* * *
When he lifted his head, Stephen had never seen a more appealing woman. Miss Jones—Jilly—was sated. Relaxed.
Unafraid.
She was dangerous this way. He knew how to handle her when she was obstreperous and unmanageable. But when she looked at him with a face that revealed so obviously that she’d been pleasured not a moment before, his chest tightened.
She was too perfect.
Too beautiful.
And then she smiled at him, a glorious, free smile lacking any awkwardness whatsoever.
It was as if he were being hit with a volley of cannon fire. She was a merciless, unrelenting foe, and she didn’t even know it.
He’d never met an enemy like that at sea. Everyone on the waves knew what they were doing, why they were there—had intentions to vanquish.
Miss Jones was more like a force of nature, a squall spiraling into a hurricane, thoughtlessly ravaging the village that he’d built so carefully to accommodate one—just one—person.
Himself.
He was wrecked.
Yes, wrecked.
She’d wrecked him.
No one ever had before.
He didn’t understand it, but he was glad. His scorching flirtation with Miss Jones had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams.
Which was part of the reason he was wrecked. His wildest dreams had been fairly stupid. He had, indeed, gone well beyond them, to a new territory of intense and confusing feelings—it was a place where he felt a new traveler without a single chart to guide him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jilly looked in wonder out the window of Hodgepodge. Light, blessed light, shone through the branches of the trees, making puddles of sun on the pavement. A cat—her cat, Gridley, a gift from Stephen—rolled ecstatically in one sunspot on the window ledge, nearly knocking over a row of books with his tail, but he managed to flick it out of the way at the last second.
Everything had changed since she’d been with Stephen in the Earl of Langley’s garden.
There’d been no fog for the past five days.
Otis had sold six books to total strangers.
And she woke up every morning without fear.
The morning after the ball, Lady Tabitha had packed her bags and was gone from Lady Duchamp’s by eight o’clock. A short while later, Otis had donned his town crier uniform and called everyone back to Hodgepodge for another street meeting—while Lady Duchamp was away on her mysterious morning carriage ride.
Everyone had stood in stunned silence when Stephen told them the grand news: the Prince Regent was coming to Dreare Street, and in exactly one week.
“Everyone’s coming to Dreare Street,” Jilly had said. “Everyone with money to spend, that is. We can do it—if we work together, we can be ready for them. The countdown starts today!”
The silence in Hodgepodge had seemed to last forever. But then Thomas had piped up with, “Hip, hip, hooray!” and everyone had erupted in cheers.
Stephen had looked at her with a spark of true excitement in his eye, and she’d had the strong impulse to laugh out loud and kiss him at the same time.
Since that morning, the view from Hodgepodge’s window had been lively. Someone was always walking by to speak to Stephen or to stop in and ask her advice about a project they were working on for the fair. Either that, or they were carrying supplies back and forth, most of which could be found in Stephen’s shed.
“Go!” Jilly cried now.
She stared at the heads and shoulders of the volunteer carpenters bent over the remaining three booths. Mrs. Hobbs’s son and daughter hammered away on one. Nathaniel and little Thomas tackled another. And a pair of middle-aged maiden sisters tapped carefully at a third.
But that was all right. Two young men stood behind the pair, waiting to follow through with more arm power when the ladies’ spirited attempts gave out.
It had been an amazing five days.
Of course, the best part had been the hours she’d spent with Stephen. When they were in public and he was near, she felt indescribably happy and tortured, all at the same time. The only relief she could find was seeing him in private, which was nearly impossible, except in small doses—doses too short to reenact what they’d done in the garden at the ball or earlier, on the floor at Hodgepodge.
But they had managed kisses. Short, passionate ones. Three times in his shed, once behind the bushes to the left of Hodgepodge, and twice in her office when Otis was out shopping.
But on both those occasions, a neighbor had come in to discuss a book or the street fair with her, and Stephen had had to sneak out the back of the building through a window in Otis’s bedchamber.
He was staying extremely busy, painting the white stucco front of his house and repairing the two beams inside. And in between those chores, he was building a movable balcony for the actors, overseeing other construction, and organizing a team to beautify Dreare Street. That involved trimming hedges and trees and cutting back the giant holly bushes partially blocking the entrance to the street (which might account for why five strangers had ventured to Hodgepodge). It also meant quick coats of paint applied to many a front door.
Jilly oversaw organizing the merchants—what items to sell, what food and drinks to hawk—and the events to take place, including the dramatic skit and the children’s parade.
“Amazingly, everything’s proceeding nicely,” she said to Stephen after the booths had been completed. She was searching for Alicia Fotherington’s journal in the bookshelves. “Even more astounding, no one’s gotten into any arguments. Yes, two groups ran into each other in the fog this morning, but when a pile of lumber fell onto everyone’s toes, no one complained.”
Stephen spanned her waist with his hands from behind and whispered in her ear, “Even Mr. Hobbs is keeping quiet.”
Jilly turned around and grinned. “I know. I’m very happy about that.”
There was a beat of silence between them. The air became thick with a delightful tension. Stephen’s eyes got that look, the one he’d had in his eye the very first day she’d met him. And her heart—well, it started racing. It always did when he was nearby.
“Let’s go to your office,” he said in a husky voice.
Oh, heavens. She wanted to kiss him so badly. Quickly, she looked over her shoulder out the window. No one was approaching. The white placard, the one on which she’d written TWO MORE DAYS UNTIL THE FAIR just this morning, was still propped in the window for the neighborhood to see.
Two days. It wasn’t many.
It had been five days since the ball. Five days since Stephen had twice in one day—
She blushed to think of it.
“What’s that face?” he asked her, pulling her closer. “Wait.” He gave her the smile that heated her to the core. “Don’t tell me. I know.”
“Of course you don’t,” she said briskly.
“Yes I do,” he said. He took one, slow look down the length of her. “I want you on my jacket again, too. Or here on the floor.”
She was mortified that he could tell what she was thinking.
“Off with you now,” she whispered. “I know for a fact Susan is on her way with Nathaniel and Thomas. They’ve taken to going to the park every afternoon for half an hour. They’re staying up until all hours framing Nathaniel’s watercolors and sewing caps. They drop the finished ones off here before dinner. Their apartments are terribly cramped as it is, and I have the office to store things.”
“Are you saying they eat dinner together?”
She shrugged, but inside she was tremendously excited. “I think so.”
Stephen tapped her mouth with a finger. “You matchmaker, you.”
She giggled, and then she grabbed his finger—
And kissed it.
His face took on a whole new level of interest in her. He put one hand on either side of her head. “You shouldn’t do things like that.”
“I know,” she said. “I can’t help it.”
; He stared at her for an instant. She couldn’t help smiling at him. She knew it was unwavering. She was happy. She liked being trapped by him. She liked him.
Very much.
He readjusted his stance, then narrowed his eyes at her. “You, Miss Jones, are an incredible flirt.”
“I am?”
He nodded, his expression inscrutable. Then he put his fists on his hips and walked away a few feet. He stood still, looking out the front window. His back was so broad and strong. She never tired of looking at it.
He turned around then and came back to her. “What about Otis’s handkerchiefs?” he said.
“Mrs. Hobbs,” she said, wanting to melt into him, “is tacking on the lace while Otis puts together his special shoe collection.”
Stephen gave her a crooked smile. “Does Otis truly believe anyone will buy his shoes?”
Jilly nodded. “Of course they will.”
Stephen lifted her chin with a finger. “You’re an awfully good friend to have.”
She lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”
When she looked up, he was gazing at her with something that frightened her and exhilarated her all at the same time.
“What are the Hartleys doing?” she asked, turning aside and moving toward the counter. “I haven’t seen them since the ball.” She looked over her shoulder and saw him pursue her with all the focused attention with which a hound pursues a fox.
And she loved every minute of it.
He leaned against the corner and folded his arms. “They’re taking Miss Hartley to various picnics and musicales, doing their very best to ingratiate themselves to society.” He arched a brow. “But Miss Hartley isn’t at all happy. She tried to get out of going this morning by claiming a headache.”
“Was she truly ill?”
“Not at all.”
“Do you think she doesn’t want to get married?”
“I think she wants Pratt,” Stephen said knowingly.
“No.”
“Oh, yes.” Stephen grinned. “Did you see him moping about last night? Miss Hartley was at another ball. We tried to get him to assist us with removing branches from the street, but he was quite halfhearted about it. He’s never like that when Miss Hartley is nearby.”
Jilly put a hand on her heart. “But this is wonderful! Did he admit he was pining after her?”
“No,” Stephen said, “but he couldn’t stop talking about her, and about how rude her parents were, and why it was such a shame that she was stuck with them. And then he groused about all the dandies she’d meet on the Marriage Mart.”
Jilly pushed off the wall and walked to the shop window. “Dreare Street isn’t unlucky at all!” She whirled around to face Stephen. “Love is in the air! Look at Miss Hartley and Pratt … Susan and Nathaniel—”
She stopped speaking all of a sudden, realizing that she’d brought them to an awkward moment.
Their gazes locked. He didn’t look away. He looked very, very serious. She blinked.
“I invented a ruse in which I’m supposed to be pursuing you,” he said slowly. “But it’s really not necessary anymore. I think Miss Hartley would run away if her parents insisted she marry me. She has a tendre for Pratt, and why shouldn’t they be together? He’s a decent man.”
“You can tell the Hartleys the truth now,” Jilly said, her hands clasped in front of her. She felt very serious, too. “That you’re not pursuing me.”
“Yes,” Stephen said. “I could.”
They stared at each other some more.
“Don’t—” she couldn’t help blurting out.
“I won’t—”
They spoke at the same time.
He took a step toward her.
She held out her hand.
The bell at the front door jangled.
“Where is she?” a rough voice cried.
Jilly turned—
And looked into the cold, stern face of her husband.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Stephen’s heart pounded in his chest. Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. Jilly was shaking like a leaf. She walked swiftly behind her counter and stood there, her nostrils flared, her cheeks pale, her mouth half open, as if she were struggling for breath.
She didn’t even seem aware of his presence anymore.
That magical moment between them—when they’d spoken at the same time and reached toward each other …
It was as if it had never happened.
Threat hung in the air, dissolving that special memory to mist and propelling Stephen into full-blown defensive mode. His training at sea during wartime saw to that. And he was prepared to go on the offensive if the situation should require it.
He assessed the man standing at the door. The danger came from him, obviously, but Stephen had yet to know why, and he wanted to know—very much.
He wanted to know who was scaring Miss Jones.
His Miss Jones.
The fellow was impeccably dressed, in a fine coat and waistcoat and a diamond stickpin in his intricately folded cravat, yet somehow the clothes sat poorly on him. He was perhaps two or three years older than Stephen, about the same height but slightly thicker at the waist. His brown curls were glossy but hung lank at his temples in a style that suggested he wasn’t sure if he were a farmer, a Corinthian, or a man of business. His lips were thin and mean, and his chin jutted like a bull’s. Without blinking, his small, brown eyes focused with a terrible intensity on Jilly.
She stared back, almost blankly.
It was as if the Jilly Stephen knew weren’t there any longer.
This is the man, Stephen thought, the man she fears—
The one that Otis had been prepared to clock with a shoe.
He had the incongruous thought that he wished Otis were here now, pulling off one of his outlandish shoes. Jilly would have rebuked him—or not—but at least there would have been movement, words spoken, instead of this awful silence.
“Get your things.” The man’s voice was low, almost a growl.
Jilly flinched.
Stephen stepped forward. “Who are you?” he asked sharply, prepared at any moment to fight. He cast a discreet glance at the man’s waist. His coat gaped, but Stephen couldn’t tell if he was armed or not.
Every ounce of his being clamored to protect the woman behind him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he looked for a weapon of some kind. But all he saw were books. Book bindings could hurt if they landed on a temple correctly, but they weren’t nearly as useful a weapon as a pistol.
At least he had his fists.
The man looked at him with contempt, yet he didn’t appear interested in a fight. “I’m Hector Broadmoor,” he said flatly, “and I’m here to retrieve my wife.”
His wife?
Stephen’s mind couldn’t register what the man was saying. “She’s not here, obviously.” He looked about the room, and when his gaze passed over Jilly, she raised a shaky hand to her eye and wiped away a tear.
“Go away, Captain Arrow,” she said in a voice he didn’t recognize.
It was low. Ugly.
Despairing.
He shook his head. “What’s going on?”
He had the same feeling he had on a ship when he heard a low, mournful whistling through the rigging, the sound that signified a storm was brewing, the kind that required the men to be at their most alert—to murmur prayers when the darkness fell and the swells grew large and cavernous, slapping against the hull, taunting the sailors with their tentacle fingers.
Jilly stared at him. “Please,” she said. “Leave.”
Stephen spread his feet and put his hands on his hips. “Explain to me what’s happening, Miss Jones.” His heart was going faster than it ever had, yet he felt as if he were moving in slow motion.
“There needs no explaining,” the man at the door said, almost complacently. “She’s my wife. And her name’s not Miss Jones. It’s Mrs. Broadmoor.”
A wave of sickness washed over Ste
phen. He stared at Miss Jones—at Jilly—and she looked back with a mournful expression in her eyes.
It couldn’t be.
It simply couldn’t be.
“Is it true?” he managed to say. His mouth was drier than the bottom of a barrel of grog let loose among his sailors.
She hesitated but a moment, then nodded.
It all went rushing out of him then, like a waterfall, the bundle of emotions he’d felt about her—all of it, from the very beginning: the annoyance, the desire, the concern, the anticipation, the tenderness.
He was emptied in a moment, back to his old self, the one who hadn’t really known who he was until after his mother had died and a village neighbor had told him his core family had never existed.
“All right, then.” He looked back at Mr. Broadmoor, then one more time at Jilly.
Her brows, those exquisite black wings, were flung far out above her violet-blue eyes, which were wide with grief.
And perhaps shock.
Although …
Although she’d known he was coming, hadn’t she?
It was why she’d steered clear of Stephen, or at least tried for a while to steer clear of him—
She’d known.
He turned away from her and walked slowly past the man at the door. He felt small. Invisible.
And profoundly stupid.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jilly watched Stephen go.
His leaving was inevitable, but it hurt her more than she had imagined possible. She’d thought giving up Hodgepodge would be the worst thing. But it wasn’t.
Seeing Stephen look at her as if they’d never met? Seeing the joy leave his eyes? The respect? The regard for her?
It was like someone tearing out her heart.
She swallowed and looked around her, seeing her bookstore with the eyes of someone who knows she must go away forever. There were books everywhere, stacked neatly on the shelves. Too neatly, actually. A thriving bookstore wasn’t so blasted tidy.
Her father’s large, oval looking glass reflecting the street was shiny and clean, but the street was still hazy with fog. Looking into that oval mirror with its ornate frame, she wished she could walk into that murky otherworld and stay.
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