph.

  “Wine?” the captain inquired.

  “Please.”

  He filled her glass, and it was all very civilized. They ate in silence, and Poppy was reasonably content to remain in her own thoughts until the captain swallowed the last bite of his food and remarked, “It’s a comfortable bed. When one is not tied up, of course.”

  Her head shot up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “My bed,” he said, with a little motion in its direction. “It’s very comfortable. There is a rail—you pull it up and it clicks into place. It keeps one from falling out in bad weather.”

  Poppy felt her eyes widen with alarm as she turned toward his berth. It was larger than she might expect for a sailing vessel, but surely it did not fit two. He couldn’t possibly imagine they would . . . No, he would never. But he wouldn’t be sleeping there. He’d said that he was giving her his room.

  “Relax,” he said. “The bed is yours.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’ll be on the floor.”

  She gasped audibly. “In here?”

  “Where else do you propose I lay my head?”

  It took a few tries before she managed to get out “Somewhere else?”

  He shrugged. “No room.”

  Her head shook from side to side, the motion tiny and quick, as if she might be able to jostle his words right out of the cabin. “That can’t be true.”

  “There’s always the deck,” he said, “but I’ve been told I’m a restless sleeper. I could roll right overboard.”

  “Please,” she begged, “be serious.”

  His eyes met hers, and once again she was reminded that he was something more than a devil-may-care rogue. There was nothing amusing in his gaze, and nothing amused. “I am serious,” he said.

  “My reputation—”

  “Won’t change either way. If it’s discovered you’re gone, your reputation will be in tatters regardless of where I sleep. If it’s not discovered you’re gone, no one will be the wiser.”

  “Your men will know.”

  “My men know me,” he said in a voice that brooked no dissent. “If I tell them you are an honorable lady, and that I sleep at the door to protect you, that is what they will believe.”

  Poppy brought her hand to her mouth, a nervous gesture she indulged in for only the greatest moments of apprehension. Or at least this was the lie she told herself; she probably did it all the time.

  “I can see you do not believe me,” the captain said.

  “I will be honest,” she said. “I do not know what to believe.”

  He regarded her for a long moment. “Fair enough,” he said, and somehow it felt like a compliment. He stood then, and walked to the door. “I will summon Billy to clear the dishes. The poor boy is beside himself, I’m afraid. I assured him he wouldn’t even know you were here, and now he’s required to carry all your meals.”

  “He had to be assured that he would not see me? Am I really such a gorgon?”

  Captain James smiled, but not with humor. “Any woman is a gorgon on this ship. Very bad luck.”

  “Do you believe that?” Surely he didn’t. He couldn’t.

  “I believe it was very bad luck that you came across my cave.”

  “But—”

  “No,” he interrupted with sharp authority. “I do not believe that women are inherently bad luck, on a ship or anywhere. But my men do, and I must take that into consideration. Now then, I’ve work to do. I’ll be gone at least three hours. That should give you time enough to prepa
re yourself for bed.”

  Poppy’s mouth went slack as she watched him reach for the door handle, and he was halfway out before she yelled, “Wait!”

  Chapter 5

  Andrew allowed himself a long exhale before he turned around. Miss Bridgerton was standing near the bed, a nervous expression on her face.

  No, not nervous. Ill-at-ease was probably a more accurate descriptor. She clearly had something she wished to say.

  But she wasn’t saying it, which should have been cause for alarm.

  “Yes?” he finally prompted.

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  He had enough experience with women to know that wasn’t true. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded.

  Very well. If she insisted. He acknowledged her evasion with a dip of his chin and turned back to the door.

  “I just—”

  Damn. He’d come so close. He turned again, the very model of patience.

  “I don’t have anything to wear,” she said in a small voice.

  He fought the urge to close his eyes, even for just one weary moment. He hadn’t thought her so frivolous. Surely she did not see the need for fancy frocks on the voyage to Portugal.

  Then she added, “In which to sleep, and, well, for the days too.”

  “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?” he asked, flicking a hand toward her blue confection. The bodice was made of some sort of large-patterned lace, and the skirt was thankfully plain, with no hoops or bustles that might make shipboard life even more difficult for her.

  He thought the dress looked quite nice on her. In fact, he’d entertained thoughts of peeling it from her body before he’d discovered her identity.

  “There is nothing wrong with it,” she replied, “but I can’t wear it for two weeks straight.”

  “My men generally wear the same clothes for the duration.” He didn’t, but his men did.

  “Nevertheless,” she said, looking very much as if she was trying not to cringe, “I don’t think my dress is going to be practical on deck.”

  Finally. A problem with an easy solution. “You won’t be on deck,” he told her.

  “Ever?”

  “It’s not safe,” he said simply.

  “I’ll suffocate in here.” She waved her arm about, looking less like she was motioning to the cabin and more like she was slightly deranged.