Kieran Kramer - Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

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.

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 Stephen. 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.

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.