Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (33 page)

“Tell me!” he barked.

She ran a finger over the tablecloth, slowly, thoughtfully, and then she looked up at him. “It’s a whip,” she said. “With our initials engraved—entwined, actually—on the handle.”

There was utter silence.

And then Hector leaned back in his chair and laughed. He laughed until he cried, and she sat there and watched, hoping, hoping …

When he was finished, he looked up at her. “Go get your little whip,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I want you to present it to me on your hands and knees.”

He continued chuckling, but she knew he was serious—perfectly serious.

She stood again, pretended that her dignity had been wounded.

“You’ll take a stable boy with you,” he said.

There was no lady’s maid, of course. He’d not seen to her comfort in the least.

“The big one,” he went on, still amused. “His name is Jared, and if you make one false move, I’ll tell him to pick you up and throw you over his shoulder. And you’ll not like what I let him do to you—in front of me—when he gets you home.”

Jilly felt a wave of revulsion sweep through her and almost buckle her knees.

“I understand,” she said quietly. “May I go now?”

“Yes,” he said. “Get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow night we’ll christen your little gift. Although it might have to wait. I might be gone for a day or two. I haven’t decided.”

“Really?” She tried to look terribly disappointed.

“Yes. But remember what I said.” He wagged a finger at her. “One wrong move, and Jared is going to be a very lucky man.”

She turned then and walked out, her relief at being able to escape her husband for the day fortunately greater than her disgust, which was profound.

And now, as she bounded down the stairs the next morning, she vowed that she’d let nothing Hector could do to her get in her way. Somehow, she’d rid herself of Jared. He didn’t appear very bright, and even if he were, she was brighter.

She’d spend her day at the fair. With Stephen.

On her beloved Dreare Street.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

In the early hours of the morning of the fair, Stephen was with Jilly again, and she was all over him. It was pure heaven—

Until he smelled her breath.

Good God.

Onions?

His eyes popped open.

“Captain!” Lady Hartley was in his face, and she was stark naked. She laid a kiss right on his gaping mouth.

He sat bolt upright on the pillows, wiped his lips with the back of his hand, and pointed at the closed bedchamber door (which he should have locked, he realized a little too late).

“Get out, Lady Hartley,” he said in low tones. “Get out before I call Sir Ned in here.”

She pulled a sheet up over her breasts. “You wouldn’t.”

“Yes I would.”

She stuck out her lower lip. “But Captain—”

“Your behavior is entirely inappropriate,” he said.

She turned to him. “Do you not find me attractive?”

He couldn’t say no. He was too much of a gentleman.

“You’re
married,
” he said. “That makes all the difference.”

Dear God, listen to him! A wave of guilt ricocheted through his chest.

Lady Hartley’s brow puckered. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, ah, married women are off limits. It’s a vow I made long ago to keep, come hell or high water.”

“Oh, all right. If that’s all it is.”

“Yes,” he muttered, and looked away from her. “Please go. Before we cause a scene.”

She tittered. “Very well.”

He heard her stand, and then she began humming.

“Are you decent yet?” he asked her.

“No, you naughty man.” He could hear small sighs emanating from her as she dressed.

“Please hurry.” He could barely contain his impatience. It was a terrible way to wake up in the morning, even worse than being called to watch on board ship in the middle of the night after a day-long storm that had already left everyone weary.

He heard her sigh and then she thumped on her heels over to the door. “You can look now, Captain.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned toward the door.

She was wrapped in a voluminous silk dressing gown. “Just remember this,” she said, fingering the cleft between her breasts, “
married
women are experts at sneaking about. And we have the experience you’re looking for, without the diseases.”

“Oh,” he said brightly, “that’s a high recommendation. Makes me want to give up my lightskirts right away.”

She nodded sagely. “I thought so. If you ever change your mind…”

She left the statement unfinished.

“Right.” He gave her an uncomfortable half-smile and waved her off.

But she paused in opening the door.

“I forgot to mention,” she said. “Lord Smelling will be here today, and he’s prepared to make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.” She began to chuckle. “It’s really quite amusing. He prefers country living, you know. Can’t bear London. But he’s got a shrew of a second wife, who insists he purchase a home in Mayfair for her mother to live in permanently, and the daughter occasionally, when she visits Town. So he decided it would be an awful joke to buy a house on Dreare Street. He hopes the bad luck will rub off on them both.”

He sounded rather a stupid man, Stephen thought.

“I wonder what Miss Jones will think of having another old harridan as a neighbor?” Lady Hartley asked him.

Ah, Miss Jones.
His heart gave a sharp twist of longing.

The baronet’s wife didn’t wait for a reply. “At any rate, Lord Smelling is willing to pay through the nose to get his hands on this house.” She pursed her lips provocatively and waggled her brows. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like to celebrate with me?”

Dear God. The poor woman looked like a clown from Astley’s when she did that thing with her eyebrows.

“Positive,” he replied. “You
do
understand.”

He attempted to look noble—

Which he wasn’t.

He’d slept with a married woman only the day before.

He must have succeeded in his effort, however, because Lady Hartley fluttered a hand in front of her face, as if she were terribly hot. “Oh, thank
God
for men like you, protecting the motherland with your commitment to principles!”

And then she gave a mighty gasp which subsided in a strange wail, almost as if she were—hell’s bells, he didn’t even want to
think
what it sounded like—and pulled the door shut behind her.

He threw himself back on the bed, aghast.

The sooner the Hartleys left the premises, the better.

He released a pent-up breath.

On further thought, the sooner
he
left, the better, too.

*   *   *

“It couldn’t be a prettier day, Captain!” An hour later Mrs. Hobbs went scurrying past him outside his house, carrying one of many pots of flowers the neighborhood ladies had assembled to beautify the special section of the street designated for Prinny and his advisors to occupy during the theatrical performance.

“Yes, Mrs. Hobbs,” he called after her. “And we had not a shred of fog this morning.”

“Surely a good sign,
capitano
!” called Pratt to him from the bottom of the balcony Stephen had built for the Canterbury Cousins. Pratt was rolling the contraption to the center of the cobblestones with several other men, Nathaniel among them.

Stephen looked up and down Dreare Street. As far as he was concerned, it looked spectacular. Every house was brightened by paint. The doorsteps had been cleaned and swept. The trimmed hedges and trees were perfectly lovely. Newly cleaned windows shone, and the faces of his neighbors were bright with optimism.

He felt a surge of pride.

And defiance.

They’d raise the money, they would, and send that money man, Mr. Redmond, packing.

But Stephen must admit, he also felt a bit of melancholy. He’d grown to like this place. Yes, it was damned foggy most of the time, but the people—well, they were sterling. Everyone, that is, except Lady Tabitha, Lady Duchamp, and perhaps Mr. Hobbs.

On the bright side, at least Lady Tabitha didn’t live here on a regular basis. And Lady Duchamp was old—and perhaps in pain—and so rude she was almost entertaining. She could be forgiven her godawful disposition on both counts. Mr. Hobbs at least had a fine wife and children to recommend him.

Despite his best intentions to avoid thinking about personal matters while he was cast in the role of leader of the street fair, he allowed himself to glance at Hodgepodge.

Immediately, the deep, dull ache near his heart began. Would Jilly get here today? She deserved to see what her wild idea had wrought. And if she did get to come, what would he do when she had to leave again?

It was a hopeless, painful situation, yet his whole world now focused on those moments when he might see her,
be
with her.

It was a damned foolish way to live. He’d told innumerable sailors with broken hearts to move forward. There were plenty of fish in the sea, he’d reassured them.

Yes, there were plenty. But there was only one Jilly.

That’s what his sailors had tried to convey to him, too, about the women they’d pined after, but he’d never been able to understand until now.

Love gone awry was a miserable thing and not as easily got over as he’d presumed.

Now Otis was fussing about the flower pots he’d set outside, waving and smiling at passers-by, but Stephen could sense his tension. Every few seconds, he began to whistle off-key and cast furtive glances down the street.

He was waiting for Jilly, too.

Stephen strode over to him and watched him twist a pot forty-five degrees.

“I want
this
bloom facing the Prince Regent.” Otis pointed at a bright pink blossom.

“He’ll no doubt appreciate that,” Stephen said.

The bookstore clerk stood straight and made a face, then bit his lip, and—

Didn’t speak.

It was so unlike him, Stephen thought. Dear God, they were both pathetic, weren’t they?

“I miss her—” Otis said.

“I hope she’ll get here—” Stephen interrupted him.

Both of them crossed their arms over their chests and looked up the street.

“You love her, don’t you?” said Otis.

“Yes,” Stephen answered, and released a weary sigh.

Otis sighed even louder.

Neither of them said a word as Nathaniel came running up. “Here, Otis,” he said, and handed him a small book. “Miss Jones wrapped this up by accident with my book on the canals of Venice.”

Otis looked down at it. “No! It’s Alicia Fotherington’s diary!”

“Yes, well, I meant to give it to you ages ago. But I’ve been”—Susan walked by with an armful of frilly mobcaps she’d sewn, and he sighed—“I’ve been preoccupied.”

He followed her with his eyes.

“Do you love her?” Stephen asked.

“Yes.” Nathaniel sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, too.

A beat of silence went by, and then Stephen shook himself out of his bleak reverie. “I’ve got to check on the stables.” He slapped Nathaniel on the back. “Grab her while you can, my friend, before someone else does.”

He began to walk off, but Otis stopped him. “Please take this, Captain, and keep it safe for Miss Jones.” He handed him the diary. “With so many books in one place, it’s very easy to misplace one. I know she’ll appreciate your protecting it.”

Stephen paused a moment, then took the slim volume. “Very well. If she comes looking for it, it will be at my house, on the mantel in the drawing room.”

He tucked it in his pocket and remembered how avidly Jilly had read from it. The whole idea for the street fair had come from the diary.

But really, the inspiration had come from Jilly. She’d chosen to believe the undertaking was possible.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Otis said. “The street fair was
her
idea.”

Stephen nodded and shrugged. “Yes, well.” What else was there to say?

Otis crooked his finger at him. “I’ve made her a surprise.”

He walked with a great deal of panache into Hodgepodge, his green shoes glinting with paste emeralds, his coattails swaying gently.

Stephen followed, amused and touched, of course, by Otis’s devotion.

The ex-valet unrolled a long cloth banner with a giant message painted on it.

He winked. “I’ve enlisted two young men to hang it from the roofline right after the theatrical performance.”