Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

When Jilly woke the next morning, the first thought she had was of Stephen, of course. But the second wasn’t of Hector.

It was about the fair. She wondered if Alicia Fotherington had felt the same way when she’d woken up on street fair mornings—excited, happy.

Jilly hopped out of bed and went through her morning ablutions as fast as she could. She still felt a pleasant ache between her legs where Stephen had left his imprint upon her and wished she could keep that feeling forever.

But she couldn’t. This she knew.

She was married to Hector.

Oh, if only her husband never had to intrude upon her thoughts! He was like a pesky fly buzzing around a picnic. No, make that a bee, she thought, a bee which could sting and cause the picnic-goers to scatter, their food and drink untouched.

Yes, Hector was a bee, an angry, buzzing bee, too. When he’d returned yesterday afternoon from wherever he’d gone, he’d been in a sour mood. Which wasn’t unusual, but he seemed particularly agitated about something.

When she’d asked, he’d refused to divulge the source of his ill temper.

All afternoon, Jilly had hoped he’d become more pleasant. She’d be able to manage him better then, she supposed.

But he never did. And then she remembered, he was in a perpetual foul mood. Perhaps she’d simply been away from him too long to remember how pervasive it was.

Meanwhile, stepping around his temper as best she could, she racked her brains to find a way to go to the street fair and hoped that somehow, a golden apple of opportunity would fall in her lap.

But nothing had happened. No special sign that Fate was on her side had appeared.

At dinner that evening, Hector had sawn through his roast beef with the same grim expression on his face he’d worn all day.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you’d like to share with me?” Jilly had paused in her own sawing—the cook at the residence wasn’t particularly adept.

“No.” Hector lowered his brows. “And I’d appreciate it if you’d mind your own business.”

“Oh,” she said, used to being insulted by him but shocked that he’d uttered a word as nice as appreciate. “Sorry.” And popped an overcooked carrot in her mouth.

Her husband threw down his fork. “You seem particularly cheerful for a woman who’s had to spend all day inside.”

And who has to eat this awful meal with a cad, she added silently.

She shrugged, instantly regretting letting her happy state of mind show—not that she was truly happy because no matter what, she was Hector’s wife and would remain so. But she’d had a taste of happiness, all the same, with Stephen.

In her own bed, too.

“I’m simply trying to do my best to be a good wife,” she said, vowing not to allow the maid to wash her sheets for at least another few days.

Hector wrinkled his brow. “Why the change of heart?”

She lifted her wine glass to her lips in a bid for time to think. “Because I’m resigned to my fate,” she said eventually. “We’re married. We might as well make the best of it.”

He produced a small, triumphant smile. “That’s better. You keep thinking that way and I’ll eventually let you leave the house. Not this one, mind you.” He raised a serviette to his lips and wiped them. “But when we’re back at the village.”

She let her face fall in dramatic fashion. “Are there to be no outings, then, for me in London?”

She knew his mood would soften if he saw her tormented.

And he did appear to relax a bit. He leaned back in his chair and studied her as if she were some great scientific experiment he’d invested no feelings in. “Exactly,” he said. “You shall stay inside.”

“Will you stay with me?” She did her best to sound the perfect balance of subservient and not overly so—or he’d guess she was up to something.

He gave a short laugh. “I’m afraid not. I’ve business every day that we’re in London.”

“How long will that be, do you think?” she asked lightly, as if she really didn’t care.

“I told you, the rest of the Season,” he replied equably, “but if my business concludes sooner, we’ll depart.”

“Oh?” She tried to look halfway dainty when she asked. He loved when she was dainty, meek, weak, or mewling.

“It could be as soon as next week,” he said.

She laid a hand on her chest. “Next week?”

He nodded. “Why does it matter?”

She shrugged again. “It really doesn’t. I was simply—” She hesitated and then shook her head. “Never mind. It’s not important.”

“What?” His tone was short, threatening.

She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I was hoping…”

“Yes?” he asked, his face reddening.

She looked down at her plate and blinked. “I was hoping,” she said softly to her plate, “that I could go out and purchase you a present.”

He slammed his goblet on the table. “A present?” He looked perfectly gobsmacked.

She nodded quickly. “It’s all right,” she said. “It can wait.”

He shook his head. “Why would you get me a present?”

“I told you,” she said patiently, “I’m trying. If we’re to be married, we may as well be on good terms.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t believe you.”

Which was exactly what she’d feared.

But she knew what to do.

“Very well,” she said, and stood. “I won’t purchase this present. Forget I ever mentioned it.”

“Tell me what is,” he demanded, loosening his cravat as if preparing for a fight. “And sit—back—down.”

Trembling (she was discovering she could be a very good actress when she had a lot at stake), she sat. Then she raised her chin and looked at a point on the wall behind him, as if she were very, very shy.

“It’s a private gift,” she whispered.

“Oh?” An edge entered his voice, the worst kind of edge. The one that meant he was thinking of the bedchamber.

“Yes,” she said, “something for which you’ve been longing.” She clenched her fingers in her lap.

He gave a little laugh. Really, almost a giggle. She had to restrain herself from flinching at the sound.

“Tell me,” he said slowly and leered at her.

“If I do, then it’s no longer a surprise,” she said almost coyly.

“Tell me!” he barked.

She ran a finger over the tablecloth, slowly, thoughtfully, and then she looked up at him. “It’s a whip,” she said. “With our initials engraved—entwined, actually—on the handle.”

There was utter silence.

And then Hector leaned back in his chair and laughed. He laughed until he cried, and she sat there and watched, hoping, hoping …

When he was finished, he looked up at her. “Go get your little whip,” he said, wiping at his eyes. “I want you to present it to me on your hands and knees.”

He continued chuckling, but she knew he was serious—perfectly serious.

She stood again, pretended that her dignity had been wounded.

“You’ll take a stable boy with you,” he said.

There was no lady’s maid, of course. He’d not seen to her comfort in the least.

“The big one,” he went on, still amused. “His name is Jared, and if you make one false move, I’ll tell him to pick you up and throw you over his shoulder. And you’ll not like what I let him do to you—in front of me—when he gets you home.”

Jilly felt a wave of revulsion sweep through her and almost buckle her knees.

“I understand,” she said quietly. “May I go now?”

“Yes,” he said. “Get a good night’s rest. Tomorrow night we’ll christen your little gift. Although it might have to wait. I might be gone for a day or two. I haven’t decided.”

“Really?” She tried to look terribly disappointed.

“Yes. But remember what I said.” He wagged a finger at her. “One wrong move, and Jared is going to be a very lucky man.”

She turned then and walked out, her relief at being able to escape her husband for the day fortunately greater than her disgust, which was profound.

And now, as she bounded down the stairs the next morning, she vowed that she’d let nothing Hector could do to her get in her way. Somehow, she’d rid herself of Jared. He didn’t appear very bright, and even if he were, she was brighter.

She’d spend her day at the fair. With Stephen.

On her beloved Dreare Street.