The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(14)

“Because I’m afraid you’re going to make my life a living hell.”

Poppy’s lips parted in surprise. That was not what she’d expected him to say. She regarded the second roll, then took a bite. “Some would say,” she said once she’d finished chewing, “that such language isn’t appropriate in the presence of a lady.”

“We’re hardly in a drawing room,” he returned, “and besides, I thought you said you had four brothers. Surely they’ve managed to blister your ears once or twice.”

They had, of course, and Poppy wasn’t so high in the instep that she would faint at the occasional curse. She’d scolded the captain mainly just to annoy him, and she rather suspected he knew that.

Which annoyed her .

She decided to change the subject. “I believe you said you’d brought butter.”

He motioned gallantly to a small ramekin, resting atop the dining table. “Surely you don’t want me to toss this ,” he said, “your superior catching skills notwithstanding.”

Poppy rose and walked to the table. She was a bit wobbly, but she couldn’t tell if it was from the motion of the sea or the blood returning to her feet.

“Sit,” he said, the word more of a request than an order.

She hesitated, his politeness far more disconcerting than incivility might have been.

“I won’t bite,” he added, leaning back.

She pulled out the chair.

“Unless, of course, you want me to,” he murmured.

“Captain James!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miss Bridgerton, you’re made of sterner stuff than that .”

“I don’t get your meaning,” she ground out.

His lips quirked. Not that they’d ever really stopped quirking; the odious man always looked as if he was up to something. “If you were truly my match,” he said, his voice lightly taunting, “you’d not be the least put off by my wordplay.”

She sat down and reached for the butter. “I don’t generally jest about matters relating to my life or virtue, Captain James.”

“A wise rule,” he said, leaning back, “but I certainly need not feel constrained by it.”

She picked up the butter knife and regarded it thoughtfully.

“Not nearly sharp enough to do me damage,” the captain said with a smile.

“No.” Poppy sighed, dipping it into the butter. “Pity that.” She slathered her roll and took a bite. “Do you plan to keep me on bread and water?”

“Of course not,” he said. “I am not so ungentlemanly as that. Supper is due to arrive in”—he checked his pocket watch—“five minutes.”

She watched him for a moment. He didn’t look like he was going anywhere. “Do you plan to eat here with me?” she asked.

“I don’t plan to starve.”

“You can’t go eat with . . . with . . .” She waved her hand about somewhat ineffectually, not really knowing what she was motioning to.

“My men?” he finished for her. “No. We’re a more liberal ship than most, but it’s hardly a democracy. I am the captain. I eat here.”

“Alone?”

His smile was slow and wicked. “Unless I have company.”

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.”