The Other Miss Bridgerton (Rokesbys #3)(59)

“I would think so. Some ships put lemons in the grog.”

That seemed to interest her. “Does it make it taste any better?”

“Not really.” He chuckled as he turned them onto the road. Up ahead he could see several hackneys, and he mentioned that he planned to hire one.

“We cannot walk?” Poppy inquired. “It is such a fine day, and I am so happy to be out of doors.”

“It’s not too far to walk,” he admitted, “but some of the areas on the way are somewhat unsavory.”

Her eyes narrowed as she considered this. “Somewhat unsavory or”—she paused here—“unsavory?”

“Is there a difference?”

“Quite a bit, I would imagine.”

Trust her to split such hairs. “Very well,” he conceded, “it is only somewhat unsavory.” He’d thought to save time by hiring a carriage, but Poppy was right. It was far too fine a day to be confined in a dusty carriage, even if only for ten minutes.

They headed toward the Baixa, which he explained to her was what the Portuguese called the central neighborhood. There wasn’t a whole lot of interest along the way, but Poppy was fascinated by everything.

“Billy told me to try the food,” she said. “Especially the sweets. There was some sort of fried doughy treat he was especially fond of.”

“Malasadas ,” Andrew confirmed. “They’re divine.”

“Divine?” she teased. “I had not pegged you for a man to speak of food in such spiritual terms.”

“As it happens, malasadas are customary before Easter, although I’m not really sure why. Probably something to do with Catholic Lent. We should be able to find you one, though.”

Sure enough, on the next corner they saw a man standing before a vat of hot oil, a large bowl of dough on the table behind him.

“Your malasada awaits,” Andrew said, waving his arm in a courtly horizontal arc.

Poppy looked positively giddy as she approached the vendor, who immediately launched into a sales pitch in rapid Portuguese.

“No, no, I’m sorry,” Poppy said helplessly. “I don’t speak—” She turned to Andrew with those widened eyes that said, Help me .

He stepped forward. “Dois malasadas, por favor .”

“Só dois? ” The vendor looked scandalized. He placed a theatrical hand over his heart and resumed his testimonial, this time indicating with his fingers the size of the malasadas .

“What’s he saying?” Poppy asked.

“He’s speaking too quickly for me,” Andrew admitted, “but I’m fairly certain he’s trying to convince us that the malasadas are too small for us to eat only one each.”

“Pequeno ,” the man said earnestly. “Muito pequeno .”

“Quatro ,” Andrew said, holding up four fingers.

The man sighed dramatically and returned the gesture with six fingers. “Seis .”

“I can eat three,” Poppy chirped. “I could probably eat six.”

Andrew gave her a look. “You don’t even know how big they are.”

“I could still eat six.”

He held his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Seis ,” he said to the street vendor. He turned to Poppy. “Do you want yours rolled in sugar?”

She drew back, clearly aghast at the question. “Of course .”

“Sorry,” he said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “That was a stupid question.”

“Really.”

It was hard not to laugh, but Andrew managed to contain his mirth to a smile, watching Poppy as she watched the Portuguese man scoop chunks of dough from the bowl, then expertly roll them into identically sized spheres. One by one—but still quite quickly—he dropped them into the oil, motioning for Andrew and Poppy to step back, away from the splatter.

“The dough is very yellow,” Poppy said, rising to her tiptoes as she peered in the bowl. “He must use a great many eggs.”

Andrew shrugged. He had no idea what went into malasadas . He just knew he liked to eat them.

“Do you know how to say egg in Portuguese?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I thought you needed to understand the language for your business here.”

For once he didn’t think she was fishing for information about his work. “I don’t actually need to know much,” he said. “And eggs rarely enter the conversation.”

“It smells so good,” Poppy said with an almost sensual sigh. “How long does he need to cook them?”

“I would think not much longer,” Andrew said, trying to ignore the little bolt of electricity her groan had lit within him.

“Ooooooh . . . I can’t wait.” She was nearly jumping with excitement, rocking on her feet, rising to her toes and then back down again.

“One would think we didn’t feed you on the Infinity .”

“You don’t feed me these .” Poppy arched her neck to peer into the vat. “I think they’re almost done.”

Sure enough, the street vendor picked up a long pair of tongs and extracted the first malasada . It glistened golden brown as he held it up and asked Andrew, “A?úcar? ”

Poppy would likely stage a full-force revolt if he refused the sugar, so Andrew said, “Sim, por favor .”