Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

by Kieran Kramer

  The crowd shifted uneasily.

  “We’ll start the scene again, Your Highness,” Stephen said calmly. “Please accept our apologies for the damage to your cravat. We’ll get you a fresh one.”

  Prinny looked down at the blot on his fine white linen. “This cravat,” he said through narrowed eyes, “is my lucky cravat. It was given to me by my best mistress. But it’s ruined, thanks to the antics here on Dreare Street. Now I’m sure to lose my bet on the cockfight I’m attending this afternoon.” He pushed himself out of his chair. “Never mind about the performance. As far as I’m concerned, these theatrics are over.”

  The crowd began to murmur but stilled again when a huge banner was unfurled above Hodgepodge:

  THREE CHEERS FOR MISS JONES,

  OUR FAIR’S FOUNDER

  Stephen winced as he read it. Oh, well. He’d forgotten about that. On the roof of the bookshop, the boys who’d strictly followed Otis’s orders to lower the banner after the theatrics yelled, “Hurrah!”

  For the first time since the day’s events had begun, Stephen saw Jilly. Wearing the plain gray gown she’d worn to the ball, she stood in front of Hodgepodge, directly below the banner. Her face paled and her eyes widened as she, too, read the words.

  There was a deafening silence, which Stephen wished he knew how to end. But he had no idea what to say, how to fix things.

  For the very first time ever, his leadership skills failed him.

  “There you are, Miss Jones.” The Prince Regent’s annoyed voice broke the silence. “You did come up with the idea for the street fair, didn’t you?”

  Jilly stood, hands clasped, and stared at the royal. “Y-yes, Your Highness. I—I’m so sorry. It was supposed to be fun.”

  “Fun?” Lady Tabitha pushed through the hordes and stood before her. “It was hardly fun.”

  Jilly flinched when Lady Tabitha looked her up and down as if she were a loathsome creature.

  “Her name isn’t really Miss Jones.” Lady Tabitha spoke in a bold voice. “And as I told you at the Langleys’ ball, Your Highness, she’s not descended from Celtic kings. Her true name is Mrs. Broadmoor. She’s a runaway wife, and she’s been bamboozling you all.”

  Bamboozling you all.

  Runaway wife.

  Stephen felt the harsh accusations sear him like a knife. It was a dreadful moment. Otis gave one, long whimper that sounded almost like a howling dog.

  Jilly stood as if turned to stone.

  Prinny stared at her. “Is this true? Are you married, Miss Jones?”

  She blinked once, then nodded. It was the moment that finally broke Stephen’s heart.

  All the smug, wealthy residents of Mayfair began to talk, to disapprove. To be horrified. And it appeared so did everyone else—everyone except Stephen. He felt too depressed to speak or move.

  The Prince Regent stared at the banner on the roof of Hodgepodge, and after that, he shifted his gaze to the overturned balcony. “This has got to be the unluckiest street I’ve ever had the misfortune to visit,” he pronounced.

  The affronted royal walked several houses up the street to the brightest and shiniest of the retinue of waiting carriages and entered it. The entire crowd watched as it drove up the street, out the entrance, and bowled away.

  And that’s when the mass exodus began. Stephen knew it signaled the end of all of Dreare Street’s hopes—and of Jilly’s dreams.

  All around him, people began walking fast toward what they could see of Curzon Street. A few ran. Some even dropped the whirligigs they’d bought for their children, afraid they were tainted with bad luck. Others cried out, looking for loved ones, as if there were a chance they’d gotten sucked into an invisible vortex of bad luck.

  All this, while Stephen and the other residents of Dreare Street stood silently and watched.

  When the last fair-goer had fled, almost as one, the ones who remained on the much maligned street turned back to Hodgepodge—and Jilly.

  But, Stephen noted with a halt of his breath, she was gone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The fog came in that night around eight o’clock, worse than it ever had since Jilly had been in London. She stood at her bedchamber window at the house on Grosvenor Square and tried to peer through the cloudy vapor that swirled outside, but it was impossible to see anything.

  She wished she could see right now what the people on Dreare Street were doing.

  Were they eating their suppers? Were the Hobbses slowly ladling their turtle soup and wondering how they’d pay their lease? Perhaps some neighbors were crying. Others might very well be cursing her for getting them into this mess.

  All of them, she was sure, despised her for lying to them.

  No doubt they’d never want to see her again.

  She’d lied to them.

  She’d lied to Stephen.

  His face swam before her eyes. He’d looked so sad and cold and unapproachable when Prinny had asked her if she were married.

  It seemed almost as if she’d imagined his sneaking into her bedchamber here and …

  And making love to her.

  Genuine love.

  She’d felt it. It had seemed as palpable as the bed pillows they’d crushed beneath them. As sturdy and strong as Stephen’s face when she’d touched him.

  Tears pearled beneath her lids, but she pushed them back. She would never let Hector see her cry. It would make him too happy.

  Today when she’d scurried out the back door of Hodgepodge and returned to Grosvenor Square via back alleys and other people’s gardens, she decided she would never, ever lie about being married to Hector again. And she would never, ever try to be happy, either.

  It was too painful when the happiness was snatched away.

  She turned to her bed, prepared to sleep her life away—at least until she had to face Hector again. She had no idea if he’d return that night, or the next day, or the one after that.

  She did know, however, that he’d return eventually.

  He was a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from—ever.

  * * *

  Lord Smelling sat at Stephen’s table that same evening. The fog was so thick, the earl, who’d come to the street fair, had been forced to stay the night. Indeed, the fog had never been thicker since Stephen had moved to Dreare Street.

  “So have we come to an agreement?” Lord Smelling asked him. “Shall I buy 34 Dreare Street and house my mother-in-law here? And occasionally, my wife?”

  He looked at Sir Ned and Lady Hartley. All three of them broke into loud guffaws.

  Sir Ned slapped his hand on the table. “I assure you, Smelling, they’ll be miserable!”

  Lady Hartley shook her head. “Yes,” she said, hiccupping, “absolutely wretched. Who knows when another beam will rot?”

  “Or another neighbor will fall on hard times or break a bone,” added Sir Ned.

  “Or set off a riot,” Lord Smelling said, latching on to the pastime of insulting Stephen, his house, and Dreare Street itself.

  The laughter went on unabated until Miss Hartley spoke up. “I haven’t been miserable here,” she said quietly.

  Her parents immediately straightened their faces.

  Sir Ned glared at her. “What do you mean by such a ridiculous statement?”

  Miss Hartley looked rather fierce, Stephen thought.

  She tossed her head. “I like Captain Arrow and this house. You’re the ones who make everyone miserable by being so rude. And if you hate this place as much as you claim, why are you still here anyway?”

  “Miranda!” her mother scolded her. “To marry you off, of course.”

  “And to save money doing it,” said Sir Ned. He leaned over to Lord Smelling. “I’ve not made my fortune—”

  “By spending it!” Miss Hartley interrupted sharply. “How many times do we have to listen to your boasting about being a miser, Father?” She exhaled a great breath. “Listen, you two. I don’t want to be married off to anyone … anyone but Mr. Pratt.”
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  Stephen was quite impressed by her newfound boldness.

  “Mr. Pratt?” Lady Hartley’s mouth dropped open.

  “But he’s a nobody,” Sir Ned protested.

  “He’s a ship’s cook, for heaven’s sake,” Lady Hartley said. “With trousers hitched up to here.” She indicated her neck and gave the tiniest giggle.

  Her husband responded with a small chuckle. Then Lady Hartley giggled again—and he chuckled—and Stephen was just about to knock their heads together.

  “Not only that, he can’t make a sunnyside egg without breaking it,” said Sir Ned. “Only on Dreare Street would you find a cook who couldn’t do that.”

  He was busy shaking his head and biting down on his lower lip to suppress more chuckles when his daughter leaned forward and narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I’d rather be with a nobody who’s kind and amusing,” she said, “than with people who treat others shabbily, the way you and Mother do.”

  She pushed back her chair and stalked from the room.

  There was a vast, awkward silence.

  As a good, albeit put-upon host, Stephen went to his sideboard to see what he had to offer to diffuse the tension. His brandy and whisky were all gone, thanks to the theater troupe, who’d demanded something for their wasted time. All he had left were a few West Indian cheroots and some ratafia, which he offered to Lady Hartley.

  “No, thank you,” she said, her cheeks pale. “I must see to Miranda.”

  And she left the room looking for the first time like a mother concerned about her child instead of a vain flirt.

  “Well,” said Lord Smelling a moment later, smoke curling around his head, “what’s your answer, Arrow? Shall you sell me your house?”

  Stephen considered him, triple jowls, florid face, and all. The man was offering him a substantial amount of money for a house the earl didn’t care for … a house he was going to use to make his wife and mother-in-law miserable.

  Should he accept? He’d be able to leave Dreare Street and start life over with his pension and a substantial amount of money in his pocket if he did.

  He stood, strode to the window with his cheroot, and looked out at the black night and the fog. No matter how much he strained to see, everything was hidden from view, which was a disappointment. Until now, he hadn’t realized how much he’d enjoyed looking out the drawing room window at Hodgepodge.

  He would miss Dreare Street. Much had happened to him here. He’d fallen in love. But if he remained without his favorite bookshop owner nearby, he’d feel lost. Looking out his drawing room window would become painful.

  It already was.

  He inhaled once on his cheroot and blew out a plume of smoke. As he did so, he realized with great certainty it was time to go.

  He turned around to face the men.

  “I’d like another day to consider it,” he said, surprised—nay, shocked—at his own answer.

  Where had that come from?

  A large furrow formed on Lord Smelling’s brow. “Are you certain?”

  “Don’t think you can get him to offer more by playing coy,” Sir Ned said nastily.

  Stephen felt his intense dislike of Sir Ned bubble over. “It’s best that you leave tomorrow,” he told him. “I’ll let you stay until I give Lord Smelling my answer, and then you’ll have to find a hotel to stay in if you care to remain in London. I agree with your daughter—you’re a rude miser. I want you and your opportunistic wife gone. By the way, your daughter deserves better parents. At least your wife is attempting to be one now by speaking with Miss Hartley. You should join them.”

  Sir Ned’s mouth fell open. “How dare you speak to me this way! Why, you’re nothing but an earl’s by-blow!”

  “Better that than a fool,” Stephen said back, still feeling a twinge of shame to have been so deceived by his mother, her peers in the village of his birth, and by Earl Stanhope himself. “Now douse your cheroots, please, sirs, and retire for the night.”

  There was much muttering from Sir Ned and actually very little objection from Lord Smelling. He looked at Stephen meekly on his way out. “Now, don’t let this small misunderstanding spoil our deal,” he said.

  “I told you … I’m still considering it,” Stephen replied, feeling prickly. He didn’t like Lord Smelling, either, and was rather discomfited by the fact that he was still considering his offer.

  But he needed the money.

  He needed to leave Dreare Street.

  But he needed Jilly more.

  I’m here if you ever need counsel. It’s hard to fathom, I know, but I’ve got experience now in matters of the heart.

  Harry’s words, spoken at the ball, came back to him. Stephen couldn’t believe it, but he did need his friend’s advice. Tomorrow, he’d seek him out. Until then, he’d simply go by instinct.

  * * *

  A small tap came at Jilly’s window.

  She closed her eyes.

  Could it be?

  She looked over, and—

  She’d recognize that chin and that golden brow anywhere. Stephen was gazing at her from the window, his face only partially visible through the fog. She raced over, opened it, and he clambered through.

  She could hardly believe he was there. “How did you find me in all this fog?”

  He winced and grinned. “It wasn’t easy.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” She pressed herself against his chest. “What a day.”

  “When you disappeared like that without saying good-bye—”

  She pulled back and looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I simply couldn’t stay. Everyone was staring. The street fair was ruined, and then Lady Tabitha…” She trailed off with a little shudder.

  “I wonder how she found out?” Stephen wrapped his arms around her and rubbed her lower back with his hands.

  “I don’t know,” Jilly said, delighting in the sensation. “But it probably wasn’t very difficult. She could have spoken to the previous owner of Hodgepodge. I signed documents under my true name, but then the seller moved to Kent, so I thought I was safe. Perhaps she followed one of us here and did some snooping among the servants. Or she might even have talked to Hector.”

  “Who knows?” he said. “The damage is done.”

  Jilly lowered her eyes. The humiliation of being thrust into the open with her lies, in front of all her Dreare Street neighbors, was still very strong in her. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I can’t go back. Hector says we’re returning to the village very soon.” She paused and swallowed. “I might never see you again.”

  “I would hate for that to happen.”

  It was such a simple statement—but it said everything.

  There was a beat of silence. She saw her own pain reflected in his eyes. And in those seconds of grief at what would soon be, the most natural thing in the world to do, Jilly intuited, was to breach that sad place with a kiss.

  Stephen was already reaching for her when she moved toward him. She luxuriated in the heavenly feel of his mouth against hers, and then she took him by the hand to the rug in front of the hearth. She sank to her knees, and he did the same. They stripped each other of their garments, loving care obvious in every pull of a tie or push of cloth back to reveal warm, scented flesh.

  But when it came time for their coupling, they were both fierce, clinging—

  Desperate to have each other.

  To be each other.

  To meld as one.

  When it was over, although limp with satisfaction, Jilly didn’t feel content in the least.

  Neither, apparently, did Stephen.

  She’d rolled to her side to look at him. He was her favorite view, after all. He was staring at the ceiling, but when he saw her watching him, he reached over and caressed her hip.

  It was lovely. Intimate.

  But no peace came.

  The ormolu clock on the mantel chimed the hour—it was midnight. Heavy fog and a thick silence lay over the house, over London.

&n
bsp; There was only this room with its one flickering candle, and them—

  And no place left for her feelings to hide.

  “If I have to be wrenched away from the life I want,” Jilly blurted out, “I might as well truly leave.”

  Stephen’s hand stilled at her waist. “What do you mean?”

  So this is what had been building in her!

  “I could live in another country,” she said. “No one would ever know I’m a married woman.”

  It was so simple. She wondered why she’d never thought of it before this moment.

  Abruptly, Stephen sat up on his side, leaned on his elbow, and faced her. “Another country?”

  She nodded. Bit her lip.

  And then she realized there was something else inside her, something even bigger than what she’d just said.

  “You and I could go together,” she breathed.

  The words hung in the air … huge, shimmering, powerful.

  She waited, suspended, it seemed, floating.

  They were alone, just they two, with her great, glorious idea.

  But as the seconds ticked by on the clock, it dawned on her that he’d said nothing back yet. And he should have by now. He should have grinned widely—right away—and said something like, “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  But he hadn’t. In fact, he was staring at her, through her, actually. Surely he was simply in shock at her great, glorious idea. If he really loved her, wouldn’t he move mountains to be with her?

  Of course he would.

  But her heart began to skip oddly. And her breathing—well, she wasn’t breathing at the moment. She couldn’t. Her lungs felt as if they were being filled with cold water. Her whole body was cold. Her fingers, her arms and legs, her feet—everything in her shivered with the cold.

  Why didn’t he say something?

  His gaze finally met hers, and she knew.

  She knew it was over.

  “We have to face the truth,” he said carefully. “We can’t have a future together. We’ll have to say good-bye for good.”