Page 92 of Let Me Be Your Hero
She giggled. “That’s very fanciful for you, Archibald.”
“It is,” he agreed, striding into their bedroom. He kicked the door shut behind him. “I immediately concluded that you were the most beautiful woman ever to live. But then, it got even worse.”
“How so?” she asked as he laid her down on the bed.
He followed her down, coming to rest on top of her. He raised a hand to her face and gently swept a lock of hair back from her forehead. “You probably don’t remember, but I was seated just behind you at the wedding breakfast. I could hear every word of your conversation.” He shook his head, rueful. “You wereso clever.”
Delight swept across her face. “You thought I was clever?”
“Clever. Witty. Interesting.” He chuckled. “I wished so badly that you were talking tome.”
“How I would have liked that!” Izzie exclaimed. “I was seated next to Lady Hering, who is—”
“A dead bore,” Archibald finished for her. “I had to feign a bout of coughing when you told her as much.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t frighten you off. Most men think me far too outspoken.”
“Most men are idiots. You’re perfect.”
“Perfect?” She laughed, incredulous. “I’m not perfect. I’m an odd bluestocking who pens stories about dukes pretending to be ghosts while living at the bottom of a well. Moreover, out of the basic skills expected of a wife, I do not possess a single one.”
“Perfect,” Archibald repeated. “Clever. Witty. Beautiful. Adept at managing my parents. Kind to my grandfather.”
She tapped a finger against her lip. “Hmm… When you put it that way, I do sound rather wonderful.”
They both laughed, and Izzie smoothed her hands over his chest. “But I think thatyouare the one who is perfect.”
“Absolutely no one would agree with you,” Archibald noted. “I’m a glorified blacksmith. I get filthy every day doing manuallabor at a forge. And my greatest accomplishment is makingscrews.”
“Point the first—blacksmiths are dashing,” Izzie countered. “The lords of the world pad their jackets so they can feign having the physique of a blacksmith. Point the second—I don’t care whether you get your hands dirty.”
“All of polite society would disagree,” he noted.
She stuck out her chin, offended. “Since when have I given a fig for what polite society thinks? Returning to my list—point the third, I think your screws are marvelous. It’s like the parable of the stonecutters. Have you heard that one?”
Archibald frowned. “I don’t believe I have.”
“A traveler came upon a group of three stonecutters. He approached and asked what they were doing. The first answered that he was cutting stones. The second explained that he was earning his daily bread. And the third said that he was building a cathedral.” Izzie smiled up at him, her eyes sincere. “None of them were wrong, just as you aren’t wrong when you say that you’re making screws. But you’re also building a cathedral. And I think you’re going to change the world.”
Archibald nodded jerkily, suddenly unable to speak. He should’ve known Izzie would see it that way. He should’ve trusted her. She’d never given him any cause not to.
She ran her hands over his shoulders. “And I truly think you’re perfect. I never thought I would marry, you see, because the qualities I required in a husband were nigh impossible to find. Would you like to know what they are?”
Archibald nuzzled her neck. He did want to hear Izzie’s list, but he also wanted to make love to her. “What?”
“Mostly, I wanted a man who wouldn’t dismiss my writing as silly. I can’t tell you how many men told me I should give up Gothic novels and write something ‘important’ instead or who assumed I would stop writing entirely after I married. I neededa man who didn’t care that I wouldn’t be a conventional wife, spending my days sewing his shirts and planning his parties. Because I fear I’ll never be much good at those things.”
She traced a hand across his shoulder, down to the bulge of his biceps. “Of course, if I had my wish, he would be built like a Viking. He would be just like one of the heroes in my stories—strong and brave, and willing to do anything to protect me. And, of course, he would kiss like a Viking, too. Like he was desperate to have me. Yet I would always feel safe in his arms.”
She looped her arms around his neck. “I require a man who is intelligent and kind. I find I don’t care much about what he does for work or if he gets his hands dirty. And I certainly don’t care what high society thinks of him. It’s not as if high society has ever approved of me, after all. In short, I want a man who loves me just as I am and who doesn’t want to change me.” She gave him a little smile. “That’s all.”
“But… but Izzie,” he sputtered as something occurred to him. “That sounds like… like...”
“Like you? Of course, it does.” She laughed. “You’re my ideal hero. You couldn’t be any more perfect for me if I’d written you myself.”
Archibald thought his heart might burst. He’d always thought of Izzie as so high above him, as untouchable as a star in the sky.
Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that she might love him, too.
