Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

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.”

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.”