Where's My Hero?

by Lisa Kleypas

  Long accustomed to her daughter’s habit of translating everything into numbers, Sara had smiled. “How did you decide that?”

  “I started with the number of eligible men in England, and estimated how many of them might be appropriate for me in terms of age, health, and so forth. Then I assessed the number of possible outcomes to meeting each one of them, by observing a random sampling of our married acquaintances. At least half have fallen into indifference for each other, a third have been separated by death or adultery, and the rest are content, but not what anyone would call soul mates. According to my calculations, the chance of finding true love compared to the number of total possible outcomes for the process of husband hunting is one to four hundred thousand. And with odds like that, I will be far better off marrying someone like Lord Wray, rather than wait for a lightning strike that may never happen.”

  “Good Lord,” Sara had exclaimed, clearly appalled. “Lydia, I cannot think how a child of mine has come to be so cynical.”

  Lydia had grinned. “I’m not cynical, Mama. Just realistic. And I’ve gotten it from Papa.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Sara had said, briefly raising her gaze heavenward, as if in supplication to some inattentive deity. “Dearest, has Lord Wray ever told you that he loves you?”

  “No, but that may come in time.”

  “Hmmm,” her mother had said, staring at her dubiously.

  “And if not,” Lydia had said cheerfully, “I’ll have all the time I want for my mathematical studies.” Seeing how distressed Sara appeared to be by her irreverence, Lydia had gone and hugged her impulsively. “Mama, don’t worry,” she’d said into her mother’s flower-scented hair. “Everything will be all right. I’ll be very, very happy with Lord Wray. I promise.”

  Sara soaked in a large porcelain bathtub, hoping that the steaming water would help ease the tension in her shoulders and back. The tiled bathing-room was lit by a single lamp, the gentle flame shining softly through the etched-glass globe. Sighing, she rested her head against the mahogany rim of the tub and considered what to do about Lydia. Her other children, Nicholas, Ash, Harry and Daisy, were always getting into scrapes and charming their way out of trouble. Lydia, on the other hand, was responsible, intellectual and self-controlled, possessing a head for numbers that rivaled her father’s.

  Since her come-out two years earlier, Lydia had kept her suitors at bay with a distant friendliness that had led many disappointed young men to claim that she was made of ice. That was far from the truth. Lydia was a warm and affectionate girl, with a reserve of deep passion that was waiting to be tapped by the right man. Unfortunately, Lord Wray was not that man. Even after a six-month courtship, he and Lydia showed no signs of having fallen in love. To Sara, their amicable relationship seemed more like that of a brother and sister than of two lovers. But if Lydia was content with the arrangement—and she certainly seemed to be—was it right to offer any objections? As a young woman, Sara had been allowed the freedom to find her own husband, and her choice had been unconventional by anyone’s standards. Lydia certainly deserved the same opportunity.

  Thinking back to the days of her courtship with Derek Craven, Sara slid a bit lower into the water, while her toes idly pushed soapsuds from one side of the tub to the other. Back then Derek had been the owner of the most notorious gaming club in England, making a fortune by exploiting the greed of his aristocratic patrons. By the time Sara had met him, Derek had already been a legendary figure, a penniless bastard who had eventually become the wealthiest man in London. No one, least of all Derek himself, would have claimed he was a feasible match for a young woman as un-worldly as Sara had been. And yet they had been drawn together irresistibly, too desperate for each other to make any other choice.

  That was what bothered her about Lydia and Lord Wray, Sara realized. One had the sense that their relationship would always remain at a safely tepid level. Of course, Sara was well aware that in upper circles, love matches were considered to be tastelessly provincial. However, she had come from the country, raised under the tender guidance of two parents who had loved each other deeply. As a young woman she had wanted to find that for herself, and as a mother, she certainly wanted no less for her children.

  Sara was so intent on her thoughts that she did not hear the sound of someone entering the bathing-room. Suddenly she was startled by the sight of a waistcoat sailing to the wooden chair in the corner…followed immediately by a dark silk necktie. As she began to sit up, a pair of muscular forearms slid around her from behind, and she felt her husband’s gentle mouth at her ear. Slowly he pulled her back against the warm porcelain wall of the tub.

  “I missed you, angel,” he whispered.

  Smiling, Sara relaxed back against him and toyed with the edges of his rolled-up shirt-sleeves. Derek had been away in London for the past three days, negotiating a deal between his telegraph company and the South Western railway to lay new telegraph lines along the tracks. Although she had kept herself busy in his absence, the days—and nights—had seemed very long indeed.

  “You’re late,” she said, her voice tipped with a flirtatious note. “I expected you to return by suppertime. You missed a very fine sturgeon.”

  “I’ll have to dine on you, then.” His large hands plunged beneath the water.

  Giggling, Sara turned to face him, and her mouth was instantly captured in a searing kiss that unsettled her breath and spurred her heartbeat to a new, urgent cadence. Her fingers gripped the hard planes of his shoulders until the fabric of his shirt was splotched with water. When their lips parted, a little skipping sigh came from her throat, and she lifted her lashes to stare into Derek’s lavish green eyes. She had lived with him for more than twenty years, and yet that vibrant, audacious gaze still never failed to make her senses leap with pleasurable excitement.

  Derek cradled the side of her face, his thumb smoothing the dappling of water flecks across her shining cheek. He was a big, black-haired man, with a scar on his forehead that lent an agreeable ruggedness to his handsome face. Outwardly the passing years had wrought little change in him, except to weave a few strands of silver into the hair at his temples. And as always, he possessed a devilish charm that often lulled people into forgetting the predatory nature that lurked beneath his elegant facade.

  Derek’s alert gaze moved over her face. “What is the matter?” he asked, sensitive to every nuance of her expression.

  “Nothing, really. It’s just that…” Sara paused and snuggled her cheek into the warm cup of his palm. “I talked to Lydia while you were gone. She freely admitted that she is not in love with Lord Wray—and she is determined to marry him anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Lydia has decided that she will probably never find a soul mate, and therefore she should choose a husband based on practical considerations. She claims that the odds of anyone attaining true love are negligible.”

  “She’s probably right about that,” Derek commented.

  Drawing back from him, Sara frowned. “Do you mean to say that you don’t expect our children to be as happy in their marriages as we are?”

  “I wish for nothing less, for every single one of them. But no, I don’t necessarily expect that they will each find true love.”

  “You don’t?”

  “A man or woman can spend a lifetime searching for a soul mate and never find one. In my opinion, Lydia is wise to choose prime goods like Wray, rather than wait until the best picks are all gone. I’ll be damned if my grandson will be sired by some third-rate fortune hunter.”

  “Oh, good Lord,” Sara exclaimed with a strangled laugh. “Between you and Lydia, I don’t know who is more exasperating. What about hope, and romance, and magic? Some things cannot be explained by science, or measured in mathematical calculations.” Reaching over the edge of the tub, she played with the dark hair revealed by the open neck of his shirt. “I waited for my true love, and look what it got me.”

  Sliding his hand behind her neck, Derek urged her
face closer to his. “It got you twenty years of marriage to a ruthless scoundrel who can’t keep his hands off you.”

  Her breath hitched with a laugh. “I’ve learned to live with that.”

  His mouth glided to the soft hollow behind her ear, while his fingertips roamed over her wet shoulders. “Tell me what you want me to do about Lydia,” he said against her skin.

  Sara shook her head and sighed. “There’s nothing to be done. Lydia has made her decision, and one can hardly fault her choice. Now I suppose I shall have to leave everything in the hands of fate.”

  She felt Derek smile against her neck. “There’s nothing wrong in giving fate a push in the right direction. If the opportunity presents itself.”

  “Hmmn.” Considering various possibilities, Sara picked up a ball of soap and rolled it between her palms.

  Derek stood and unfastened his shirt. He let the garment drop to the floor, revealing a lean, powerfully muscled torso and a thickly furred chest. His hot gaze slid along the water-blurred shape of her body. “Aren’t you finished with your bath yet?”

  “No.” Sara smiled provocatively, running her soapy hands over her leg.

  His hands moved to the fastenings of his trousers. “Then you’d better be prepared for some company,” he said, and the note in his voice made her shiver in anticipation.

  Chapter 2

  In two days, Lydia would become Lady Wray. The weeklong celebration had already begun at the Craven estate, with nightly soirees, balls and lavish suppers. On Sunday, the festivities would conclude with a ceremony in the family chapel. Guests had come from all over England and the Continent to take part, until every private house, guest cottage and tavern in Herefordshire was filled. The twenty guest rooms in the Craven manor were all occupied, and visiting servants swarmed below-stairs like bees in a hive.

  It seemed to Lydia that every question directed to her lately had centered around the subject of her nerves, with the general expectation that any proper young lady should be suffering from fits of bridal agitation. Unfortunately Lydia felt quite calm—a pronouncement that seemed to perturb everyone who heard it. Perceiving that her composure might somehow reflect badly on Lord Wray, Lydia tried to work up a twinge of anxiety, a shiver, a quake or a twitch, all to no avail.

  The problem was, marrying Lord Wray was so sensible that Lydia saw no reason to be nervous about anything. She wasn’t even worried about the wedding night, for her mother had explained such matters in a way that had robbed them of any fearful mystery. And if Wray proved to be as adept at lovemaking as he was at kissing, Lydia rather expected to enjoy the experience.

  The only thing that troubled Lydia was all of this infernal entertaining. Ordinarily she was accustomed to days of tranquility, during which she could ruminate and calculate as long as she wanted. Now, after approximately one hundred and twenty hours of endless feasting, toasting, talking, laughing and dancing, Lydia had had enough. Her mind was seething with ideas that had nothing to do with romance and matrimony. She wanted to have done with the wedding and be free to work on her latest project.

  “Lydia,” Wray chided with amusement as he interrupted her furtive attempts to write some notes during a huge soiree on Friday. “Working on your formulae, are you?”

  Guiltily Lydia slipped a scrap of paper and a pencil stub into the little fringed silk bag that dangled from her wrist. She looked up at Wray, whose lanky form towered over hers. As always, his appearance was immaculate. His smooth, dark hair gleamed with a thin veneer of pomade, his evening suit was precisely tailored, and the knot of his black silk necktie was perfectly centered.

  “I’m sorry,” Lydia said with a sheepish smile. “But my lord, I just had the most interesting idea about the probability analysis machine—”

  “This is a soiree,” he told her with a playful wag of his finger. “You’re supposed to dance. Or gossip. Or linger at the refreshment table. See all the young ladies enjoying themselves? That’s what you should be doing.”

  Lydia sighed grumpily. “I’ve done all that for two hours, with at least four more to go before the evening is done. I’ve had the same conversation with ten different people, and I’m tired of discussing the weather and the condition of my nerves.”

  Wray smiled. “If you’re going to be a countess, you had better get used to it. As a newly-wed couple, we’ll be mixing in society quite a lot when the season begins.”

  “Lovely,” Lydia said, and he chuckled.

  “Come walk with me.”

  Taking his arm, Lydia accompanied Wray on a sedate stroll through the circuit of entertaining rooms. Wherever they went, they were greeted with approving smiles and murmured congratulations. Lydia knew that they made an attractive couple, both of them slender and dark-haired. It was obvious that Wray was a man of scholarly pursuits, with his fair complexion, his noble forehead and his beautifully manicured hands. There was nothing he loved better than long, intricate conversations concerning a wide variety of subjects. He was a sought-after guest for supper parties, where he would entertain the table with the perfect blend of wit and erudition. His academic dabblings were regarded with general approval, for a gentleman could follow his interests as long as he remained a dilettante and didn’t seek to earn money from them.

  They stopped to converse with a group of friends, and Lydia grinned ruefully as she saw all the signs of Wray settling in for a long discussion. Using her painted silk fan as a screen, she rose on her toes to whisper to him. “My lord…let’s slip away together and find a private place. The conservatory, or the rose garden.”

  The earl smiled and shook his head, answering in an undertone that no one else could hear. “Absolutely not. Your father might find out.”

  “You’re not really afraid of him, are you?” Lydia asked with an incredulous smile.

  “He terrifies me,” Wray admitted. “In fact, of all the points that Linley made when he advised me not to propose to you, that was the hardest to refute.”

  “What?” Lydia stared at him with open-mouthed astonishment. “Which Dr. Linley—the old one, or the son?”

  “The son,” Wray replied with a grimace. “Damn, I didn’t mean to let that slip out. Perhaps you would be so kind as to overlook that last remark—”

  “I most certainly will not!” She scowled at the discovery. “When did Linley advise you not to propose, and what were his reasons? The intolerable ass, I’d like to tell him—”

  “Lydia, hush,” Wray counseled softly. “Someone will hear. It was nothing, just a brief conversation we had before I approached your father to ask for your hand. I happened to mention to Linley that I was going to propose to you, and he offered his opinion on the matter.”

  “A negative opinion, I gather.” As Lydia struggled to control her temper, she felt a wash of color sliding over her face and throat. “What were his objections?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Annoyance nearly suffocated her. “Yes, you do. Oh, don’t be a gentleman for once, and tell me!”

  Wray shook his head and replied firmly, “I shouldn’t have been so careless with my words. It doesn’t matter what Linley’s objections are, nor anyone else’s. I am resolved to have you as my wife, and that is that.”

  “Resolved?” Lydia repeated, making a comical face.

  Wray touched her gloved elbow. “Let us join the others,” he urged. “We’ll have all the time in the world for private conversations after we’re married.”

  “But my lord…”

  He propelled her toward the gathering of friends, and they all proceeded to chat with relaxed idleness. Lydia found it impossible to keep her attention focused on the conversation. Silently she stewed and fumed, becoming increasingly irate. Even before now, she had considered Jake Linley to be the most provoking man she had ever known. How dare he try to dissuade the earl from marrying her! She wondered what he had told Wray—no doubt he had made her sound like a very bad bargain indeed.

  Linley had done nothing but mock and annoy
Lydia ever since they had met four years earlier, when she had twisted her ankle at a game of lawn tennis. It had been during a weekend party at a friend’s estate, to which many prominent families in Herefordshire had been invited. After Lydia had injured herself during an energetic volley, her younger brother Nicholas had helped her hobble to the shade of a luxuriant maple tree.

  “I believe the Linleys are here,” Nicholas had told her, carefully easing her down to a cloth spread on the velvety lawn beside the remains of a picnic they had enjoyed earlier. “You sit here while I fetch the doctor.” Old Dr. Linley was a kind and trustworthy man, who had helped deliver the last two of the Craven brood.

  “Hurry,” Lydia had told him, managing a pained grin as she saw three eager young men approaching. “I’m about to be besieged.”

  Nicholas had grinned, suddenly looking exactly like their father. “If any of them tries to examine your ankle, just look queasy and threaten to cast your accounts all over him.”

  As her brother had scampered up the hill to the main house, Lydia had indeed found herself under siege from enthusiastic suitors. She’d been helpless to do anything but sit there while the throng of men had plagued her, one of them pouring a cup of water, another pressing a moistened cloth to her forehead, another bracing his arm behind her back in case she felt faint.

  “I’m perfectly all right,” she had protested, smothered by their attentions. “It’s just a twisted ankle—no, Mr. Gilbert, there is no need to look at it—please, all of you—”

  Suddenly the three ardent young men had been shooed away by a brisk masculine voice. “Go on, all of you. I’ll see to Miss Craven.” Reluctantly they’d turned tail and left, and the newcomer had lowered to his haunches before Lydia.

  For a moment she’d actually forgotten the throbbing pain in her leg as she’d stared into the stranger’s dark-lashed gray eyes. Although he’d been well dressed, he’d been a bit rumpled, his necktie a bit too loose, his coat unevenly pressed. He’d looked to be about ten years older than herself, possessing a masculine vigor that she’d found vastly appealing. Sometimes, extremely handsome men seemed a bit vacuous, perhaps even a little effeminate, in their physical perfection. But this one had been all male, with boldly drawn features and thick, wheat-colored hair that had been cropped close to the back of his neck. He’d smiled at her, his teeth a flash of white in his tanned face.