Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

and chairs was pristine. Her small living space upstairs was tidy, and a beef stew she and Otis would share for dinner simmered over a low fire.

Everything was in order, even the street. Outside, it was eerily quiet without Captain Arrow’s friends around. She couldn’t say she missed them—no, indeed. But until now she hadn’t noticed how no one came down Dreare Street if they could help it. And the neighbors kept to themselves.

Lady Duchamp, Jilly was sorry to say, lived directly across from her. The old hag occupied the biggest mansion on Dreare Street and kept numerous servants. Every morning Jilly saw one of her footmen bring the carriage around and help his mistress into it. She always returned almost an hour later.

Where did she go? Jilly wondered.

And then there was her new friend Susan, who lived at the other end of Dreare Street and ran her seamstress shop, which appeared to have as few customers as Hodgepodge did.

Jilly had also seen a man who appeared to be an artist lugging a bag of rolled canvas home to his shabby studio. There were several colorless families, too, who lived in colorless houses and didn’t appear interested in her or themselves. They were just existing, she guessed, going to work, coming home—the ones that had to work, that is. She’d seen a couple of these bland families who were well off enough, judging by their carriages and clothing and number of servants, but they didn’t look happy. Or excited about anything.

Every sort of person lived on Dreare Street, she thought. Rich, poor, working class, and titled. Until now, all of them had seemed depressed—except for Captain Arrow. But now, he did, too. His face when those encroaching people had walked into his house had been rigid with disapproval. Yet they were still there, weren’t they?

Too bad Dreare Street wasn’t a thriving, bustling neighborhood street like the other ones Jilly had been on in Mayfair. When she’d inspected the building, she’d been assured that the pedestrian traffic was so low because it had been raining buckets the two days she’d come by to visit.

Ironically, the rain was what had made her fall in love with Hodgepodge. Everything had seemed so cozy inside. She’d even felt safe from Hector. It was why she’d told the broker she’d seen enough.

The shop on Dreare Street was to be her home, her safe haven. It was her portal to a new life.

Now she walked outside to straighten her flower beds. Thank goodness, she thought, that Susan had come in today. Jilly had been about to give in to the feeling that her instincts had been wrong about buying Hodgepodge. She was so glad she hadn’t surrendered to such a gloomy thought—

At least not yet.

* * *

Bad luck.

All of Stephen’s friends said he was having terribly bad luck.

“It’s so bad you need to do a special tribal dance or some such thing to reverse it,” Lumley said at their club the afternoon of the Hartleys’ arrival at Stephen’s house. “I think you picked it up in the islands.”

“No, it’s that street,” another friend conjectured. “It rots. After all, it’s called Dreare Street.”

“As in dreary.” A third friend flicked Stephen on the side of the head.

Stephen brushed him off like a pesky fly.

“Abysmal Street would be a better name,” another friend commented, laughing loudly in his ear.

Stephen had gone to his club for comfort, and he’d left with a ringing ear, a throbbing temple, and the conviction that perhaps his friends were—dare he say it?—right.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he was in a quandary that didn’t seem to have a solution. The baronet and his wife were cold, humorless people, scheming to marry off their daughter, probably to him—and they were ensconced at his house.

His private abode.

The place where he wanted to be himself … to do what he wanted to do.

And Miss Hartley! Well, she was the last woman on earth he’d want to marry, no matter how sweet and lacking in guile she was.

In disgust he’d gone to his club to forget them all. But that hadn’t happened, obviously. When he returned home before dusk, he found Sir Ned and Lady Hartley waiting for him, like spiders in a web, in the drawing room.

“We want to tell you something of importance,” said Sir Ned. “After a discussion with my wife, we’ve decided that Miranda will entertain your suit. Marrying you would save us a great deal of time and expense. We could go home tomorrow and stop in Canterbury for the special license.”

Stephen was silent with shock, but then he thought to ask, “Miss Hartley, don’t you care to experience the Marriage Mart?”

Miss Hartley blushed and stammered, “W-who am I to question my parents?”

“Don’t worry about not being her equal, Arrow,” Sir Ned said. “I have enough money and titles to make up for your lack of either.”

“We can fudge the truth,” said Lady Hartley. “On tour, at least. We can claim you’re a baron or earl and no one would ever know the difference.”

“I’m not interested,” Stephen said. “I’m already … pursuing someone else.”

“Who?” asked Miss Hartley.

He glanced out the window and saw Miss Jones working in her flower beds.

“Miss Jones,” he said, and immediately realized his desperation had caused a lapse in his usually impeccable judgment.

No one would choose Miss Jilly Jones, the owner of Hodgepodge, as a possible wife. She was too unmanageable. Wives were supposed to be meek, which was why he’d never marry. Stephen wasn’t fond of meek women. They bored him.

“I’m sorry,” he corrected himself. “I meant to say I’m interested in pursuing, ah, another woman. Several doors down. Miss Jones’s friend.”

“What’s her name?” Miss Hartley lisped.

Stephen started. He hadn’t thought of a name, of course. He was about to say “Sarah Pimsdale,” which sounded like the name of a perfectly manageable miss when Sir Ned interrupted him.

“Right,” the baronet said with a cocky grin. “Too late to cover it up. You want to marry Miss Jones.” He looked at his wife. “Who’s Miss Jones?”

Lady Hartley merely shrugged and stared daggers at the world. It seemed the news had put her in an awful pout.

Miss Hartley rushed to the window. “You’re looking at her right now, aren’t you, Captain?” She pointed at his ebony-haired neighbor, who was now pulling weeds. “She’s the one who’s stolen your heart. Miss Joneth, the bookseller.”

“Before you even had a chance to get here, dear Miranda,” Lady Hartley muttered, then turned to her husband. “Do something, Ned.”

Sir Ned’s chins began an almost imperceptible jiggle, and a keen light shone from his eyes. “Right you are, my love.” He adjusted his coat and stood. “I’m off to see the lady, Captain Arrow. Take us to see Miss Jones.”

“Why should I?” He went into full-fledged defensive mode, backing up toward the drawing room door, and then to the front door, to block Sir Ned from leaving.

“Stand aside,” said Sir Ned, approaching him with a determined, if very short, stride.

What was Stephen supposed to do? If Sir Ned challenged him, he certainly wasn’t going to fight the man. He was too old. It would be unsporting of him to land the stubborn fool a facer.

Right now he could only hope the baronet would be intimidated enough to turn around.

But he obviously wasn’t. He tapped Stephen in the chest. “I want to become acquainted with the woman who’s blinded you to Miranda’s charms.”

“Absolutely not,” Stephen said, looking down at him. “Miss Jones has no idea I’m pursuing her.”

Lady Hartley marched over to him and angled her head at Miss Hartley. “Enough with pursuits, Captain. You can stand completely still with Miranda. She’s right here, waiting. And you won’t have to worry about lining your pockets before declaring yourself.”

“I’d really rather you stay out of my private business.” Stephen glared at them both.

“Let’s go, Arrow,” Sir Ned urged him.

Stephen realized he must change tactics. His unfortunate relative would find a way to confront Miss Jones