Where's My Hero?

by Lisa Kleypas

  If he’d been in charge of the details, he would have done away with all this prenuptial nonsense and merely shown up before the vicar at the appointed time and place, but no one had seen fit to ask his opinion, although to be fair, he’d never given any indication that he cared one way or another.

  And in truth, it hadn’t even occurred to him until this week—this astoundingly, no, hellishly, long week—that he did care.

  But everyone else looked to be having a jolly time, which he supposed was a good thing, since as far as he knew, he was paying for all of this. He sighed, vaguely recalling some conversation during which he’d said some nonsense along the lines of, “Of course Lydia must have the wedding of her dreams.”

  He looked down at the three strawberries on his plate. There had been five when he’d begun, and the two presently in his stomach constituted his entire supper for the evening.

  Most expensive damned strawberries he’d ever consumed.

  It wasn’t that he could ill afford the festivities; he had funds to spare and wouldn’t want to begrudge any girl the wedding of her dreams. The problem, of course, was that the girl getting the wedding of her dreams had turned out not to be the girl of his dreams, and it was only now—when it was far too late to do anything about it—that he was coming to realize that made a difference.

  And the saddest part was he hadn’t even realized that he’d had dreams. It hadn’t occurred to him that he might really enjoy a grand love affair and romantic marriage until right now, which was, if one had no reason to doubt the clock in the corner, approximately twelve hours before he hauled himself into a church and ensured that he would have neither.

  He leaned against the wall, feeling far more tired than a man of his age ever ought. How soon, he wondered, could he leave the festivities without being rude?

  Although, truth be told, no one seemed to be noticing him. The partygoers appeared to be enjoying themselves quite handily without sparing any attention for the groom. Or, for that matter, Ned realized as he scanned the room in surprise, the bride.

  Where was Lydia?

  He frowned, then shrugged, deciding it didn’t signify. He’d spoken with her earlier, when they’d performed their obligatory waltz, and she’d been pleasant enough, if a trifle distracted. Since then, he’d spotted her across the crowd from time to time, chatting with the guests. She was probably off in the ladies’ retiring room, mending her hem or pinching her cheeks or doing whatever it was ladies did when they thought no one was looking.

  And they always seemed to leave the party in pairs. Charlotte had gone quite missing as well, and he’d have bet three strawberries (which, in the context of the evening, was no small sum indeed) that she’d been dragged off by Lydia.

  Why this irritated him so much, he didn’t know.

  “Ned!”

  He stood up straight and pasted a smile on his face, then decided he didn’t need to bother. It was his sister, squirming her way through the crowds, pulling their cousin Emma behind her.

  “What are you doing over here alone?” Belle asked once she’d reached his side.

  “Enjoying my own company.”

  He hadn’t meant it as an insult, but Belle must have taken it as such, because she pulled a face. “Where is Lydia?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” he said quite honestly. “Probably with Charlotte.”

  “Charlotte?”

  “Her sister.”

  “I know who Charlotte is,” she said peevishly. “I was simply surprised that you—” She shook her head. “Never mind.”

  Just then Emma poked her way into the conversation, belly-first. “Are you going to eat those strawberries?” she asked.

  Ned held out the plate. “Help yourself.”

  She thanked him and plucked one off the dish. “Hungry all the time these days,” she commented. “Except, of course, when I’m not.”

  Ned just stared at her as if she were speaking ancient Greek, but Belle was nodding as if she understood perfectly.

  “I fill up quickly,” Emma said, taking pity on his ignorance. “It’s because—” She patted his arm. “You’ll understand soon enough.”

  Ned thought of Lydia heavy with his child, and it just seemed wrong.

  Then her face changed. Not very much, since it didn’t have to change much. The eyes were the same, after all, and probably the nose as well, although definitely not the mouth….

  Ned sagged back against the wall, feeling suddenly quite ill. The face hovering over the pregnant body in his mind was Charlotte’s, and she didn’t seem wrong at all.

  “I have to go,” he blurted out.

  “So soon?” Belle queried. “It’s barely nine.”

  “I have a big day tomorrow,” he grunted, which was true enough.

  “Well, I suppose you might as well,” his sister said. “Lydia’s gone off, and what’s good for the goose and all that.”

  He nodded. “If anyone asks…”

  “Don’t worry about a thing,” Belle assured him. “I’ll make excellent excuses.”

  Emma nodded her agreement.

  “Oh, and Ned,” Belle said, her voice just soft enough to catch his full attention.

  He looked over at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

  It was the sweetest—and the most awful—thing she could have said. But he nodded anyway, because she was his sister and he loved her. Then he slipped out the French doors to the patio, intending to make his way around the house and back in the side door, from which he was hoping he could make it back up to his room without running into anyone desiring a conversation.

  And then, of course—he looked down and realized he was still holding his plate—he could eat another few thousand pounds’ worth of strawberries.

  “You have to go back, Lydia!”

  Lydia gave her head a frantic shake as she thrust another pair of shoes into her valise, not even bothering to look at Charlotte as she said, “I can’t. I don’t have time.”

  “You’re not meant to meet Rupert until two,” Charlotte said. “That’s five hours from now.”

  Lydia looked up, horrified. “That’s all?”

  Charlotte looked at Lydia’s two bags. They weren’t small, but they couldn’t possibly require five hours to fill. She decided to try another tack. “Lydia,” she said, doing her best to sound exceptionally reasonable, “it is your party downstairs. You will be missed.” And then, when Lydia did nothing but hold up two sets of unmentionables, clearly weighing one against the other, she repeated herself. “Lydia,” Charlotte said, probably more loudly than she ought, “are you listening to me? You will be missed.”

  Lydia shrugged. “You go back, then.”

  “I am not the bride,” Charlotte pointed out, jumping in front of her sister.

  Lydia looked at her, then back at her unmentionables. “The lavender or the pink?”

  “Lydia…”

  “Which one?”

  Charlotte wasn’t sure why—maybe it was the sheer farce of the moment—but she actually looked. “Where did you get those?” she asked, thinking of her own all-white repertoire of underthings.

  “From my trousseau.”

  “For your marriage with the viscount?” Charlotte asked in horror.

  “Of course,” Lydia said, deciding on the lavender and tossing it in her valise.

  “Lydia, that’s sick!”

  “No, it’s not,” Lydia said, giving Charlotte her full attention for the first time since they’d stolen into her room. “It’s practical. And if I’m going to marry Rupert, I can’t afford not to be.”

  Charlotte’s lips parted with surprise. Until that moment, she hadn’t really thought that Lydia understood just what she was getting herself into by marrying a spendthrift like Rupert.

  “I’m not as flighty as you think I am,” Lydia said, embarrassing Charlotte by reading her thoughts exactly.

  Charlotte was silent for several moments, then, her soft words holding an unspoken apo
logy, she said, “I like the pink.”

  “Do you?” Lydia said with a smile. “I do, too. I think I’ll bring both.”

  Charlotte swallowed uncomfortably as she watched her sister pack. “You should try to slip back to the party for a few minutes, at least,” she said.

  Lydia nodded. “You’re probably right. I’ll return once I finish here.”

  Charlotte walked to the door. “I’m going back now. If someone asks about you, I’ll…” She moved her hands helplessly through the air as she tried to figure out what she was supposed to say. “Well, I’ll make something up.”

  “Thank you,” Lydia said.

  Charlotte did nothing but nod, feeling too off balance from the encounter to say anything more. She slipped quietly from the room, shutting the door behind her before scurrying down the hall to the stairs. She was not looking forward to this; she supposed she was a good enough liar when she had to be, but she hated doing it, and most of all, she hated doing it to the viscount.

  It all would have been so much easier if he hadn’t been so nice.

  Nice. Somehow that made her smile. He would hate being called that. Dashing, maybe. Dangerous, definitely. And devilish also seemed rather appropriate.

  But whether the viscount liked it or not, he was a nice man, and he was good and true, and he certainly didn’t deserve the fate Lydia had in store for him.

  Lydia and…

  Charlotte stopped on the landing and closed her eyes, pausing while she waited for a wave of guilt-induced nausea to pass. She didn’t want to think about her own part in this upcoming fiasco. Not yet, at least. She needed to focus, to concentrate on getting her sister safely on her way.

  And then she could do right by the viscount—find him and warn him so that he would not…

  Charlotte shuddered, imagining the scene in the church. She couldn’t let that happen. She wouldn’t. She—

  “Charlotte?”

  Her eyes flew open. “My lord!” she croaked, unable to believe that he was standing before her. She hadn’t wanted to see him until it was done, hadn’t wanted to speak with him. She wasn’t certain her conscience could take it.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, breaking her heart with the concern in his voice.

  “I’m fine,” she said, swallowing until she was able to manage a wobbly smile. “Just a little…overwhelmed.”

  His lips twisted dryly. “You should try being one of the prospective spouses.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I’m sure. It must be very difficult. I mean, of course it shouldn’t be difficult, but…well…” She wondered if she had ever uttered a less meaningful sentence. “I’m sure it’s difficult nonetheless.”

  He stared at her oddly, intensely enough to make her squirm, then murmured, “You have no idea.” He held up the small plate in his hand. “Strawberry?”

  She shook her head; her stomach was far too unsettled to even consider filling it. “Where are you going?” she asked, mostly because the ensuing silence seemed to ask for it.

  “Upstairs. Lydia left, and—”

  “She’s nervous, too,” Charlotte blurted out. Surely he didn’t mean to visit Lydia in her room. It would be beyond improper, but even worse, he’d catch her packing. “She went to lie down,” she said quickly, “but she promised me she would go back to the party soon.”

  He shrugged. “She should do as she likes. We’ve a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and if she wants rest, she should get it.”

  Charlotte nodded, slowly exhaling as she realized that he’d never intended to seek out Lydia.

  And then she made the biggest mistake of her life.

  She looked up.

  It was strange, because it was dark, with just one flickering sconce behind her, and she oughtn’t to have been able to see the color of his eyes. But as she looked at him, her gaze caught by his, they glowed so hot, so blue, and if the entire house had started to fall down around them…

  She didn’t think she could have looked away.

  * * *

  Ned had been sneaking up the side staircase with the express purpose of avoiding all human contact, but when he’d seen Charlotte Thornton on the landing, something had clicked into place inside of him, and he’d realized that all human contact simply didn’t include her.

  It hadn’t been as he’d feared it might be, that he’d wanted her, although every time he allowed his gaze to slip down to her lips he felt something clench in his gut that should never, ever clench in the company of one’s sister-in-law.

  It was more that when he’d seen her, just standing there with her eyes closed, she’d seemed a lifeline, a stable anchor in a world tipping drunkenly around him. If he’d somehow been able to touch her, just take her hand, everything would be all right.

  “Do you want to dance?” he asked, the words surprising him even as they left his lips.

  He saw the surprise in her eyes, heard it in the soft rush of her breath before she echoed the question, “Dance?”

  “Have you?” he asked, quite certain he was leading himself down a very dangerous road but quite unable to do anything about it. “Danced, I mean. There wasn’t much of it this evening, and I didn’t see you on the floor.”

  She shook her head. “Mother has had me busy,” she explained, but she sounded distracted, as if her words had absolutely nothing to do with what was going on in her brain. “Party details and all that.”

  He nodded. “You should dance,” he said, really meaning, You should dance with me.

  He set his plate down on a nearby stair, murmuring, “What’s the point of turning your ankle if you don’t have fun with it once it’s healed?”

  She said nothing, just stood there staring at him, not as if he were a madman, although he was quite certain he was that, at least for this evening. She just stared at him, as if she couldn’t quite believe her eyes, or maybe her ears, or maybe just the moment.

  Music was drifting up from below; the staircase was twisted in such a way that no one could have seen them on the small landing from either below or above.

  “You should dance,” he said again, and then, proving that one of them still had a sane thought in their brain, Charlotte shook her head.

  “No,” she said, “I should go.”

  His hand fell to his side, and it was only then that he realized he’d lifted it with every intention of placing it at the small of her back for a waltz.

  “Mother will be looking for me,” she said. “And then I should check on Lydia.”

  He nodded.

  “And then I should—” She looked up at him…just for a moment. Just one single fraction of a second, but it was long enough for their eyes to meet before she pulled away.

  “But I shouldn’t dance,” she said.

  And they both knew she meant, I shouldn’t dance with you.

  Chapter 5

  Later that night, as Ned was finding solace in a glass of brandy and the quiet of Hugh Thornton’s sparsely filled library, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was about to step off a bridge.

  He’d known, of course, that he was entering into a loveless marriage. But he’d thought himself reconciled to the notion. It was only recently—only this week, in fact—that he’d come to realize that he was about to be miserable, or, at the very least, mildly discontent, for the rest of his life.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Maybe in another time, another place, a man could back out of a marriage mere hours before the ceremony, but not in 1824 and not in England.

  What had he been thinking? He didn’t love the woman he was about to marry, she didn’t love him, and quite frankly, he wasn’t even certain they knew each other.

  He hadn’t been aware, for example, that Lydia considered herself such an aficionado of poetry until Charlotte had told him so during the scavenger hunt (which they had, of course, won. What was the point of playing silly games, otherwise?).

  But wasn’t that the sort of thing a man ought to know about his w
ife? Especially if the man in question had made it a point not to include any volumes of poetry in his own library?

  And it made him wonder what else might be lurking behind Lydia Thornton’s pretty gray eyes. Did she like animals? Was she a reformer, given to charitable pursuits? Could she speak French? Play the pianoforte? Carry a tune?

  He didn’t know why these questions hadn’t plagued him before this night; it certainly seemed like they should have. Surely any sensible man would want to know more about his prospective bride than the color of her hair and eyes.

  As he sat in the darkness, pondering his life ahead, he couldn’t help but think that this was what Belle had been trying to tell him all these months.

  He sighed. Belle might be his sister, but, much as it pained him to admit it, that didn’t mean that she wasn’t occasionally right.

  He didn’t know Lydia Thornton.

  He didn’t know her, and he was going to marry her anyway.

  But, he thought with a sigh, as his eyes settled aimlessly on a stack of leather-bound books in the corner, that didn’t necessarily mean that his marriage would be a failure. Plenty of couples found love after marriage, didn’t they? Or if not love, contentment and friendship. Which was all, he had to allow, that he’d been aiming for in the first place.

  And it was, he realized, what he would have to learn to live with. Because he had gotten to know Lydia Thornton a little bit better this past week. Just enough to know that he would never love her, not the way a man ought to love his wife.

  And then there was Charlotte.

  Charlotte, at whom he probably would never have glanced twice in London. Charlotte, who made him laugh, with whom he could tell stupid jokes and not feel embarrassed.

  And, he reminded himself fiercely, who would be his sister in about seven or so hours.

  He looked down at the empty glass in his hand, wondering when he’d finished his drink. He was seriously considering pouring another when he heard a sound through the door.

  Funny, he’d thought everyone had gone to bed. It was—he glanced over at the clock on the mantel—nearly two in the morning. Before he’d left the party, he’d heard the Thorntons express their intentions to end the festivities at the unfashionable hour of eleven, stating their desire for all of the wedding guests to be well rested and refreshed for the Saturday morning ceremony.