Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

by Kieran Kramer

  He laid the blanket down and walked closer to the edge. Dreare Street from this vantage point didn’t look so bad, even with the bits of fog still clinging to a street lamp and a large tree in Lady Duchamp’s yard. He gazed down at his house and wondered what Sir Ned and his family were doing. Probably bickering.

  Behind him, he heard Miss Jones climbing the rungs, and he got on his knees to grab the food, the drink, and then her hand. When he pulled her up, she grazed his chest with her own soft one before falling back.

  “Oh, my!” She looked up at the sky with a pleased grin on her face. “I see some blue.”

  It was a small spot of color but just cause for celebration—and a good way for him to avoid thinking about the fact that they’d just come into very close contact.

  He picked up the jug of water, and Miss Jones carried the basket and cups to the brick bench.

  She poured water into their cups and dispensed bread and cheese. “There,” she said, looking well pleased. “I do enjoy a picnic.”

  Her eyes were bright, he noticed. She’d never looked prettier, especially with that shaft of sunlight piercing her hair, turning its black color almost blue.

  “Everything’s better outside,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

  Did she have any idea how appealing she was when she smiled?

  “Yes,” he said. “Everything. Especially a kiss.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  It happened so fast, Jilly didn’t have time to think. Captain Arrow’s pupils darkened, and next thing she knew, he leaned toward her.

  She didn’t back away. She couldn’t. It was as if she were riveted to the spot, lost in the dark depths of his eyes, the irises rimmed with gold.

  And then he was kissing her with his warm, seeking mouth. He pulled her into a different world, a new place where she was no longer Jilly, runaway wife and bookseller, living in London.

  But she stayed in that world willingly. How could she not? She was sharing a blissful, heady moment with a handsome, virile man, one who made her heart beat fast and her limbs melt like butter—

  Who made her forget to think.

  She’d never been kissed this way.

  Ever.

  She didn’t know a kiss could be so—

  Perfect.

  When he gave a little groan in his throat and pulled her closer, she delighted in the sensation of being held so closely to his broad chest, his hand pressed possessively on her lower back.

  She wanted more.

  More.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, and kissed her neck.

  Oh! How sweet of him. Hector had never complimented her.

  Hector!

  She opened her eyes wide and pushed him away. “We can’t do this.”

  “Why not?” His voice was low and husky. “No one’s looking up from the street, and I’ve seen nary a curtain move.”

  She felt almost desperate to stay right where she was, but instead she shook her head and scooted away.

  “No.” She felt shaken to the core by her lapse. “I’m not one of your easy women. I—I can’t do this. I don’t act like this.”

  She told herself her heart was beating wildly because she was angry at him and shocked at herself—not because she wanted to kiss him again.

  He followed her and tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. “A man who doesn’t try to steal a kiss from a pretty miss at a rooftop picnic is remiss in his duties as a man.”

  He had the regretful, lost look of someone whose desire has gone unsated, even though he also sounded amused. Confident. The way an Impossible Bachelor likely always was.

  It was the lost look that touched her. She felt adrift of a sudden, too. Everything in her ached to be with him that way again—to kiss him, to be held by him, to mingle breaths and feel his skin against her own.

  But she mustn’t. She must protect her identity at all costs.

  “What a silly sentiment,” she forced herself to say.

  She knew very well she couldn’t kiss him again.

  She was Jilly Jones, bookseller.

  Prim, unavailable bookseller.

  Yet another part of her still reveled in the kiss and in the fact that he’d called her not only beautiful but a pretty miss. Hector had never referred to her as such.

  “Is it a silly thought?” The captain arched a brow. “If it is, I want to be silly always.”

  Heavens. She wished he would say something annoying—not something appealing. She looked away from his golden eyes and the intensity of his heated, hungry gaze.

  He wanted more.

  So did she.

  It was like a fire between them that she’d have to pretend didn’t exist. Not only that, she’d have to douse it somehow.

  She stood and walked a few feet away. “Now tell me about yourself,” she said to the line of rooftops across the street, then dared to look back over her shoulder at him. “How did a Lothario like you come to be a captain in the Royal Navy?”

  He bit into a hunk of bread and, while he was chewing, smirked at her. “Rather obvious change of subject, Miss Jones. Are you sure you’d not like to go back to the other?”

  She turned to face him, her arms now crossed over her chest. “What happened just now can’t happen again. Ever.”

  “Ever?” He had a glint of mischief in his eye.

  Damn him for not believing her!

  She took a deep breath. “Ever,” she said flatly. “If you want me to stay on this roof with you—if you want to continue speaking with me at all—then you’ll respect my wishes.”

  He took a swig of water, all the while looking directly into her soul, it seemed. Could he tell she harbored a secret? That she was a wanton to have kissed him so willingly?

  “All right.” His expression was clear and untroubled. “I’ll respect your wishes.”

  “Good,” she replied.

  Yet somehow she didn’t feel as if he’d promised her the same thing she’d asked.

  She sank down on their crude seat and tore into her own piece of bread in a fairly uncivilized fashion, rattled and frankly indifferent to the social niceties at the moment. Captain Arrow hadn’t observed them, had he?

  Kissing her in broad daylight!

  What if any of the neighbors had chosen that moment to glance at her roof?

  Thank God none apparently had. She stretched out her legs in relief that this time, she probably wouldn’t suffer any consequences for using poor judgment.

  “What are you doing, Miss Jones?” The captain cast an admiring eye at her hemline.

  Goodness. Her ankles were showing.

  “Enjoying the weather until you noticed,” she said crossly, tucking her feet back under her gown. “Now tell me your tale.”

  “Yes, madam.” His voice was sleek. “The story goes I was born the son of a poor fisherman and his wife. But I never met my father.”

  “What happened?” Everyone should know their father if they possibly could, she thought, and felt a tad regretful for being harsh with him.

  “My mother told me he drowned one summer during a torrential gale. I arrived two months later.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

  He gave a careless smile. “It’s quite all right.” He threw one buckskin-clad leg up on the brick ledge and leaned back against the chimney, the portrait of a healthy male at ease. “I had an idyllic childhood. Lots of neighboring men stood in as fathers. We were close in my village. But one day the fun came to an end. An earl who lived nearby decided to send one poor boy to Eton, along with his son, who was supposedly a weak sort. My mother said the earl hoped whoever he chose as a charity case would serve as that boy’s protector.”

  “That’s not such a bad idea.”

  “No, it seemed reasonable enough. At any rate, the village elders recommended that I accompany the lad. The earl interviewed me and then agreed to send me. I had no desire to go, but my mother gave me no choice. I was educated at Eton, was never called upon to assist the we
ak boy—who seemed perfectly healthy to me—and when he and my own friends later left to attend Oxford or Cambridge, the earl’s largesse rightfully ceased. I went to sea instead. From there a captain took me under his wing. I saw a great deal of action during the Wars, so I quickly rose up through the ranks. Anybody would have—I just happened to be in the right places at the right times.”

  “Don’t be so modest, Captain. I’m sure your skill had much to do with it.”

  “Now you’re being kind,” he said.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “I don’t believe in false flattery.”

  “Neither do I,” he said. “This scone is delicious.”

  She smiled. “It’s an old family recipe.”

  “I saw you deposit some on other neighbors’ doorsteps.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t give you any,” she said tartly, and felt her cheeks heat. “But I couldn’t reward you for your bad behavior.”

  He laughed. “That’s quite all right. Had I known what I was missing, I would have piped down.”

  “Really?”

  “No.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s a shame to extinguish a very good party.”

  “I knew you’d say something like that,” she said, charmed in spite of herself. “Now go on about your story.”

  “There’s nothing more to it,” he said. “The Wars are over. That pirate I always wanted to capture is now sitting in a gaol, thanks to me and my crew. I’m ready to start the next phase of my life.”

  “What an interesting tale,” she said. “You became a great success, just as your mother had hoped.”

  “Yes, it does sound like a nice story, doesn’t it?”

  Jilly noticed a trace of bitterness in his voice. “What’s wrong, Captain? Was it traumatic being sent away from home without your permission?”

  “It’s not that.” His eyes were half lidded of a sudden. “Recently, I found out the real truth about my birth. Well after mother died, a village elder wrote to tell me that the earl who sent me to Eton, Lord Stanhope, was my father. That’s when I found out that I’d inherited this house on Dreare Street. The whole village knew my situation and conspired to keep it a secret from me. They invented the tale of the father who drowned at sea.”

  Jilly put a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry. To be lied to all these years—it must have been terrible to find out after your mother’s death.”

  Stephen shrugged. “I thought I knew my mother and all those people in my village. But every time I went home to visit, every time they smiled at me and patted me on the back”—he stared across the street at Lady Duchamp’s house—“they were concealing the truth.”

  There was a beat of silence, broken by the faint sound of a broom seller hawking his wares on Half-Moon Street.

  “I’m sure they did it to protect you,” Jilly said, realizing full well she was deceiving him now.

  But she must, she reminded herself.

  She had no choice.

  Nevertheless, she felt terribly guilty.

  “I’m certain they thought they had my best interests at heart,” he said cheerfully enough, then stood, lit a cheroot, and inhaled upon it. Blowing a plume of smoke, he looked back at her. “I’d have been better off knowing the truth. It may hurt, but at least it allows you dignity.”

  “I imagine you were very dignified, Captain, in your uniform.” She couldn’t believe she’d blurted that out. Because she had imagined him in uniform.

  She blushed to the roots of her hair.

  He laughed. “In my uniform, yes, I could play the part as well as any naval officer. But you’ve seen me out of uniform. You know that given a choice, I choose the undisciplined road. You and others on Dreare Street might say I choose impulse and feeling over caution and reason. And I do.”

  “But that’s because you don’t know what the truth is anymore,” she said.

  He gave her a long look.

  She stared back, refusing to be cowed.

  “You’re not only a beguiling bookseller but a perceptive one, too, aren’t you?” He reached out and rubbed a scratchy thumb over her chin.

  She stepped back. “If you insist on flirting with me, Captain, I’ll ban you from the store.”

  He dropped his hand. “But how will I do your bidding then?”

  “You’re mocking me, sir.” Her heart was still pounding from his touch and now he had a look in his eyes that made her knees weak.

  He chuckled. “You’ve got it all wrong. I admire you and your independence. Tell me more about yourself.”

  The rumble of a carriage coming down the street saved her from having to answer. They went closer to the edge of the roof and peered down.

  “Perhaps it will stop at Hodgepodge,” Jilly said, leaning farther out for a better look.

  “Not so far.” Captain Arrow grabbed her arm and pulled her back against his stomach.

  For a brief second, she allowed herself to rest in the crook of his arm. Something wild and wicked in her wanted to lean even farther back against the man, but she forced herself to straighten her spine. “Captain?”

  “Yes?” he said into her ear.

  “You can unhand me now.”

  “Very well. But only if you take a step back with me.”

  They did, in tandem, and he released her. She pretended she didn’t care one jot that he’d held her and she’d liked it.

  The carriage did, indeed, stop in front of Hodgepodge. Part of Jilly was glad. And the other part was regretful. The part that was glad urged her to move toward the hatch leading down to her living quarters. She couldn’t afford to think about the part of her that wanted to stay on the roof with the captain.

  * * *

  From the front of the store, Stephen watched as a small, gray man got out of the carriage, his expression as stern as a schoolmaster’s. Stephen followed his instinct to go to the door ahead of Miss Jones and Otis. There was something about the man’s eyes he didn’t like.

  The visitor stopped in front of him, a black leather satchel at his side, and looked up at him. “You’re in my way,” he said dryly.

  “I know that,” replied Stephen. “What’s your name, and what business do you have here?”

  “Captain!” Jilly said behind him. “Please let our customer inside.”

  “He’s not a customer,” Stephen called back, his eyes still on the man.

  It was a statement, not a question.

  The man looked at him without flinching. “If it means I may enter the shop, then yes, indeed, I am a customer.” He gave Stephen a false smile. “My name is Mr. Alastair Redmond.”

  “What’s your business here?”

  “That’s between Miss Jones and me.”

  Stephen narrowed his eyes at him. “I’ll let you in, Redmond,” he said, “but watch your step.”

  “Right,” the man answered with a world-weary sigh. “I’ve heard that before.”

  Stephen reluctantly stepped aside, and Mr. Redmond walked up to the counter, where Jilly stood with a nervous smile pasted on her face.

  Did she sense as well as Stephen did that this sour-faced man was the bearer of some sort of bad news?

  “Are you the owner of Hodgepodge?” Mr. Redmond asked her, his voice reedy.

  Otis gave a small cry, but then he pursed his mouth and proceeded to fumble with his shoe. He almost had it off, and—

  “Otis,” Jilly whispered.

  He looked at her, his eyes filled with fear and something else—the determination to slay a giant.

  She shook her head.

  He slowed, then stopped removing his shoe.

  Stephen considered the scene before him. Why on earth would Otis remove his shoe unless he were about to use it to defend Jilly? Stephen didn’t like the man, either, but he had no idea who he was. Was Otis simply following Stephen’s lead? Or did he have reason to expect trouble at Hodgepodge?

  This possibility only put Stephen more on guard.

  Jilly looked back at Mr. Redmond. “Yes,” sh
e said, as if she were about to go to the guillotine. “I am Miss Jones.”

  Otis bit his thumb.

  “Very well.” Mr. Redmond reached into his coat pocket. “I’m here to give you this.” He handed her a piece of paper. “It’s a legal document regarding your property.”

  Without looking at the paper, Miss Jones held it to her mouth and gave a little giggle. Then Otis followed suit. They looked at each other as if their lives had been spared.

  Otis lowered his brows and Miss Jones drew herself up.

  “I see,” she said with the gravitas one would expect from a business owner. But her mouth still showed a bit of laughter at the corners, and her eyes, palpable relief.

  What disaster had she averted?

  Stephen had a great craving to know. If he had a special affinity for unmanageable ladies, he had even more of one for unmanageable, mysterious ladies.

  “Leases on this street haven’t been renewed in years due to an oversight,” Mr. Redmond said. “Either pay the new fees, or move.”

  The lightness in Miss Jones’s expression vanished. “But I own this house.”

  “Yes, she does.” Otis came to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “So go away, little man.” He raised his chin. “Please see him out, Captain Arrow.”

  Stephen would have liked to pick up Mr. Redmond by the back of his jacket and sling him into his carriage, but he knew it would probably only bring more trouble to Hodgepodge.

  “You need to explain yourself clearly,” Stephen said to him. “And waste no time. Our patience is short, and justifiably so. This sounds like another government ploy to raise taxes.”

  “It’s no ploy.” The little man’s voice sounded smug as he looked around at them all. “Didn’t you know the actual dirt beneath the homes and businesses of Mayfair is owned by someone else?”

  “That’s terrible!” Jilly cried.

  “Are you sure about that?” Stephen demanded to know.

  “Yes, I’m certain,” Mr. Redmond replied.