Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

CHAPTER FIVE

Jilly stayed busy in the midst of having no customers by washing her windows, dusting her books, and baking scones for the neighbors. She left the scones on their doorsteps with a brief note of introduction and the announcement that complimentary tea and scones would be provided to anyone who entered Hodgepodge that week. After that, they’d be sold for next to nothing to discerning readers who should feel free to sip, eat, and read to their hearts’ content at the bookstore during business hours.

When she wasn’t attempting to drum up business, she was writing a novel. She’d only just begun, but it was going to have a dastardly captain in it who married the ignorant daughter of a mushroom—who wore a silk hat smashed upon his ears so that they stuck out—and a giant woman who spoke so loudly, windows rattled.

Quill to mouth, Jilly mused on what their dozen children would look like. She already knew how they’d behave: rudely. And they’d be cursed with seriously good looks so that no one ever felt sorry for them. And people should feel sorry for them, Jilly felt with all her heart, for these children would have sad excuses for parents.

Perhaps the woman who lived next door to the children would take them under her wing and teach them manners—she’d even take them to the seashore each year because she would be a very rich bookshop owner patronized by all the gentry and the Prince Regent himself.

Diligently, Jilly wrote a whole half page describing the scene in which the captain and his awful wife forgot Christmas Day. But when the cuckoo clock chimed two, she looked up from her scribbling. Otis was out, for far too long, looking for the perfect pair of secondhand shoes to go with his pink and white striped waistcoat, the one he’d found at Captain Arrow’s house the night of the theatrics. It had been adorning a bust of Admiral Lord Nelson on the stair landing, and when no gentleman there could claim the illustrious garment as his own, Otis had taken it with Captain Arrow’s blessing.

Poor Otis. Books weren’t his passion. Fashion was. But he was trying, and he was always so supportive of her.

Jilly heard the shop door open and wished she could be entirely excited at receiving a customer, but part of her was always prepared to see Hector. Yes, it was a shame, but it was the way things were. She knew as long as she lived, she’d never be completely free of him.

So when a breathtakingly lovely girl peeked in the door, she released a discreet sigh of relief. The girl had rich brown hair, the color of chocolate, pulled back in a luscious, loose knot, and a dimple on either side of her mouth. Her best asset was her eyes, which were large and sea green.

“Hello,” she said to Jilly with a shy smile. “I’m Susan Cook. I live down the street.”

Jilly put her quill down and stood. “It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Cook.” She smiled, too, excited that someone—especially someone other than Hector—had come into Hodgepodge! She was beginning to despair that anyone on the street was friendly.

A small boy, no more than four, popped out from behind Susan. He had her same button nose and a wide grin. “I’m Thomas,” he said in a robust manner, although Jilly couldn’t help noticing his legs were thin. “You make good scones. Could we have some more, please? And some butter and jam, too, if you don’t mind.”

Susan’s mouth became a round O. So did Jilly’s. And then they both burst into laughter. Thomas did, too, although Jilly could tell he had no idea what was so funny.

“Thomas!” Susan rubbed his head with a palm. Her tone was stern but fond. “We don’t go about begging. Be glad with what you got from Miss Jones. You don’t ask for more.”

“I don’t mind a bit,” said Jilly. “I promised them to anyone who walked in, didn’t I?” She couldn’t help wondering if the lad got enough to eat. In fact, she was so charmed by Thomas’s cheeks turning pink with embarrassment she said, “Wait here. I’ve not only got scones ready at the moment, I’ve got something else.”

She went to the rear of the store and opened a door between two bookshelves, which led onto a small corridor. On the right was her office and down from that, Otis’s bedchamber. To her left was the staircase leading to the living quarters above the shop: her bedchamber and a spacious front room she shared with Otis each evening.

Picking up an orange sitting next to a ledger in her office, she brought it out to Thomas. “Here,” she said. “My friend Otis got this for me as a special treat, but I’d much rather give it to you.”

Thomas’s eyes widened. “Thank you very much.”

“You don’t have to do that, Miss Jones,” said Susan warmly.

“Please call me Jilly.” She smiled again. “And it’s my pleasure. I hope Thomas and I will become fast friends.”

Thomas clutched the orange in both hands and beamed up at her.

“I can see you already are.” Susan sighed and looked shyly at Jilly. “I hope we can become friends, too. I’d love for you to call me Susan.”

“Oh!” Jilly’s heart swelled with happiness and she squeezed her new friend’s hand. “I hope we can, as well.”

Susan’s mouth thinned into almost a grimace. “I don’t know if you’ll want to, Miss Jones, once you realize”—she looked back at Thomas and then at her again—“Thomas doesn’t have a father. We’re alone in the world, you see. I never married.” She swallowed. “I would have if—”

She broke off and hung her head. “My family won’t talk to me. I—I’m trying to make it on my own as a seamstress. I tell everyone I’m widowed, but it’s not true.” When she looked back up, her eyes were glassy with unshed tears. “I don’t know why I told you the truth. Maybe it’s because you’re the first woman on the street to show me any kindness. Bringing us scones like that.”

Jilly sighed and shook her head. “Women can be hard on their own sex, can’t they?”

“Yes, they can,” Susan agreed.

“It’s all right,” Jilly soothed her. “Of course we can be friends. I’m a woman alone, too, if you don’t count Otis, an old family friend who’s more like an uncle to me. He’d protect me from harm if he could, but somehow … I think I might protect him more.”

They both chuckled together again.

Susan wiped at her eyes. “It’s a relief to be honest with someone, I can tell you that.”

Jilly felt a pang of guilt. She wished she could be honest, but it was simply too dangerous for her to do so.

Thomas tugged on his mother’s skirts. “When can we go, Mummy? I want to see the tree with the new green leaves.”

“Oh, yes,” Susan said. “Spring’s here, thank goodness.”

“Yes, and more leaves will pop out soon, won’t they?” Jilly knelt before Thomas. “And have you noticed? The birds are singing.”

Thomas leaned close to Jilly’s ear. “No one sings like Mummy at bedtime.”

Jilly couldn’t help giving him a hug. “I’m sure she’s the best singer in the world.”

Thomas nodded solemnly. “She is.”

Susan glowed with the contentment of a happy mother. “We’ll come again,” she said at the door.

“Please do.” Jilly dared to give Susan a tentative hug, which her new friend returned unequivocally.

“See you soon,” Susan said, beaming.

When mother and son left hand in hand, Jilly looked after them with a twinge of envy. She’d wanted a child. But Hector … Hector hadn’t been able to father one. She guessed it was probably the main reason he’d been angry at her all the time.

It wasn’t meant to be, that stalwart voice in her head reminded her.

And a good thing, too, because Hector shouldn’t have had any children. He’d have been an awful father.

She gulped, banished all thoughts of the family she’d always wanted but would never have, and put away her quill and paper. She wasn’t in the mood to write anymore, but what could she do now? Hodgepodge was as ready as it would ever be for customers. It was so clean, she could eat off the floor. The inventory was quite impressive, as well. The books ranged from old Latin texts to the most recent novels. The corner which held a few cheery tables 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 sooner or later. So he opened the front door a crack. “I’ll let you through,” he told the baronet, “but if you interfere with my plans to woo her, there will be hell to pay. Am I making myself clear?”

Finally, Sir Ned paused. But he wasn’t terribly cowed. He still had a fervent light in his eyes. “Very well,” he acceded. “But if I find she can’t hold a candle to my Miranda, I’m going to sit up with you tonight, lad, and we’ll discuss your future over a bottle of port. You could have quite a cushy life as my son-in-law.”

Stephen couldn’t bear to hear any more. “I’m going to let you out now,” he said. “But first, I’d like a few moments with her myself. Then you may join us.”

He opened the door all the way and headed to Hodgepodge, Sir Ned gasping behind him.

Stephen whirled around. “Remember,” he warned the baronet, “wait here.”

Sir Ned actually stopped. Now all Stephen had to do was tell Miss Jones to go along with his ruse that he had plans to pursue her. Pursue her for what, he couldn’t say. She wouldn’t approve of a scorching flirtation, and marriage was out of the question.

He’d remain as vague as possible.

It shouldn’t be too difficult.

Good God, of course it would be difficult!

The street, as usual, was deserted. Miss Jones had left her flowers and gone back inside.

Stephen strode into Hodgepodge so fast, the door flew back on its hinges. “Where is she?” he asked Otis.

Otis looked up with a grin. “Hello, Captain. We’re closed, of course. But you’re always welcome. Things have been quiet at your house this afternoon.”

Miss Jones, who was sweeping the floor, looked over her shoulder at him. “A refreshing change,” she added.

Now was not the time to spar with her, so Stephen let the comment pass.

He was pleased to see she looked almost disappointed.

“How may I help you, Captain?” she asked coolly, and put aside her broom.

He raked a hand through his hair, reluctant to reveal to her that he was in an untenable situation. “My unexpected—and unwelcome—guests have ruined all my party plans,” he confessed. “It’s because of them that I’m calling upon you now.”

“Do tell,” Otis urged him, a concerned wrinkle on his brow.

“It’s not good.” Stephen braced himself and looked Miss Jones square in the eye. “They want to marry me off to their daughter, so I told them I was interested in pursuing your acquaintance.” He inhaled a breath, then went on. “Of course, they think I mean marriage.”

Her eyes flew wide and she put a hand over her heart. “That’s impossible!”

“I understand I didn’t ask your permission to tell such an untruth,” Stephen said with an attempt at a grin, “but surely the idea’s not that outrageous.”

“Oh, yes it is.” Miss Jones’s face was bright red.

Otis looked almost as unsteady as his mistress. “I do believe I’ll brush my spare coat,” he said, and left through the rear door of the shop.

“I heard today from Otis, who heard it from a shopkeeper on Brook Street, that you’re an Impossible Bachelor,” Miss Jones said, her fists on her hips. “That title only confirms my suspicions about you.”

Stephen felt a momentary pique. “It’s not my fault Prinny chose me for the title, but what has that to do with anything anyway?”

“First of all, you’d never be pursuing any woman with any remotely honorable intentions,” she replied instantly, “and second, I wouldn’t in a million years allow myself to be pursued by you.”

“Oh, is that all? We can work around that.”

“Oh, really?” Miss Jones picked up the broom again and held it close to her chest. “What you’re asking of me is too much, Captain.” Her voice was fervent with disapproval. “I can’t possibly allow it.”

He’d been prepared for her to object. “They’re here for only a little while,” he soothed her. “Life with them is going to be difficult enough as it is, but if they think I’m eligible to court their daughter, it will be so much worse. I told them you have no idea I want to pursue you. You may act ignorant of the whole matter.”

“If that’s true, why did you bother even telling me?”

She wouldn’t give him an inch, his shrewd neighbor. “Because I wanted you to understand why I’ll be acting rather warm toward you in their presence. And there’s always the chance the obnoxious Sir Ned might say something denigrating about my supposed quest to have you. He’d no doubt like to dissuade your interest. I didn’t want you caught off guard if that happens.”

Miss Jones’s brows almost crossed over her nose. “Why don’t you simply move out while they’re here?”

“I can’t. I’ve got repairs on the house to make before I sell it. I’ve got to stay.”

She said nothing, merely pinched her mouth shut.

“I know you have no reason to help me,” he said, “but I appeal to your sense of charity. And if there’s ever anything I can do for you in return, I promise, on my word of honor, I will.”

“No,” she said into his eyes.

He would wager it was a favorite phrase of hers.

Sir Ned strode into the store then, the tips of his ears pink. “So, Miss Jones, you’re the favored one,” he announced.

She gave him a warm but wary smile. “May I help you?”

The newcomer looked her up and down. “I understand Captain Arrow has his eye—”

“On those atlases. Do go and look them over for me, Sir Ned.” Stephen spun the man around and gave him a light shove in the direction of the oversized tomes.

Thankfully, the man, once pushed, kept going, like a boat shoved away from a dock.

When the baronet was out of hearing, Stephen returned to his appeal to Miss Jones. “Please,” he begged her in a low whisper. “Please go along with it. Otherwise, my life will be a living hell.”

“Not forever, it won’t.” Her cheeks were rosier than usual. “Besides, there are other women you could have chosen for your imaginary pursuit. How about one of your fancy ladies?”

He stared at her, at a loss to answer the question. “I saw you outside with your daffodils, and at that crucial moment, it never occurred to me to think of anyone else. Of course, several seconds later I did, but by then it was too late. They’d latched onto you.”

He wouldn’t tell her he’d been thinking about her before he even saw her—all day, as a matter of fact.

She stared at him a long moment and then sighed. “Very well, Captain. I suppose saying yes won’t do any harm. I can feign ignorance of your intentions, after all. But I’ll have you know—I do this with a great deal of misgiving.”

He released a pleased sigh. “Thank you.”

Now that the pressure was off, he wasn’t able to help noticing she looked extremely fetching in her pale pink gown.

“But someday soon I might need a favor, and you’ll do whatever I ask,” she said, “or I shall tell your houseguests the truth, that you’re making this charade up.”

“You’re blackmailing me.” He could hardly credit it.

“Don’t worry.” She gave him an impish smile. “What could I ask from you? Not much, I assure you. But I shall enjoy thinking on it.”

“Captain,” called Sir Ned excitedly, “what’s the farthest place you sailed on your last voyage?”

Stephen never took his eyes off Jilly’s. “The Horn, Sir Ned, the Horn,” he called back to the man.

Looking rather smug, Miss Jones stood waiting for his answer.

“Under duress,” he murmured, “I accept your offer. But I have a requirement of my own.”

“And that is?” She was toying with him. And toying with him was damned near close to flirting, even if she didn’t recognize that fact.

“If you want my assistance,” he said, “—and you must, for judging from your expression, the prospect of subjugating me to your whims absolutely delights you—you can’t tell the neighbors my pursuit of you is contrived.”

She looked up at the ceiling then back at him. “Very well. I agree. Except for Otis. I tell him everything.”

“Agreed.”

They shook hands quickly, at the precise moment the door to the shop was thrown open.

Stephen dreaded turning around. What if it were the crying Miranda? Or her moaning mother?

Thank God it was only Lady Duchamp. “Captain Arrow, the top-heavy matron on your front doorstep is spitting nonsense,” she drawled, “something about your being here to pursue Miss Jones. I shall feel compelled to box her husband’s gigantic ears if she’s told me a lie.”

Stephen drew himself up. “It’s no one’s business but mine and Miss Jones’s, my lady.”

Lady Duchamp looked at Miss Jones. “Has he proposed marriage?”

“No.” Miss Jones’s mouth was a bit white.

“Well?” Lady Duchamp stared accusingly at Stephen. “Whyever not, if you’re pursuing her? Do you have reservations, young man, about commitment?”

“As I said, my lady, it’s—”

“Hellooo? Is she in here?” Lady Hartley thankfully interrupted, her voice calling like a foghorn from outside. “Miss Jooones!”

Miss Hartley, her hands clamped to her ears, peered over her mother’s shoulder into the shop. “Oh, ith lovely!” she exclaimed.

Lady Duchamp curled her lip at the new arrivals. “I don’t consort with mushrooms,” she said. “I’m leaving.”

Miss Hartley blanched as Lady Duchamp made her way past her by nudging her in the stomach with the tiny porcelain woman at the top of her frightening walking stick.

But Lady Hartley batted the cane away. “Get that thing away from me!”

“Watch yourself!” Lady Duchamp warned her.

For a few seconds, a small struggle at the top of the stairs between both titled ladies took Stephen’s attention away from Miss Jones’s delicate profile, which he’d been admiring while she wasn’t looking.

But the old harridan and her swinging cane were soon out of the way, and Lady Hartley and Miss Hartley finally entered the shop. Miss Hartley smiled sweetly at Miss Jones, but her mother eyed Miss Jones’s modest pink gown and appeared to find it wanting.

“It’s come to my attention you’re the object of Captain Arrow’s pursuit,” Lady Hartley said. “Are you?”

Miss Jones deigned to smile at her. “I don’t know. Am I?”

“Impertinent girl!” The matron reddened, but then her gaze turned hopeful. “You mean you’re not the captain’s intended?”

Miss Hartley bit her lip and appeared most interested in the answer, as well.

Bedazzled virgins often were.

Miss Jones looked at him with a twinkle in her eye—a most unexpected twinkle—and shrugged. “Captain Arrow has never declared himself,” she said in a breezy manner.

Lady Hartley turned to Stephen. “Well?”

“A man likes to choose his own opportunities,” he said grimly. “Not be pushed about by interfering women.”

“All I know,” said Miss Jones to the ladies with a confidential air, “is that he follows me about like a lovesick puppy.” She giggled. “He’s quite adorable, if you like that sort of thing.”

Lovesick puppy?

Adorable?

Stephen narrowed his eyes. Miss Jones had adjusted rather well to their so-called impossible and unwelcome circumstances, hadn’t she?

Miss Hartley giggled. Lady Hartley looked at him suspiciously.

Which wouldn’t do at all. The two women mustn’t guess this was all a ruse. He was livid, but he did his best to look like an adorable, lovesick puppy—without losing an ounce of his captain’s authority or his bachelor aloofness.

“You appear quite ill, Captain Arrow,” said Miss Jones, her voice concerned but her eyes alight with amusement. “Are you all right?”

“Never better,” he choked out, and sped off.

He would wring Miss Jones’s neck later.

He found Sir Ned with his nose still in the atlas. “Purchase the thing,” Stephen told him. “And leave.”

Instead, Sir Ned trotted to the counter, the book hugged close to his chest. “I think I shall simply borrow this book for a while. I’m living right next door, after all.”

“I’m sorry, but I need to sell that atlas,” Miss Jones said.

Sir Ned glared at her, dropped the book on a table, and stalked out of the shop, his wife and daughter right behind him.

Miss Jones looked at Stephen with dismay. “Sir Ned and Lady Hartley are awful.”

“Yes, they are.”

She didn’t even seem to hear him agree with her, which was a rarity she should enjoy. But now that everyone had left, she was like a balloon with no air. In their short, fiery acquaintance, Stephen had never seen her so despondent.

He didn’t like seeing her this way. She was far too appealing to sink so low.

“I think it’s best you go now, Captain,” she said quietly.

He felt guilt slap into him like whitecaps on the side of a dinghy. “You may not want to masquerade as the object of my affections,” he said, “but you certainly got some enjoyment out of the charade a moment ago. So why are you upset now?”

She took out that damned dusting cloth and began to wipe it over a tabletop. “Because this deception of yours was thrust upon me. It’s a waste of my valuable time, and I regret allowing you to interfere with the running of Hodgepodge.”

“Miss Jones, forgive me for noticing,” he said gently, “but it’s not as if you’re bombarded with customers.”

She wheeled on him. “I know that. But I’d rather spend time on my priorities than on yours. I couldn’t care less if Sir Ned and Lady Hartley attempt to snag you as their daughter’s husband. But I do care about making my bookstore a thriving business. And—”

“And what?”

She bit her lip. “It’s highly improper, our arrangement. What if—”

“What if what?”

She shook her head. “Never mind.”

Gently, he took her arm. “Are you worried I might take advantage of you? Perhaps even kiss you?”

He could see her swallow. “Would you?” she whispered, and looked up at him.

A taut silence stretched between them.

“No.” He did want to kiss her, of course. “I would do nothing without your permission.”

She nodded, apparently relieved, which was a new circumstance for him. Most women craved his kisses.

“Let’s look on the bright side,” he said. “Perhaps we could both work to increase your business. Helping Hodgepodge thrive would help me, as well.”

Her face brightened. “How?”

“I could do some chores for you. My houseguests will see I’m here … which will confirm their belief that I’m pursuing you.”

He thought about his beam that needed fixing. It would have to wait another day or two, maybe even a week, before he could get back to it.

Miss Jones appeared to consider the idea. “I can’t think of anything I need, except—”

She closed her mouth again.

“What?” he asked her.

“It doesn’t matter. I need some carpentry work. But I’ve no supplies and won’t be able to afford any for a while.”

“I’ve got a shed full of tools and whatnot. What did you require exactly?”

He saw a spark of hope flare in her eye. “A window ledge,” she said. “I want to put books in the window for passersby to look at.”

“And a cat,” he added. “Everyone will want to come in and pet it.”

“Yes. I love cats.” She was leaning on the counter, looking out onto the street. He thought she looked quite enchanting, the way she spun a tendril of sooty hair wistfully around her finger and smiled at the thought of a cat. “I haven’t had one in several years.”

“Why not?”

“Oh.” She sat up. “No reason.”

Funny. Her eyes were shadowed, as if she’d said something wrong.

He decided to ignore the awkward moment. “There’s a stack of planks in the shed, too,” he said. “I don’t know how old they are. They might all be rotten. But I’ll look about and see what I can produce to help you.”

“Thank you,” she said, casting her eyes down.

A strange awkwardness descended upon them.

“You’re welcome.” He dragged his hand across the counter and patted it once. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” she said quietly.

Stephen was shocked to discover he wasn’t dreading the prospect.