Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (3 page)

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” Jilly said to the woman, her indignation of monumental proportions. “We live here now. And we refuse to believe such nonsense.”

She’d already had her fair share of bad luck. She refused to have more.

“Nonsense?” The woman walked over the threshold. “Did you, the owner of a bookstore with a ridiculous name, say
nonsense
?”

Jilly’s eyes widened, but she nodded. That small figure at the top of the cane seemed to stare malevolently at her.

The woman stamped her walking stick and shook Jilly out of her trance. “Lady Duchamp doesn’t deal in nonsense. She’s too clever. And she knows that one should avoid fools.”

“Yes, but who are
you,
madam?” Otis asked.

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “Why, Lady Duchamp, you idiot.” She turned to Captain Arrow next. “You’re disgustingly handsome. Aware of it, too, aren’t you? I’m sure you think staring at me as if you can see my underthings will charm me. But I’m not charmed. Not in the least.”

Jilly shared a look with Otis. Otis almost giggled but didn’t.

Thank God.

Captain Arrow stepped forward and kissed Lady Duchamp’s hand. “I find that women with tongues like adders usually have good reason for their vitriol, or at least did at one time. Consider me a friend should you ever need one, my lady.”

“Pah,” is all she said back, then lowered her brows. “I am the oldest resident on this street and the most put-upon. I despise everyone who lives here and only wish they had more bad luck than they already have. I hope a tree falls through your shop window in a storm, young lady, drenching all your books, and as for you”—she shoved a finger at Captain Arrow’s chest—“you and your loutish friends … I hope the pox visits your house and kills you all.”

“What about me?” Otis looked terribly offended at being left out.

Lady Duchamp pointed the end of her stick at him. “You, sir, are already so pathetic, I can think of nothing to worsen your lot in life. You are the epitome of failure and misery.”

Otis looked well satisfied with the insult.

The old woman turned on her heel and walked away at a snail’s pace. They could have easily gone after her to deliver their own insults, but Jilly knew—and apparently Otis and Captain Arrow did, as well—that such a harpy would be impervious to any barbs.

Another beat of silence passed, broken only by the sound of Otis whimpering into his handkerchief again. Finally, he lowered it and looked accusingly at Captain Arrow. “You’re a sailor, and sailors are terribly superstitious. What do you plan to do now that you know Dreare Street is unlucky?”

Captain Arrow shrugged. “Sell the house as always.”

“But who will want it?” asked Jilly. “Who’ll want to buy a house—or books, for that matter—on an unlucky street?”

She felt such despair, she wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t burst into tears at any moment. But then she remembered how useless tears were, and the despair hardened into a knot of defiance in her stomach.

Captain Arrow looked at her with the bland confidence of a man who seldom encountered misfortune—or if he did, quashed it. Perhaps with a broadside of cannon fire, or a saber, at the least.

“One can thwart any superstition by employing one’s wits,” he said. “I’ve defied every nautical superstition there is without mishap. I’ve set sail on Friday, thrown a stone into the sea, stepped on and off a ship left foot first, and conversed with a ginger-haired person before boarding, all to no consequence. It shall be no different on Dreare Street. I’ll sell the house and be on my way in no time.”

“You navy captains are so demmed confident!” Otis cried.

“And so should you be,” the captain insisted, slapping Otis on the back. “It’s a waste of time, putting credence in luck and superstition. One simply needs to use one’s own resources, and the world is your oyster. Is it not, Miss Jones?”

Of course, Jilly was reluctant to agree with him in any way, but she must. Here she was, the proud owner of a bookshop because she’d gone after what she wanted, which was wrong, according to the vicar in her home village. She was supposed to do only what the men in her life told her to do.

“You’re correct, Captain,” she said. “There
is
no such thing as bad luck. We make our own fortunes. Therefore, I declare with complete certainty that Dreare Street is
not
unlucky. Just because there’s an inordinate amount of fog in the morning, and a man next door who’s a disturbance to the peace, and no customers in Hodgepodge, and an evil old woman with a frightening walking stick—well, that doesn’t mean it’s unlucky. All that can be dealt with, I assure you.”

She crossed her arms and glared at her handsome neighbor. Woe to anyone who interfered with her plans for Hodgepodge. There was too much at stake for her to capitulate.

Thoroughly unruffled, Captain Arrow looked at her with a devastating smile on his well-defined lips—the kind of smile that would make any other woman swoon—and a slow-burning gleam in his golden eyes. It was as if he found her the most appealing woman in the world.

No doubt he looked at every woman that way, so Jilly refused to be flattered, even though her breath was a bit short and something depraved inside her wanted to eat him up, like a delicious pudding one licked off the sides of the bowl when no one else was looking.

She must suppress that thought immediately.

“Excuse me, Captain. I’m busy.” The rag-snapping had lost its luster, so when her eyes lit upon a book of poetry, she determined to read a line.
Any
line. She opened it to a random page, held it beneath her nose, and read:

To His Coy Mistress,

by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

My goodness! She felt scandalized, but better that than be required to look at Captain Arrow. She allowed herself to peek at a few more lines:

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires, and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest—

“Enjoying yourself, Miss Jones?” Captain Arrow’s honeyed tones broke through her reverie.

She slammed the volume shut, her face flushed and her temples damp. What a naughty poem! The captain would no doubt adore it.

“No,” she said. “I’m
not
enjoying myself.” And she shoved the book back beneath at least ten others and made them into a neat pile. “I’m organizing my shop. It’s exhausting, time-consuming work.”

“All the more reason for you and Otis to come with me now,” her golden-haired nemesis said. “My friend Lumley has mixed a fine rum punch to fortify us during the performance. I assure you, our lady friends are absent, and every man is clothed”—Jilly turned scarlet—“and on his best behavior.”

Otis straightened his cravat. “I’m going.”

Jilly stomped her foot. “No, you are
not
.”

Otis stomped his foot back. “Come now. We need to welcome our new neighbors.”

“But we’re the new neighbors, too,” Jilly said.

“Exactly,” Captain Arrow replied, and held out his well-clad arm. He’d taken the time to put on a coat, a fine one that fit him like a glove. His cravat, she couldn’t help but notice, was a sartorial miracle. “An entertaining skit and one small cup of punch while you watch, Miss Jones. Perhaps we’ll bring better luck to Dreare Street if we all share a toast to it.”

She hesitated. Toasting their new abode did seem like a fine idea. Her father had taught her to toast when she was a small girl. Perhaps the ritual of toasting was just the tonic she needed to keep her more anxious thoughts at bay.

Besides, the captain’s boots were shined so bright, she could see books reflected in them, which was a pleasant sight. Her determination to avoid the man was temporarily forgotten.

“Oh, very well,” she said, removing her apron. “Just one small skit and a cup of punch.”

It had been so long since she’d indulged in any amusements.

Too long.

Since well before she’d married the odious Hector.

She took the captain’s arm and prayed she’d continue to believe he wasn’t charming or intelligent in the least. She didn’t need a neighbor who would make her wish she wasn’t trapped in a bad marriage to an awful man. And she most definitely didn’t want a neighbor who would uncover her secret—

That she was a runaway wife hiding from her husband.

CHAPTER THREE

“Here is your seat of honor, Miss Jones,” Stephen said as he guided her to a faded armchair in the parlor where the theatrics were to be held. He handed her a glass of punch. Their fingers tangled, and she flinched ever so slightly.

“It’s quite mild,” he assured her, pretending not to notice her reaction to his touch. It was a good sign, even if she did think she abhorred him. “I’m directing this piece, so I shall leave you two to be our audience. We invited Lady Duchamp and several other neighbors, as well, but no one responded.”

“Then they are
fools,
Captain,” Otis said. “This is a lovely home. It’s large and rambling—quite lopsided, in fact—but it’s full of people with spirit, passion, and style.”

“Do you agree, Miss Jones?” Stephen couldn’t resist asking her.

“I suppose I must,” said Miss Jones tartly, “if the compliment will hasten you back to your duties as stage director.”

He chuckled. “You’re rather a spitfire, aren’t you?”

“I’m nothing of the sort,” she said, and tossed her head.

He exchanged a look with Otis, who rolled his eyes, and left them. But from his position behind a potted palm near the front of the room, he watched Miss Jones focus on the stage. She was as guarded as ever, a vertical line on her brow. She took a tentative sip of the punch, and then several more.

No wonder. It
was
a delicious punch, Stephen’s own recipe.

Miss Jones’s eyes widened when he drew the curtain back and the actors appeared. His friends were dressed as women with coconut breasts, grass skirts, and awful wigs (all of which Stephen had accrued in various ports).

Miss Jones leaned forward in her chair and watched the players avidly. Her eyes sparkled at their witty repartee, which Stephen had written on a piece of foolscap that same morning. And then she laughed—a big, light, airy laugh—and clapped her hands madly at the conclusion.

Much to Stephen’s surprise, she’d turned out to be the type of audience member any playwright or actor would yearn for. In appreciation for her enthusiasm, the actors, led by Lumley, drew her up on their makeshift stage, which was really nothing more than an area of the drawing room emptied of furniture and rugs and flanked by standing candelabra. She immediately fell into the part they desired her to play, Queen of the Coconut Girls.

Otis begged to be allowed onstage as well, hopping up and down in his seat, so Lumley called him up and urged him to play the King of the Fire Dance.

Then someone began playing a set of small, primitive drums Stephen had purchased in the islands.

It was at that point, when Miss Jones began a lively dance, a wreath of flowers sliding off her head, that he realized his prudish neighbor was a bit tipsy. Of course, he’d planned for that. He’d had designs on her since he’d first seen her, but now—

Now he wasn’t so sure he should pursue them, at least that evening, not when she was in her cups.

Timing was everything. He knew that from the war. And now Miss Jones was pushing him out of the way to get to the window on the second floor so
she
could drop a bag of water on the target painted on the pavement outside 34 Dreare Street.

He was surprised he hadn’t noticed earlier that she had vivid black eyebrows made for drama. And glossy black hair done up in a tight knot begging to be unraveled. Her eyes, the startling violet-blue color of pansies, stared up into Stephen’s own with obvious pleasure.

“Watch this, Captain!” she cried lustily, and leaned out the window with her paper bag of water. The sun was just setting behind the massive holly bushes at the top of the street.

Plop.

“Bull’s-eye!” She yelled her delight then drew her head back in the window. “Another! Get me another!”

Lumley and his cohorts raced to get her another bag while Otis clapped madly.

Stephen yanked Lumley to a stop. “What in bloody hell did you put in the rum punch?”

Lumley shrugged. “The usual.”

“The usual? For a
lady
? I said to make it strong but not
that
strong. Just enough to make her somewhat malleable to the suggestion that she’s out of order expecting us to be as goody-goody as she.”