Where's My Hero?

by Lisa Kleypas

  “You’re not Dr. Linley,” Lydia had said.

  “Yes, I am.” He’d extended his hand to her, still smiling. “Dr. Jake Linley. My father sent me in his stead, as he is deep in a glass of port and didn’t fancy walking down the hill.”

  Lydia’s fingers had been enclosed in a firm clasp that had sent a pleasant ripple of sensation along her arm. Good Lord, she had heard tales of the old doctor’s dashing eldest son, but she had never met him before. “You’re the one with the wicked reputation,” she’d said.

  Releasing her hand, he’d regarded her with laughing eyes. “I hope you’re not the kind to hold a man’s reputation against him.”

  “Not at all,” she’d told him. “Men of ill repute are usually much more interesting than the respectable ones.”

  His gaze had slid over her in a quick but thorough investigation, starting at the tumble of her wavy black hair, and ending at the protrusion of her toes from the frothy mass of her white ruffled skirts. One corner of his mouth had lifted in a coaxing half-smile. “Your brother said you’d hurt your leg. May I have a look?”

  Suddenly Lydia’s mouth had gone dry. She had never been so unnerved by anyone in her life. Her chin had dipped in a shallow nod, and she’d held very still as Jake Linley had grasped the hem of her skirt and eased it upward a few inches. His expression had become businesslike, his manner impersonal, but all the same she’d felt her heart begin to clatter madly in her chest. She’d glanced at his downbent head, while sunlight had spindled through the maple leaves and caused his hair to glitter with every shade from gold to dark amber. His large, gentle hands moved over her leg.

  “Just a mild sprain,” he’d said. “I would advise you to stay off it for the next couple of days.”

  “All right,” she’d replied breathlessly.

  Deftly he’d bound the swollen ankle with a linen napkin purloined from a nearby picnic basket. “My bag is in the house,” he’d murmured. “If you will allow me to carry you inside, I’ll bind your ankle properly and apply some ice…and give you something for the pain, if you like.”

  Lydia had responded with a jerky nod. “I’m sorry to be such trouble.” She had gasped as he’d lifted her carefully against his chest. His body had been hard and muscular, his shoulders sturdy beneath her hands.

  “Not at all,” he had replied cheerfully, adjusting his arms around her. “Rescuing injured damsels is my favorite pastime.”

  To Lydia’s everlasting chagrin, that first encounter with Jake Linley had started a wild infatuation that had lasted approximately four hours. Later in the day she’d happened to overhear a snippet of conversation between him and another male guest at the weekend party.

  “Damn, Linley,” the guest had remarked, “now I see why you became a doctor. You’ve managed to get under the skirts of every attractive woman in London, including Craven’s daughter.”

  “Only in a professional sense,” had come Linley’s sardonic reply. “And I assure you, I have absolutely no interest in Miss Craven.”

  The comment had hurt and mortified Lydia, deflating her romantic imaginings with unpleasant abruptness. From then on, Lydia had treated Linley with coldness whenever they’d met. Through the years, their mutual antipathy had increased until they couldn’t be in the same room together without launching into an argument that caused everyone else to scurry for cover. Lydia had tried to be indifferent to him, but something about him provoked her to the depths of her soul. When she was with him, she found herself saying things she didn’t mean, and brooding about their fractious encounters long after they had parted company. During one of their battles, Linley had given her the infuriating nickname of “Lydia Logarithms,” which family and friends still occasionally used to tease her.

  And now he had tried to thwart her betrothal to Wray.

  Hurt and furious, Lydia thought once again of the night her betrothal had been announced…the astonishing moment when Linley had kissed her, and her own mortifying response to him. If his actions had been designed to mock and confuse her, he had succeeded brilliantly.

  Bringing her thoughts back to the present, Lydia decided that she could not bear another moment of the inane chatter that surrounded her. She stood on her toes and whispered to her fiancé. “My lord, my head has begun to ache, and I want to find a quiet place to sit.”

  The earl regarded her with a concerned gaze. “I will accompany you.”

  “No,” she said hastily, “there is no need for that. I’ll go to a private corner somewhere. I would prefer you to remain with our friends. I’ll return in a little while, when I am feeling better.”

  “Very well.” A teasing glint entered Wray’s blue eyes. “I half suspect that my dear Miss Lydia Logarithms is going to sneak away to puzzle over some mathematical formula.”

  “My lord,” she protested, scowling at his use of the hated nickname.

  He chuckled. “I beg your pardon, my sweet. I shouldn’t tease you like that. Are you certain that you don’t want company?”

  “Yes, quite certain.” Lydia gave him a forgiving smile and left him with a promise to come back soon.

  As she made her way out of the crowded ballroom, it was all Lydia could do to keep from running. The air was thick with the smells of flowers, perfume, sweat and wine, and the endless hum of chatter made her ears ring. She had never wanted to be alone as much as she did in this moment. If only she could reach the privacy of her bedroom…but there was no way to get there without going through a gauntlet of people who would insist on stopping her for mind-numbing conversation. Spying her mother, who was standing with friends near the French doors that led to the outside gardens, Lydia went to her at once.

  “Mama,” she said, “it’s stuffy in here, and my head hurts. Would you mind terribly if I disappeared for a little while?”

  Sara stared at her with concern and slid a slender, gloved arm around her waist. “You do look rather flushed. Shall I send a servant to fetch you a headache powder from the house-keeper’s closet?”

  “No, thank you.” Lydia smiled as her mother removed a glove and pressed a cool, soft hand against the side of her face. “I’m fine, Mama. I’m just…oh, I don’t know. Tired, I suppose.”

  Sara regarded her with a gently perceptive gaze, sensing Lydia’s frustration. “Has something happened, darling?”

  “Not really, but…” Lydia tugged her mother aside and glowered as she whispered back to her. “Lord Wray just told me that Jake Linley advised him not to marry me! Can you conceive of such arrogance? I’d like to bludgeon him with the nearest heavy object, the intolerable, petty, selfish cad…”

  “What reason did Dr. Linley give for his objection to the match?”

  “I don’t know.” Lydia let out an explosive sigh. “No doubt Linley thinks that I’m beneath Wray, and that he could do far better than me.”

  “Hmmm. That doesn’t sound like him.” Sara stroked Lydia’s back soothingly. “Take a long breath, darling. Yes, that’s better. Now, there is no reason for Dr. Linley’s opinion to distress you, as it seems to have had no effect on Lord Wray’s desire to marry you.”

  “Well, it does distress me,” Lydia muttered. “In fact, it makes me want to smash something. How could Linley have done something like this?” To her disgust, she heard a note of dejection in her own voice as she added, “I’ve never understood why he dislikes me so.”

  “I don’t believe that is the case at all,” Sara replied, giving her a comforting squeeze. “In fact, I think I may know the reason for Dr. Linley’s opposition to your betrothal. You see, I was speaking to his mother just the other day when we happened to meet at the milliner’s, and she confided to me that he—”

  Sara broke off as she saw a new arrival in the ballroom. “Oh, the Raifords have arrived,” she exclaimed. “Their daughter Nicole had her second child just a fortnight ago, and I must ask about her. We’ll talk later, darling.”

  “But Mama, you have to tell me…” Lydia began, as her mother sailed away toward her
friends.

  The evening was becoming more aggravating by the minute.

  What in God’s name had Linley’s mother said about him? Filled with frustration, Lydia went to the French doors and slipped outside. Without hesitation, she headed to the one place where she knew she could be alone—the estate wine cellar.

  All through her childhood, the wine cellar had been her favorite retreat. She and her younger brothers had always been fascinated by the large underground room with three chambers, each filled with hundreds of racks of amber and green bottles papered with foreign labels. It was reputed to be one of the finest collections in England, stocked with an extravagant variety of rare and expensive champagnes, brandies, ports, sherries, burgundies, clarets and cordials.

  In the farthest chamber, a bench, a cupboard and small table served as a place to uncork bottles and sample their contents. Lydia remembered countless games in which she and the rest of the Craven brood had played pirates, spies, or hide-and-seek in the shadowy recesses of the cellar. On occasion, she had sat at the wine table and worked out some mathematical puzzle, relishing the silence and the fragrance of aged wood and spice and wax.

  Opening a heavy wood door, she headed down a short flight of stone steps. Lamps had been left burning to accommodate the under-butler’s frequent trips to the cellar to obtain wine for the guests. After the hubbub upstairs, the blessed quietness of the cellar was an unspeakable relief. Lydia sighed deeply and began to relax. With a rueful smile, she reached up to rub the taut nape of her neck. Perhaps she was finally experiencing bridal jitters, after worrying for days that she didn’t have them.

  A quiet voice disrupted the shadowy serenity of the cellar.

  “Miss Craven?”

  Looking up with a start, Lydia beheld the man she least wanted to see. Ever.

  “Linley,” she said grimly, dropping her hand to her side. “What are you doing here?”

  Chapter 3

  In the musty, densely shadowed atmosphere, Jake Linley’s tawny, sunlit coloring was even more striking than usual. Somehow it did not seem appropriate for him to be underground, even for a temporary visit to a wine cellar. Even though he was her adversary, Lydia had to acknowledge that he was one of the most attractive men she had ever met. Linley was not much older than Wray, but he was infinitely more seasoned. His worldliness was all the more apparent because of the way he tried to conceal it with irreverent lightness. Seeing the ironic flash of his smile, and the loose, easy grace of his movements, one could easily be deceived by his devil-may-care charm. But his eyes betrayed him. The light gray depths were filled with the weariness of a man who had seen and experienced far too much and had never quite found a way to escape the painful realities that his profession occasionally forced on him.

  “Your father gave me leave to have a look down here,” he said.

  That was hardly unusual. Lydia was well accustomed to the interest that visitors took in her father’s renowned wine collection. However, it was a singular stroke of bad luck that Linley should be perusing the racks at the same time that she had come here in search of privacy.

  “Have you seen enough?” Lydia asked, not without an inward wince at her own rudeness. Her mother had raised all the Cravens with inviolable standards of politeness. However, Jake Linley’s presence was too much for her to endure. “Because I would like to be alone.”

  His head tilted slightly as he fixed her with an intent stare. “Are you feeling unwell?” he asked. “If so—”

  Lydia interrupted with a scornful sound. “Please don’t bother to display any concern for my welfare. I know better.”

  Jake Linley approached her slowly, coming to stand in a pool of subdued lamplight. How unfair it was for a man to be so perfidious and yet so handsome. He wore the austere scheme of formal black-and-white, with a gray silk necktie that flattered his translucent eyes. The perfectly fitted clothes hung elegantly on his lean, powerful frame, but as always, he seemed just the slightest bit disheveled, as if he had been stretching and tugging irritably at the confining garments. The subtle signs of disarray practically begged a woman to neaten his necktie and straighten his waistcoat, the intimate gestures that a wife would make toward her husband.

  “Why do you think my concern is false?” he asked.

  Resentment—and some even more painful, unidentifiable emotion—caused tight knots to form in Lydia’s stomach. “Because I know how you tried to convince Lord Wray that I wasn’t good enough for him, and thereby prevent him from proposing to me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Is that what he told you?”

  “Not in those exact words. But you did advise him not to marry me, and for that I will never forgive you.”

  Linley sighed somewhat grimly and stared at the ancient stone-flagged floor. He seemed to be contemplating some complex problem that had no answer, much as Lydia had felt the first time she had realized that a negative number could have no square root.

  “You’re right,” he admitted flatly. “I did advise Wray not to marry you.”

  “Why?”

  “Does it matter now? Wray disregarded my counsel, you accepted his troth, and the matter will be concluded in about thirty-eight hours.”

  Lydia regarded him with sudden sharp interest. “Counting down the hours, are you?”

  At that undirected shot, Linley actually backed away a step. His eyes glinted warily, as if she had struck too close to a vital secret. “I will leave you to your privacy, Miss Craven. My apologies for disrupting your solitude.”

  He turned and left, while Lydia glared after him. “You’ll apologize for that, but not for what you said to Lord Wray?”

  He paused momentarily. “That’s right,” he said without looking at her, and ascended the steps.

  Lydia strode to the farthest chamber and plunked herself onto the creaking wooden chair. Slamming her silk purse on the table, she let out a frustrated groan and dropped her head in her hands. A soon-to-be bride should not feel this way, confounded and agitated and angry. She should be happy. Her head should be filled with dreams. In all the novels that she had read, a girl’s wedding day was the most wonderful occasion of her life. If that was true, then she was once again out of step with everyone else, because she wasn’t looking forward to it at all.

  She’d always wanted so badly to be like everyone else. She had always tried to emulate her friends and pretend interest in dolls and indoor games, when she had infinitely preferred to climb trees and play army with her brothers. Later, when her female cousins had been absorbed in fashion, romantic intrigue and other girlish amusements, Lydia had been drawn into the fascinating world of mathematics and science. No matter how much her family loved and protected her, they could not shield her from the snide rumors and whispered asides, implying that she was unfeminine, unconventional…peculiar.

  Now she had finally found a man who was universally regarded as a splendid catch, and he even shared her interests. When she married Lord Wray, she would finally belong. She would be part of the crowd, instead of standing apart from it. And that would be a relief.

  Why, then, wasn’t she happy?

  Lydia rubbed her aching temples as she worried silently. She needed to talk to someone who was wise and understanding and could help clear away the inexplicable pangs of disappointment and longing that Jake Linley caused. Her father. The thought soothed her immediately. Yes, she would find her father later tonight. She had always been able to tell him anything, and his advice, though bluntly worded, was always reliable.

  Feeling marginally better, she pulled a wad of paper and a pencil from her purse and arranged them on the table. Just as she began to write a long string of numbers on a scrap of paper that had already been blackened with previous scribbling, she heard the sound of footsteps.

  Scowling, she looked up and beheld Linley’s set face. “Why are you still here?”

  “It’s locked,” he said curtly.

  “The outside door? But that’s not possible. It would have to have been barre
d from the outside.”

  “Well, it has. I put all my weight on it, and the damned thing wouldn’t budge.”

  “There’s another door in the second chamber, that leads up to the butler’s pantry,” Lydia informed him. “You can leave that way.”

  “I’ve already tried that. It’s locked as well.”

  Frowning, Lydia propped her chin on her hand. “Who would have barred the outside door, and why? It must have been an accident. No one would have reason to lock us in here together…unless…”

  “Unless?”

  “It could have been Eugenia King,” Lydia said wrathfully. “She’s wanted revenge on me ever since I managed to catch Lord Wray, when she had set her cap for him. Oh, she would love to cause a scandal by contriving to have me compromised by a libertine like you, not two days before my wedding.” As another thought occurred to her, she shot him a slitted glance. “Or perhaps you arranged for this. It could be part of your plan to thwart my wedding to Wray.”

  “For God’s sake,” he said irritably, “I was in the cellar first, remember? I had no idea you were going to appear. And I don’t care whether you marry the earl or not. I only gave my opinion when he asked for it.”

  Dropping the pencil to the table, Lydia turned in the chair to face him. Her indignation boiled over as she replied, “Apparently you gave it with great enthusiasm. No doubt you were all too happy for the opportunity to make derogatory remarks about me.”

  “I didn’t make derogatory remarks about you. I only said—” Linley closed his mouth abruptly.

  “What?” Lydia prompted, clenching her fist against the scarred surface of the table.