Where's My Hero?

by Lisa Kleypas

  “Good morning, Charlotte,” he boomed. “Excellent day for a wedding, isn’t it?”

  “Er, yes,” she said, trying to smile but failing miserably.

  “Smart of you to come here to break your fast. Your mother’s got everyone else in the formal dining room, not that many of that lot is willing to rise from bed at this hour.”

  “Actually, I heard a few people milling about as I passed,” Charlotte said, not certain why she was even bothering to tell him this.

  “Hmmph,” he snorted dismissively. “As if a body could digest a proper plate of eggs amidst all that commotion.”

  “Father,” she said haltingly, “I need to tell you something.”

  He looked at her with raised brows.

  “Er, perhaps I should just show you this.” She held out the note Lydia had left for their parents, explaining what she had done.

  Then Charlotte took a healthy step back. Once her father read the contents of Lydia’s message, his roar would be deadly indeed.

  But when his eyes finished scanning the lines, all he did was whisper. “Did you know about this?”

  More than anything, Charlotte wanted to lie. But she couldn’t, and so she nodded.

  Mr. Thornton did not move for several seconds, the only proof of his anger his whitening knuckles as his fingers gripped the edge of the table.

  “The viscount is in the library,” she said, swallowing convulsively. Her father’s silence was far more fearsome than his bellows. “I think he would like to speak with you.”

  Mr. Thornton looked up. “He knows what she’s done?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  And then her father uttered several words that she had never imagined crossing his lips, including one or two that she had never even heard of. “We’re ruined now,” he hissed, once he was through cursing. “Ruined. And we have your sister—and you—to thank.”

  “Perhaps if you just see the viscount,” Charlotte said miserably. She had never been close to her father, but oh, how she had always craved his approval.

  Mr. Thornton rose abruptly and threw down his napkin. Charlotte scooted out of his way and then followed him down the hall, remaining a respectful three paces behind the entire way.

  But when her father reached his library, he turned to her and said, anger evident in his every word, “What do you think you’re doing here? You’ve done quite enough already. Go to your room immediately, and do not come out until I have given you my leave to do so.”

  “I think,” came a deep voice from down the hall, “that she should stay.”

  Charlotte looked up. Ned was descending the last few steps on the staircase, looking splendidly handsome in his wedding suit.

  Her father jabbed her in the ribs and hissed, “I thought you said he knew.”

  “He does.”

  “Then what the devil is he doing dressed like that?”

  Charlotte was saved from replying by Ned’s arrival. “Hugh,” he said, nodding at Mr. Thornton.

  “My lord,” her father replied, surprising her. She’d thought he used Ned’s given name. But maybe his nerves forced him to show more respect this morning.

  Ned motioned with his head toward the library. “Shall we?”

  Mr. Thornton stepped forward, but Ned cut him off smoothly. “Charlotte first.”

  Charlotte could tell that her father was dying of curiosity, but he held his counsel and instead stepped back and allowed her to pass. As she walked into the room, however, Ned leaned forward and murmured, “Interesting choice of dress.”

  Charlotte felt her skin redden. She had donned one of her ordinary morning dresses, not Lydia’s wedding gown, as he’d instructed.

  A moment later they were all in the library, with the door closed firmly behind them.

  “My lord,” Mr. Thornton began, “I must assure you, I had no idea—”

  “Enough,” Ned said, standing at the center of the room with remarkable self-possession. “I have no wish to discuss Lydia or her elopement with Marchbanks.”

  Mr. Thornton swallowed forcefully, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his fleshy neck. “You don’t?”

  “Naturally, I was angered by your daughter’s betrayal—”

  Which daughter? Charlotte wondered. He’d seemed far more angry with her last night than he’d been with Lydia.

  “—but it will not be difficult to set matters aright.”

  “Anything, my lord,” Mr. Thornton assured him. “Anything at all. If it is within my power—”

  “Good,” Ned said mildly. “Then, I’ll take her”—he motioned to Charlotte—“instead.”

  Mr. Thornton did nothing but blink. “Charlotte?” he finally asked.

  “Indeed. I have no doubt she will make a finer wife than Lydia would have done.”

  Mr. Thornton’s head snapped back and forth between his daughter and his other daughter’s fiancé several times before saying again, “Charlotte?”

  “Yes.”

  And that was enough to convince him. “She’s yours,” Mr. Thornton said emphatically. “Whenever you want her.”

  “Father!” Charlotte cried out. He was speaking of her as if she were nothing more than a sack of flour.

  “This morning will do,” Ned said. “I’ve arranged for a special license, and the church is already set up for a wedding.”

  “Wonderful, wonderful,” Mr. Thornton said, relief evident in his every nervous motion. “I have no objections, and the…er…settlements will remain the same?”

  Ned’s expression turned wry at Mr. Thornton’s eager glance, but all he said was, “Of course.”

  This time Mr. Thornton didn’t even bother to hide his relief. “Good, good. I—” He cut himself off as he turned to Charlotte. “What are you waiting for, girl? You need to get ready!”

  “Father, I—”

  “Not another word about it!” he boomed. “Begone with you!”

  “You might consider speaking to my future wife in more polite tones,” Ned said, his voice deadly quiet.

  Mr. Thornton turned to him and blinked in shock. “Of course,” he said. “She’s yours now, anyway. Whatever you want.”

  “I think,” Ned said, “that what I want is a few moments alone.”

  “Absolutely,” Mr. Thornton agreed, grabbing Charlotte’s wrist. “Come along. The viscount wants his privacy.”

  “Alone with Charlotte,” Ned edified.

  Mr. Thornton looked first to Ned, then to Charlotte, then back again. “I’m not certain that’s a wise idea.”

  Ned merely quirked a brow. “Many unwise ideas have been carried out recently, don’t you think? This, I should think, is the least unwise of the lot.”

  “Of course, of course,” Mr. Thornton mumbled, and he left the room.

  Ned watched his chosen bride as she watched her father’s departure. She felt helpless; he could see that on her face. And probably manipulated as well. But he refused to feel any guilt over that. He knew, in his heart, in his very bones, that marrying Charlotte Thornton was the absolute right thing to do. He regretted that he’d had to be so high-handed to achieve his goal, but Charlotte wasn’t exactly innocent in the recent turn of events, was she?

  He stepped forward and touched her cheek. “I’m sorry if you feel that this is all happening too fast,” he said softly.

  She said nothing.

  “I can assure you—”

  “He didn’t even ask me,” she said, her voice breaking.

  Ned slid his fingers to her chin and tipped her face up to his. He asked his question with his eyes.

  “My father,” she said, blinking against tears. “He didn’t even once ask me what I wanted. It was like I wasn’t even here.”

  Ned watched her face, watched as she tried so hard to remain strong and expressionless. He saw her courage and her strength of character, and he was suddenly overcome by the urge to make this right for her.

  Charlotte Thornton might be getting a rushed wedding that had been planned for h
er sister, but by God, she would receive a proposal that was hers alone.

  He sank down to one knee.

  “My lord?” she squeaked.

  “Charlotte,” he said, his voice rich with emotion and need, “I am humbly asking for your hand in marriage.”

  “Humbly?” she echoed, eyeing him doubtfully.

  He took her hand and brushed it softly against his lips. “If you do not say yes,” he said, “I shall spend my every last hour pining for you, dreaming of a better life, a perfect wife—”

  “You rhymed,” she said, laughing nervously.

  “Not on purpose, I assure you.”

  And then she smiled. Really smiled. Not that wide, radiant grin that had marked the beginning of his downfall, but something softer, shyer.

  But no less real.

  And as he watched her, his eyes never leaving her face, it all became clear.

  He loved her.

  He loved this woman, and God help him, he didn’t think he could live without her.

  “Marry me,” he said, and he didn’t try to hide his urgency or need.

  Her eyes, which had been focused on some spot on the wall behind him, returned to his.

  “Marry me,” he said again.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”

  Chapter 7

  Two hours later Charlotte was a viscountess. Six hours after that, she stepped into a carriage and said good-bye to everything that was familiar in her life.

  Ned was taking her to Middlewood, his small estate that was located only fifteen miles from her own home. He didn’t want to spend his wedding night at Thornton Hall, he’d said. His intentions required more privacy.

  The wedding was a blur. Charlotte was still in such a state of shock, still so completely stunned by Ned’s romantic proposal, that she hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything other than making sure she said, “I will,” at the appropriate time. Someday, she was sure, she’d hear about all the gossip that was flying back and forth between the guests, who had been expecting a different bride to walk down the aisle, but for today at least, she didn’t hear a whisper.

  She and Ned didn’t say much during the ride, but it was an oddly comfortable silence. Charlotte was nervous, and she should have felt awkward, but she didn’t. There was something about Ned’s presence that was comforting, reassuring.

  She liked to have him near. Even if they weren’t speaking, it was nice to know he was close. Funny how such a deeply seated emotion could take root in so short a time.

  When they arrived at what she supposed was her new home—one of them, at least—Ned took her hand.

  “Are you nervous?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she replied without thinking.

  He laughed, the warm, rich sound spilling from the carriage as a footman opened the door. Ned jumped down, then reached up to aid in Charlotte’s dismount. “What bliss to have married an honest wife,” he murmured, letting his lips trail past her ear.

  Charlotte swallowed, trying not to concentrate on the shiver of warmth that seemed to ripple through her.

  “Are you hungry?” Ned inquired as he led her inside.

  She shook her head. It was impossible to think of food.

  “Good,” he said approvingly. “Neither am I.”

  Charlotte looked around as they entered the house. It was not an exceedingly large dwelling, but it was elegant and comfortable.

  “Do you come here often?” she asked.

  “To Middlewood?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m more often in London,” he admitted. “But we may choose to spend more time here if you would like to be near your family.”

  “I would,” she said, her lower lip catching between her teeth for an instant before she added, “if you would.”

  He nudged her toward the stairs. “What happened to the firebrand I married? The Charlotte Thornton I know would hardly ask my permission for anything.”

  “It’s Charlotte Blydon now,” she said, “and I told you, I’m nervous.”

  They reached the top of the stairs and he took her hand, leading her down the hall. “There’s nothing to be nervous about,” he said.

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, very little,” he admitted.

  “Only a little?” she asked dubiously.

  He offered her a wicked smile. “Very well. There’s a great deal about which to be nervous. I am going to show you some things”—he led her through an open doorway and shut the door firmly behind them—“that will be very, very new.”

  Charlotte gulped. In the chaos of the day, her mother had forgotten to have a mother-daughter talk with her. She was a country girl, and thus knew a bit about what happened between women and men, but somehow that seemed little reassurance as her husband stood before her, positively feasting on her with his eyes.

  “How many times have you been kissed?” he asked, shrugging off his coat.

  She blinked in surprise at the unexpected question. “Once,” she replied.

  “By me, I presume?” he asked mildly.

  She nodded.

  “Good,” he said, and it was only then that she realized he’d undone his cuffs.

  She watched as his fingers went to the buttons on his shirt, her mouth going dry as she asked, “How many times have you been kissed?”

  His lips curved. “Once.”

  Her eyes flew to his face.

  “Once I kissed you,” he said huskily, “I realized that all the others weren’t worthy of the name.”

  It was as if lightning had struck right there in the room. The air went quite electric, and Charlotte no longer held any confidence in her ability to remain standing.

  “But I trust,” Ned murmured, closing the distance between them and bringing both of her hands to his lips, “that I won’t end my days with only one kiss.”

  Charlotte managed to give her head a little shake. “How did this happen?” she whispered.

  He cocked his head curiously. “How did what happen?”

  “This,” she said, as if the simple pronoun could explain everything. “You. Me. You’re my husband.”

  He smiled. “I know.”

  “I want you to know something,” she said, the words rushing from her mouth.

  He looked slightly amused by her earnestness. “Anything,” he said quietly.

  “I fought you on this,” she said, aware that the moment was very important. Her marriage had been rushed, but it would be based on honesty, and she had to tell him what was in her heart. “When you asked me to take Lydia’s place—”

  “Don’t say it that way,” he interrupted, his voice low but intense.

  “What do you mean?”

  His blue eyes focused on hers with stunning fire. “I don’t ever want you to feel you’ve taken someone else’s place. You are my wife. You. Charlotte. You are my first choice, my only choice.” His hands closed tightly around hers, and his voice grew even more intense. “I thank God for the day your sister decided she needed a little more poetry in her life.”

  Charlotte felt her lips part in surprise. His words made her feel more than loved; she felt cherished. “I want you to know—” she said again, afraid that if she focused too much on his words, and not on her own, that she would melt into his arms before she said what she needed to say. “I want you to know that I know, with every inch of my heart, that I made the right decision when I married you this morning. I don’t know how I know, and I don’t think it makes any sense, and heaven knows, there’s nothing I value above sense, but…but…”

  He gathered her into his arms. “I know,” he said, the words floating into her hair. “I know.”

  “I think I might love you,” she whispered against his shirt, only able to find the courage to say the words now that she wasn’t actually looking at him.

  He froze. “What did you say?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her shoulders slump at his reaction. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Not yet.”
>
  His hands went to her cheeks, and he tipped her face up until she had no choice but to gaze straight into his eyes.

  “What did you say?” he repeated.

  “I think I love you,” she whispered. “I’m not sure. I’ve never loved someone before, so I’m not familiar with the emotion, but—”

  “I’m sure,” he said, his voice rough and unsteady. “I’m sure. I love you, Charlotte. I love you, and I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t agreed to marry me.”

  Her lips trembled with an unexpected laugh. “You would have found a way to convince me,” she said.

  “I would have made love to you right there in your father’s library if that’s what it would have taken,” he replied, his lips curving devilishly.

  “I believe you would have done,” she said slowly, her own mouth slipping into a smile.

  “And I promise you,” he said, softly kissing her ear as he spoke, “that I would have been very, very convincing.”

  “I have no doubt,” she said, but her voice was growing breathless.

  “In fact,” he murmured, his fingers working the buttons at the back of her gown, “I might need to convince you now.”

  Charlotte sucked in her breath as she felt a cold rush of air against the skin on her back. Any moment now her bodice would fall away, and she would be standing before him as only a wife stood before a husband.

  He was so close she could feel the heat rising from his skin, hear the very tenor of his breath. “Don’t be nervous,” he whispered, his words touching her ear like a caress. “I promise I will make this good for you.”

  “I know,” she said, her voice trembling. And then somehow she smiled. “But I can still be nervous.”

  He hugged her to him, gruff laughter shaking both of their bodies. “You can be anything you want to be,” he said, “as long as you’re mine.”

  “Always,” she vowed. “Always.”

  He stepped away to shrug off his shirt, leaving Charlotte standing there, clutching at her bodice, marveling at the cool air on her back.

  “Would you like me to leave?” he asked quietly.

  Her eyes widened. She hadn’t expected that.

  “So that you might have privacy while you climb into bed,” he explained.