The Runaway Bride

by Lynn Kerstan

  She wagged a scolding finger at him. “Colonel Corbett, you seem to have made a career of running away.”

  He gazed at her steadily, one brow arched in a reprimand of his own.

  Embarrassed, she reached for her glass of wine. “Obviously we have at least one thing in common,” she murmured, wanting to kick herself for spoiling the mood.

  As if anxious to restore their camaraderie, John launched into one outrageous tale after another until Pen felt she’d been laughing for hours. Deliciously bleary from the wine, she wondered why she had ever thought John Corbett stiff and humorless. When he paused for a moment to open another bottle, she recklessly told him so.

  “We never had time,” he pointed out, “to become acquainted. I figured that with fifty years ahead of us, we’d come to terms.”

  “Have you always,” she inquired with a snort, “set your artillery to pulling the horses?”

  “A serious miscalculation,” he admitted after a heavy draught of wine. “I should not have left London when I did, but at the time it seemed imperative to settle matters at Walford House before I brought you there. According to my sister-in-law, the place was practically falling down. That was not the case, although Estelle had filched everything of value against the day I sent her packing.”

  “Well, now there is no reason for her to leave,” Pen observed brightly. “Not until you find yourself another bride.”

  He ignored that. “You’d like Walford. The house needs work, but it’s surrounded by gardens and orchards. There’s a river bordering one edge of the estate, and a forest stretched for miles on the other. Lots of pasture land, gone to seed now but ideal for cattle or sheep.”

  “Did you plan to go there immediately?” she asked curiously. “No wedding trip?”

  “I thought we’d spend a few weeks in Scotland.”

  “Scotland?” She spat out the word. “Well, thank heavens for that. I’ve always wanted to travel, to Paris and Venice and Florence and Rome, but what a relief to find out I’ll only miss out on Scotland. Truly, I should have realized you wouldn’t be anxious to return to the Continent so soon. After all you’ve been through, the last thing you must wish is a Grand Tour.”

  It was, in fact, the last thing he wanted. For him, all Europe was steeped in blood. When he boarded the packet at Cherbourg, he could practically sniff clean English country air wafting across the Channel as if summoning him home. Not once did he consider that Pen might expect a long wedding trip. He’d assumed, stupidly, that she wanted the same things he did.

  Now he knew better, but years of dealing with brash young subalterns had taught him when heels were dug in. Pen had made up her mind to leave him, and there was no shaking her. If ever he hoped to win her, he had to let her go.

  Checking back over what he’d said, he could not remember promising he wouldn’t follow her. No, she’d not demanded that. Obviously she didn’t think he would. He gazed at her warmly. She was practically asleep from wine and weariness, sagging in her chair, batting her lashes to keep her eyes open.

  Without warning, the door crashed against the wall and the Baron of Burnwich lurched into the room. He appeared to be stunned at the sight of his daughter, but recovered quickly. “I’ll have your hide for this,” he thundered.

  Pen sprang to her feet, arms clutched around her waist.

  In a swift motion, John stepped between them and planted his feet. “Good evening, my lord. Have you had your dinner?” Placing an iron hand on the baron’s shoulder, he forced him into the chair Pen had vacated.

  Burnwich sputtered. “I say, this won’t do.” He jabbed a finger at his daughter.

  She stamped her foot. “Does the entire world know where I am?”

  Gripping her elbow, John tugged her across the room. “I think it’s time for you to disappear,” he whispered.

  “Now, wait a minute,” the baron called. “I’ve a word to say to you, missie.”

  John paused at the door. “You look thirsty, Lord Burnwich. Try the claret.” He shuffled Pen into the hall and hustled her up the stairs to her room.

  “Do you always get your way?” she muttered when they were alone. “I suppose this means you’ll turn me over to him.”

  “On the contrary. I intend to get rid of him. You should go to bed and get some sleep, Pen. But if you like, I’ll order a bath sent up first.”

  “Truly?” A smile appeared, only to droop. “It is unkind of you, my lord, to be so considerate when I’ve caused you all this trouble. Like heaping coals of fire on my head. Shall I pretend to be grateful?”

  He grinned. “Will it help if I send you a cold bath?”

  “Yes,” she said weakly. “What will you do with Papa?”

  “Stew him in wine and send him home. We shall both be gone by daybreak, and you may continue to your destination in my coach. It’s rather an antique, I’m afraid, but there’s been no time to replace it.” He tapped her nose with his forefinger. “Sleep well, Pen. You are perfectly safe.”

  He didn’t even say goodbye, she thought unhappily as the door closed. Not one sign of regret from the man. He wasn’t even angry. Merely indifferent, seeing to her departure the way he’d arranged the marriage—with military efficiency.

  She crossed to the window and lifted the curtain. Rectangles of light sliced across the dark innyard and were swallowed up by a moonless night.

  It was over. Clearly she’d made the right choice, and he had confirmed it by helping her on her way. John was not a man to leave loose ends untied. He had followed her only to make sure the wayward parcel reached its destination. Pressing her forehead against the cool glass, she wondered what to do about her own loose ends. They seemed to be winding their way around her heart.

  She remembered the time he’d drawn her into the shadows of Lady Marchcroft’s terrace and kissed her. When he licked her lips with his tongue, she felt as if her dress had caught fire. She wanted to climb all over him like a monkey. Indeed, she’d thought of nothing but the eerie, vague promise of her wedding night until the moment she realized there would not be a wedding day.

  If only he’d kissed her goodbye. Given her one last taste of him to take with her. It was one thing to relinquish a loveless marriage of convenience and a wedding trip to Scotland, but quite another to realize one would never again be kissed.

  All through her bath, which was deliciously hot, and for several hours after that, she tried to concentrate on the future. A bleak, barren, lonely future. And while John remained at the inn, she could only think about what she’d given up, not what waited for her. That was grim enough, for she couldn’t expect to stay where she was going for more than a few weeks. With luck, which was long overdue, she’d eventually find a position in a genteel household and dwindle into a trusted retainer.

  She longed to work with children, but her education was unsuitable for teaching females. She’d never studied languages, was unskilled in music and drawing, and no parent would allow her to instruct little boys in history and mathematics. Most likely she’d wind up as a companion to an elderly lady, reading to her and stitching nightcaps. Better that, she reminded herself stoically, than marriage to a man who didn’t want her.

  Unable to sleep, she leaned against the headboard, her favorite book in hand, and tried to lose herself in the adventures of Sir Lancelot. With typical male perversity, the knight was currently bound on an amatory quest. She followed with growing ire as she clambered up a ladder to the Queen’s bedchamber, ripped iron bars from the stone windows with his bare hands, and took his pleasure with Guinevere until the dawning of the day.

  She snapped the book shut. Why was it only men could make advances and go after what they wanted, while females waited like berries to be plucked.

  Blast it all, she wanted to be plucked. Why not? What had she left to lose, with her reputation already in shreds and her future a solitary road to nowhere? Tonight she was as ripe and ready as she would ever be.

  Only one man had ever kissed her, or looked at he
r with a glimmer of desire in his eyes, and whether by sorcery or divine accident, he was here. Moreover, he intended to stay the night. Betty had revealed, with a gleam in her sultry eyes, that John had reserved the room at the end of the passageway for himself.

  Temptation and virtue wrestled briefly, but Pen faced a lifetime of dismal chastity. She swung out of bed and padded to the door.

  ***

  As he entered the private parlor, John saw that Burnwich had drained the bottle of claret and ordered several more.

  Slouched in a chair with his booted feet propped against the table, the baron yawned widely. “Have to marry her now, y’know,” he declared with satisfaction. “Compromised and all. Glad you found her, but I’d have dragged her back in time for the wedding.”

  “Indeed.” John leaned against the closed door and crossed his arms. “How did you track her here?”

  The question seemed to befuddle the baron. “Figured you ought to know she took off, so I set out for Walford.” He drained his glass in a single swallow and poured another. “Bit of luck there. Showed up right after they got word to dispatch a carriage to this place. Can’t say I thought to find Pen, but there you are. My lucky night. Didn’t send the notice to the paper, in case you’re wondering. Just wedding jitters, y’know. Pen’s a flighty female.”

  John scowled. The man was half gone, his big nose glowing like a Yule log. “Flighty is one way to put it,” he observed. “She doesn’t want me.”

  “What’s that to the point? I’m here now, and the chit will do as she’s told. Not likely to get another offer, not with her looks, and I won’t stumble on a second chance to fire her off. Tell you what, though. You can have Philia, or one of the others. Don’t matter to me which one you take.”

  John forced himself to relax. Burnwich was Pen’s father, and his own relatives were nothing to brag about. Repellent in-laws, he supposed, would be a lifetime cross to bear for the both of them. Meantime, this was a good chance to pump his future father-in-law for information before the old sot passed out. “I’ll stick with Penelope,” he said, trying to sound pleasant, “but I couldn’t help noticing she looks nothing like her sisters.”

  “Gel takes after her mother, more’s the pity.” The baron burped loudly. “Maude was a chit, a big galumphing woman with spots all over her face, but I needed the money. All I could do to bed her, but I wanted a son. After Pen there were three boys, all dead when she dropped ’em, and the last one wore her out. Died trying, I’ll give her that. When I married again, Eleanor didn’t want anything to do with Pen, so I sent the chit to her grandparents.” He reached for the claret. “Bristol merchants, with vinegar in their veins. They didn’t want her either, but a dotty old aunt said she’d move in and see her reared properly.”

  “Where do they live?” John suspected Pen was headed there again.

  “With the devil,” I warrant.” Burnwich filled his glass. “Dead, the lot of them, and good riddance. Invested a fortune in some idiotish steam engine and went broke. Not a penny did they leave m’darlin’ Penny. Anyhow, I brought her home when Eleanor stuck her spoon in the wall. She left me with three more daughters, thoroughbreds this time, and I figured Pen could take care of them.” He stared owlishly at the glass in his hand. “Not a bad chit. Works hard and don’t complain. But you can have Philia or one of the others if you’d rather.”

  With massive constraint, John reined in his temper. It was a wonder Pen hadn’t run away years ago.

  “Made her own wedding dress,” Burnwich bragged. “No point wasting the ready on goods already sold off, I told her. Better to spend on the other gels so they’ll make a good impression. I expect offers on all three of them once they’ve been on parade at St. George’s.”

  Fists clenched, John staunchly kept a distance between his knuckles and the baron’s bulbous nose. “The wedding is postponed,” he said coldly. “You will return to London and inform the guests. Give any story you like, so long as it does not damage Penelope’s reputation.”

  Burnwich gazed at him from bleary eyes. “Postponed? You’re still going to marry her?”

  “Certainly.” If she’ll have me, he amended silently. “But we’ll be wed when, and where, and how she chooses. I expect you to cover up this delay and stifle any gossip. Should you fail, I’ll tie the marriage settlement in the courts so long you’ll be in your dotage before you get a farthing.”

  “Well, she ain’t leavin’ here until I get the money she cribbed from me last night!” Burnwich staggered to his feet. “The chit went through m’clothes and made off with a . . . five hundred guineas. Damned cutpurse is what she is. I’ll have m’money or see her in Newgate.” He stumbled to John, who regarded him with disgust. “You can pay me and collect from her later. ‘Spect you’ll be collecting more than that tonight, eh?”

  That did it. John’s right fist slammed into a flabby Jaw and the baron dropped like a rock.

  ***

  Pen leaned against the door, nearly asleep on her feet, listening for the colonel. There was no mistaking his deliberate stride, and she murmured a silent prayer as he advanced up the creaky stairs and past her room to the end of the hall.

  He was fitting his key into the lock when she wrenched open her door. He swung around and his dark brows shot up.

  She felt him staring at her as though she were stark naked. Over taut white lips, his eyes blazed as if he could see through her heavy cotton nightrail. She backed away as he stalked into her room and closed the door.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he gritted. “This is a public inn.”

  “I knew it was you.” She wrapped her arms around her waist. “What . . . happened with Papa?”

  “We came to terms.” Hs voice softened. “Your father understands the situation, Pen. He’ll not trouble you again. My word on it.”

  “Did he tell you that I took money from his pockets?” Her voice shook. “Almost a hundred pounds.”

  “He only wished it could have been more.” John looked past her, to the bed. “You should be asleep,” he said in a husky voice. “The coach will be here before eight o’clock.”

  With a bow, he turned to leave, but her fingers closed on his wrist. He went absolutely still.

  She moved closer and pressed her forehead against his shoulder. “Stay with me,” she mumbled.

  He could not believe he’d heard her right. Stay? Dear Lord, had she changed her mind? He turned, his arms trembling as they wrapped around her. It was a miracle. Pen wanted to marry him after all.

  She spoke again, her words almost smothered by his lapel. He strained to hear. “I . . . wedding . . . don’t mind . . . Scotland . . . want . . . remember.”

  He fastened on the one thing he understood. “Of course we can go to Scotland, sweetheart.”

  Her head jerked back, clipping his jaw. “Blast it, John Corbett, Scotland can sink into the North Sea for all I care.”

  Bewildered, he stared at her.

  “If you don’t want to, just say so!” Humiliation mantled her like a glacier. “This has been another terrible mistake, hasn’t it? The thing is, I was informed that men always wanted to.”

  “Wanted to what . . . ?” His voice faded. She couldn’t mean? He looked at her closely. By God, she did mean it. This was a damn seduction.

  “You know very well what!” She pulled away and spun around, her back rigid. “There is no end, it seems, to my foolishness. When you looked at Betty that way, I assumed you were interested and not very particular. But I suppose a man must draw the line somewhere.”

  “Who—?” He closed his mouth with a snap. Betty, whoever the hell she was, didn’t figure in this. But Pen, for all her bluster, was fragile as a snowflake. He wanted to hug her. He also knew what would happen if he did, and called a retreat on pure instinct. How could it be right, when they were both so confused, to make love for the first time? “Pen,” he said carefully, “the only line I want to draw is a circle around the two of us.”

  Her should
ers lifted as she breathed a heavy sign. “You must think me mad,” she said with a brittle laugh. “First I run away, and then I throw myself at you like a starving puppy. I feel perfectly ridiculous.”

  “Never that,” he muttered, feeling ridiculous himself. His body surged with a primitive urge to claim her even as he took a disciplined step back. Maybe it was the baron’s foul assumption that he’d planned to bed her that night, or his own suspicion that she would leave him in the morning no matter what he did, but he held himself in check with preternatural self-control. “You . . . astonish me. I never expected this.”

  “Nor did I,” she confessed in a haunted voice. “In fact, I never thought to see you again at all. But when you appeared from nowhere it seemed a pity to waste the opportunity.” Her lips trembled. “Leaving you was not altogether a simple thing, my lord. I’ve had a great many regrets, most of them selfish, as I thought of what I was giving up. And then I saw . . . thought I saw . . . a chance to experience what I’ll never experience unless you share it with me now. I cannot marry you, but for a few hours, so I’ll have something to remember, I’d very much like to be your bride. Is that possible, John? Will you give me a wedding night?”

  He closed his eyes. Was there anything he could say or do that would not hurt her?

  He heard a rustling sound and looked up to see her climbing onto the bed. She leaned against a bank of pillows, her hair a thick wash of brandy against the white linen as she gazed at him. To his surprise, she seemed utterly composed.

  The silent invitation floated across the room. Now or not at all, she dared.

  His gaze slid away. “Pen,” he said somberly, “the first time you take a man into your body, and every time after, he must be the man you love.”

  “Does he have to love me too?” she asked after a strained moment.

  His reply was a ragged whoosh of air. “Yes.”

  She leaned over to extinguish the table lamp. “In that case, my lord, I bid you good night.”

  ***