Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

afraid of.”

“Oh, hush,” she said, and glowered at him.

He looked right back at her, with a lazy grin that somehow made her blink repeatedly, like a fussy old maid.

Which she was. Or might as well be since she would never marry again.

“Now about those booths,” she said in a deliberate change of subject. “We can’t sell anything at the fair without them. We need you to make them.”

He rubbed his chin. “I suppose we never put a limit on the number of favors you may ask me.”

“No, we didn’t.” She couldn’t help being pleased at her foresight. “It’s too late, of course, to change our arrangement.”

“Yes,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s too late. Much too late.”

He began walking toward her.

“It is,” she agreed.

And then had a very bad feeling.

Because he was looking at her as if he’d trapped her into saying something she shouldn’t have.

He stood before her and raked her with a glance that seemed to see right through her blue-sprigged muslin gown. “You agreed to go along with this story of mine. This romantic story of pursuit. Did you not?”

His eyes again. They held her fast.

Her heart began to thump wildly, and she backed up a step. “Yes,” she said. “But if you’re thinking about kissing me—”

He came forward a step. “When did I ever say that?”

She turned her head to the right. “You didn’t have to.”

He chuckled, and put a finger under her chin, turning her face slowly back to meet his gaze. “All I’m suggesting, Miss Jones, is that being involved with each other”—he hesitated—“could be a pleasurable thing.”

“I’m not interested,” she said flatly. “We have an agreement, and that’s what we’ll adhere to. Kisses were never mentioned.”

“No, they weren’t.” He kept her gaze, measure for measure, and dropped her hand.

She tried to ignore how good his fingers had felt wrapped around hers. “Back to the discussion about the booths,” she said.

“I’ve already worked on one.” He returned to his work at the ledge.

“Really?” She couldn’t help but sound pleased.

He looked back at her with a sly grin. “Oh, so now I’m in favor.”

“Is it any wonder?” she said, following after him when he stood to get the hammer. “When will it be finished?”

“It already is.” He picked up the hammer and let it dangle from his fingers. “Pratt and I were up all night, actually. Lumley came over and lent a hand. We’ve enough scrap wood and nails to make at least five or six more. That should be enough, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” She felt shy of a sudden. “Now I know why you look a bit … sleepy.”

“Now you know.”

“I assumed you’d been out at some sort of revelry. I didn’t hear a peep from your house.”

“Not even the hammering at midnight?”

“No.”

“You must have been well asleep.” He gave her a look that made her blush.

She had no doubt the man was thinking of her in her bedclothes—or worse, without them on at all. “Yes, well,” she stammered, “I was exhausted from worry and excitement, I suppose.”

The truth was, she’d been so frightened by the face she’d seen at the window during the meeting, she’d opened Papa’s old emergency flask and taken two large swigs of fine French brandy, which had helped her tumble into a very disturbing sleep.

But now was no time to dwell on her fears about Hector. She hadn’t even had an opportunity to confide in Otis. Last night seemed hardly the time, not when he was so giddy with excitement about the fair.

“What did Sir Ned and Lady Hartley think of the noise at midnight?” she asked the captain.

“Sir Ned never heard it. He snores too loudly. And that’s why Lady Hartley never heard it, either. As for Miss Hartley, well”—he laughed softly—“she sneaked out of the house into the shed and watched us, poor thing. She never stopped talking the entire time we were working.”

“My goodness!” Jilly laughed. “I had no idea Miss Hartley had it in her to defy her parents.”

“She’s sleeping late this morning,” the captain said. “Otis must be, as well.”

“He is, actually.” Jilly was amazed at his knowledge of the goings-on in her household. “How did you know?”

“He was there, too.”

“Was he?” Her mouth dropped open. “He left me a note on his door, but he never said why. I assumed he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Excuse me,” a lithe voice called from the back of the store. “My ears are burning. I’m awake now, I’ll have you know.” Otis showed himself, looking none the worse for wear. He beamed at Captain Arrow. “Our booth is perfection itself, if you ignore the yawning gaps between the planks. But you’re so right. The air flow between customer and selling agent will allow an atmosphere of true commerce to flourish.”

“I’m glad you see it my way,” said the captain.

“Our booth?” Jilly looked at Otis.

He reddened.

“I suppose you haven’t had an opportunity to tell Miss Jones your plans,” the captain remarked.

“Oh, my. Not yet.” Otis looked worriedly at Jilly. “While you tend the store during the street fair, I, er, would like to run a booth. I’ll sell my specially adorned footwear—”

“But Otis,” she interrupted him. “You can’t sell your special shoes. Each pair means something to you.”

He laughed. “Of course I won’t. I’m going about the street collecting used shoes in good condition today. I shall make new ones. And one of the young men on the street works at the hotel around the corner. He said they’ve got four big boxes of shoes. It seems people leave them under their beds all the time and never come back to pick them up. He said some don’t have matches, but I can make them match, can’t I? With a few slaps of paint and feathers and some of those exotic shells the captain brought back from his voyages—”

“Wait.” Jilly crossed her arms. “Were many people there last night?”

Otis nodded happily. “Yes, my dear, everyone who came to the meeting was there but you, Lady Duchamp, and that odious Mr. Hobbs and his poor, poor family, who I know want to participate in the fair if that unpleasant man would only allow them. It was quite a festive evening.”

Jilly stared at the captain. “Why was I not invited? I thought I was partnering with you in creating this event.”

Captain Arrow shrugged. “It wasn’t planned. It simply happened.”

“I didn’t want to wake you, Miss Jilly,” Otis said. “You were sleeping like a baby, with Alicia Fotherington’s sweet little journal propped in your hands. I had to blow out your candle and take the diary away.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “I must have wasted a candle.” She trailed off, hating to think about their precarious financial situation.

She’d tell them about the diary instead. “Last night I read all about the second wing Alicia’s husband added onto the house in hopes they’d soon have a family. It’s the wing closest to Lady Duchamp’s.”

“I sleep there,” Captain Arrow said. “Or did.” Some fleeting tension seemed to cross his face.

“Is there a problem with that wing?” she asked him.

“No,” he said lightly. “None at all. Just a few repairs I have to make.”

“Oh.” She pushed an annoying wisp of hair off her cheek. “At any rate, do finish telling me your plans for the booth, Otis.”

“Gladly.” He clasped his hands together. “In addition to the shoes, I’ll sell my signature handkerchiefs. I’ve already commissioned Miss Susan to make thirty overlarge ones. Today I’ll be sifting through her scraps for the fabrics—I see yellows, golds, scarlets, blues…” He held up his hand as if he were displaying a shelf of them. “They’ll