Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (26 page)

Spread her legs and let him lie between them.

“We’ve got to stop,” she said, almost completely out of breath.

He raised his head from her breasts and looked at her. “Soon,” he said. “But not yet.”

“Not yet,” she repeated, looking up at the sky again, the moon and few stars she could see taunting her with their light and distance.

She
should be there. Or somewhere far away from Captain Arrow. In the light of the ballroom.

But, no.

She would defy the moon and the stars. The gossips waiting inside. The minister who’d stood before her and Hector and declared them man and wife, even as she told herself silently that she wasn’t his wife—nor ever would be—no matter what was said in church by a silver-haired gentleman who spoke godly words over them, a Bible in his hands. Her heart—her soul—hadn’t participated in the least.

She thrust herself up to meet the captain—Stephen. She ground herself into his hardness, her hands clutching tufts of grass.

“Your body is all I want,” he whispered. “All I’ve ever wanted.”

And then he went lower, and lower, until those golden curls on his head were brushing her softest spot and his mouth was exploring the creases where her thighs met her belly.

His hands glided up and down her legs, his breath was hot against her womanhood, and she wanted—

Oh, how she wanted!

The heat of his mouth upon her tender core took her by such surprise, she gasped aloud. But he only nuzzled closer, suckling her and licking her with sweet abandon.

She arched again, over and over, moaning without even caring who heard, oblivious to everything but him and her pleasure—

And when the sensation grew too much to hold, she floated away and then back down, enveloped by the musky man scent of his jacket beneath her. She sighed, a sigh that reached to the darkest corners of her being, the places where her fears dwelled, and brushed them away, like cobwebs.

*   *   *

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.”