The Runaway Bride

by Lynn Kerstan

  All her muscles felt like jelly when he finally lifted his head and gazed into her eyes. “Would this be a good time to propose again?” he asked. “Tell me if it’s not. I have a speech ready, but—”

  “This would be an excellent time,” she assured him breathlessly.

  “Yes. Very well, then. Just give me a moment.” Stepping back, he stared at a point beyond her right ear for a long time. Finally he cleared his throat. “Miss Wright,” he barked, “you are beautiful. I love you. Knew it right away. Hit me like a cannonball.” A hot flush swept up his cheeks. “Devil take it, Pen, I can’t do this now. We’re in a dashed cemetery.”

  “Don’t stop,” she begged. “You were about to say I love you.”

  He looked confused. “Thought I’d done that part. Let me see. I love you. Knew it right away. Something about artillery.” He muttered under his breath, brow burrowed with concentration. “Ah, yes. I have money. Titles, estates, all that. Laying it at your feet. Heart too.” He shook his head. “No, the sunflowers come next. Or is it the children?” He groaned. “Bloody hell! The same thing happened with the letters I wrote you from Walford. They all sounded like dispatches. Inspected pastures, consulted bailiff, requisitioned supplies. I didn’t have the nerve to send them.”

  “John,” she said with a wide smile, “however did you manage to entice a romantic Frenchman with such pathetic address?”

  “Dashed in I know.” He slanted her a woebegone look. “Just say you’ll marry me, sweetheart. I’ll do the speech later, when I’m not so befuddled. It was rather good, until I had to say it out loud.”

  “I liked the bit about the sunflowers,” she assured him. “And I especially want to hear about the children. I presume you mean ours. We’ll have a lovely story to tell them, won’t we?”

  A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Is that a real yes, Pen, or another ambiguous ‘If it pleases you’?”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “With all my heart, a million times, yes and yes and yes.”

  Dragging her to his chest, he kissed her with such urgency that all her doubts and most of her bones melted. She hung in his arms, toes off the ground as he swung her around until they were both dizzy. “I love you,” he whispered into her mouth.

  “Me, too,” she said giddily when he set her down. “Oh, John, me too.”

  Cheers and laughter rang from the front of the church as the wedding party spilled out the doors. In silent agreement, John and Penelope moved hand in hand to watch. The short pudgy bride and tall skinny groom hung onto one another, laughing with delight as children made a great fuss of showering them with flower petals.

  “This should have been out wedding day,” John muttered crossly. “If I’d thought to bring a special license, we could be married right now, in this church.”

  “Just as well you did not. On the coach out of London, while I was trying to convince myself I’d made the right decision, I kept remembering an old proverb. ‘Marry in May, rue for aye’. ”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” he said, “but those two look perfectly happy to me.”

  “So they do, but I’m a bit relieved to be a June bride.” She squeezed his hand. “Early June, I hope.”

  “As soon as possible. Shall we set London on its ear with an elaborate wedding at St. George’s? With or without sisters,” he amended quickly. “Or should I procure a license?”

  “Not London,” she said flatly. “Let me think. We should do something splendidly romantic. Have ourselves one last fling before we retire to the farm. Breeding cows sounds rather dull, I must say.”

  “We shall breed anything you like, Pen, or live in the city if you’d rather. Either way, I expect life with you will never be dull.”

  “Maybe not, but I fear that life with you will never be precisely wild, and I’ve a terrible longing to be wild. Once the children come,” she added slyly, “we’ll not have the chance to run mad.”

  “Well, I’ve been running mad for several weeks now and have become something of an expert on the subject,” he said with a diffident grin. “However, we shall do exactly as you wish. So long as it doesn’t involve mules.”

  She regarded him quizzically. “I expect you’ll explain that one day, but no mules. We ought to include a wedding, though, just in case I truly am a prime breeder. Aunt Maritha says I’m built for it.”

  “Wonderfully so,” he agreed, molding her hips with his large hands. “How about a wild adventure in a warm bed?”

  “Yes, certainly that.” Trying to ignore his roaming fingers set on a distracting quest of their own, she concentrated hard. Adventure. Wedding. When the answer came, it was so obvious she practically bounced with excitement. “I have it! Oh, John, this is perfect. We shall run away together, to Gretna Green.”

  He looked stunned. “Gretna Green? Dear God, Pen, that’s three hundred miles from here.” He regarded her sternly. “A man has only so much self-control, young lady, and I squandered every ounce of mine walking out of your room on a certain memorable night.”

  “Memorable indeed.” She punched him on the chest. “So why did you walk out? My heavens, John, I thought you didn’t want me. That hurt.”

  “I’m sorry.” He brushed her cheek with his finger. “Another tactical error, but I thought allowing you to retreat before coming after you would prove something. At the moment, I’m not altogether sure what, but the strategy seems to have worked.”

  “One of these days,” she said, “I hope you’ll realize I am a woman and not Boney’s Imperial Guard. Meanwhile, this would be an excellent time to kiss me again.”

  He obliged, at length, before setting her away. “Self control,” he murmured with a groan.

  “Blast it, whoever asked you to control yourself? I shall not be at all pleased if you do so all the way to Gretna. Now, what do you say?” She gave him her sunflower smile. “Shall we be impetuous lovers and throw convention to the winds?”

  “If that is what you want, Pen, we’ll bid farewell to your redoubtable aunt, join up with Davy Morgyn, and make a mad dash for the border. Mind you, I won’t settle for a havey-cavey affair when we get there. We’ll take our vows in a church, with all proper solemnity. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Her smile turned impish. “So what are we waiting for, Colonel? You of all people know how I’ve longed to visit Scotland!”

  For more stories by Lynn Kerstan, look for:

  “The Rake and the Spinster” (a novella)

  Chapter One

  He had the devil’s own smile.

  Maggie stabbed the embroidery needle into her linen sampler, counterpoint to the sonata rippling from the grand piano across the music room.

  Detestable man. Pretending to admire Allegra’s artistry while his gaze stroked her scantily covered bosom. His hands would do the same, she suspected, if Allegra permitted the liberty. They were long-fingered, graceful hands, conveying as much with a subtle gesture as most men would do with a kiss. So far they only turned the pages of the music, but it was obvious they wanted to do more.

  Maggie longed to string him through the piano wires.

  The lace of her cap slid forward and with exasperation she pushed it back. Each morning she wrestled to confine her unruly hair into a tight chignon, but her cap invariably wandered on top of her head like a dollop of oil on boiling water.

  Although she despised headgear of any sort, proper chaperones and spinsters always covered their hair. Caps were the emblem of her failed dreams, and for that very reason she sported them defiantly, with the pride and feigned indifference that set her apart from everyone she knew. Her sisters could not imagine how she yearned to cast them off and let her long hair fly in the wind.

  When her gaze returned to the Earl of Keverne, she caught him looking directly at her, his blue eyes glinting in a way she didn’t dare analyze. Nine circles of hell spun in those mocking eyes, along with every temptation that lured souls to perdition.

  No woman was safe in his company. He even flirted wit
h Vestavia, twenty years his senior. And when the duchess introduced the notorious Simon Peter Augustus Weir two days ago, Maggie had been sure he peered through her own gray kerseymere gown and modest undergarments as if they were transparent.

  Now he was ogling her sister the same way.

  Allegra basked in the attention, but she’d always been easy prey for handsome men. Bedazzled by a scarlet-and-gold uniform, she had married a virtual stranger and spent the next seven years regretting it. Physical attraction, Maggie reflected sourly, was no basis for marriage. When passion died, jackals like the Earl of Keverne invariably moved in to pick over the remains.

  As if her thoughts had summoned him, Colonel Sir Nicholas Trent appeared at the door of the music room, more resplendent than ever in his dashing regimentals. His tentative smile contracted to a scowl at the sight of his wife shoulder to shoulder with a rake.

  Maggie hid a smile of her own. Now the detestable earl would get his comeuppance, and about time he did. But to her vast disappointment, Nicholas only stood in the doorway until well after the music ended, invisible to the couple on the piano bench as they bantered lightly. Then Keverne drawled one of his offensive innuendos and the colonel moved forward like a cavalry charge.

  “Allegra,” he said in a commanding tone. She spun around.

  For a music room, Maggie thought with annoyance, the acoustics were deplorable. Nicholas and Allegra spoke so softly to each other that she was unable to make out a single word. Meanwhile, Keverne looked exceedingly bored.

  She saw him lift his head and quickly lowered her own. It was one thing to eavesdrop, and quite another to be caught at it. She huddled over her embroidery for what seemed a very long time, ears perked to catch the first sounds of inevitable conflict.

  With her eyes strictly focused on her sampler, Maggie was unaware her nemesis had closed in until she felt something touch her foot. Glancing down, she saw polished Hessian boots toe-to-toe with her slippers, and of its own accord her gaze moved slowly up doeskin-clad thighs and slender hips, past a pewter-colored waistcoat framed by a twilight-blue jacket, paused briefly at the sapphire pin in his cravat, and finally settled on his face.

  Lucifer’s face, nearly angelic if one looked only unto those guileless blue eyes. But his legendary wickedness shone in that hedonistic smile.

  Pointedly, she lowered her head and resumed sewing. Even Keverne, who thought himself irresistible, would recognize the cut direct.

  He gave no sign of doing so, and her next stitch wound up a long distance from where it belonged. Why didn’t he go away?

  He did, but only long enough to draw up a Sheraton chair across from her. “What are you creating?” he asked in a suggestive voice. “May I see it?”

  With deliberation, she dug the needle into what was supposed to be a lily but looked more like a fish standing on its tail. “What I’m doing is none of your concern, Keverne. The same is true of anything my sister is about.”

  “And what do you suppose that is?” he said lightly. “I would give the world to know.”

  “It’s perfectly obvious Allegra is thinking about her husband whenever she plays. Or didn’t you notice her wedding ring?” Maggie loosened her clenched teeth. “Not that you ever looked at her hands.”

  “Allegra possesses hands?” He sighed. “But of course she must, for how else could she play the pianoforte? I shall make a point to observe them when next we meet.”

  She barely curbed a smile. The man was incorrigible. “Have you nothing better to do than annoy me?”

  “Not at the moment.” There was a brief pause. “You have beautiful hair, Lady Magdalen.”

  She drove the needle into her thumb and let out a squeal. “See what you made me do,” she snapped, ignoring the handkerchief he offered. “Idle compliments will not win you my regard, Keverne, and I do not care to hear them.”

  “What would you like to hear?” he inquired cordially as she sucked on her thumb with embarrassment.

  She fixed him with her sternest glare. “The sound of your departure.”

  Laughing, he came to his feet. “I always pleasure a woman,” he said provokingly. “If you will not coze with me, I must rejoin the lovely musician, who seems to be alone in spite of her tedious spouse.”

  Maggie glanced at Allegra, who looked very unhappy, and at her husband, now staring out the window as if nothing in the room engaged his interest. That was not the case, she quickly realized, for when the earl sauntered toward the piano, Nicholas swung around with fists clenched and murder in his eyes.

  Her embroidery hoop slid to the floor as Maggie rushed to intercept him. The music room was no place for a brawl, and Keverne’s broad shoulders promised more strength than his indolent posture suggested. Planting herself in Nicholas’s path, she took hold of his taut right hand. “What a surprise,” she said in a bright voice. “How nice to see you again.

  Allegra appeared at her shoulder. “You remember Maggie,” she said nervously, as if he might not recognize his sister-in-law.

  The colonel mumbled something unintelligible, and Maggie nodded. “You are wishing me to the devil so you can greet your wife. But we’ll have many opportunities to become reacquainted during the houseparty, Nicholas. I look forward to it.” She spun around, pasting a brittle smile on her face. “Lord Keverne, did you not express a desire to see the orangery? Her Grace has assembled a fascinating array of exotic fruits.”

  “Has she now?” His lips curved. “I am uncommonly partial to exotic fruits.” With a mocking bow to Nicholas, and an oddly sweet smile directed at Allegra, he held out his arm. “Do you suppose, Lady Magdalen, that an ordinary workaday apple caused Eve’s fall from grace?”

  “I rather expect,” she said acerbically as he led her into a marble-flagged passageway, “that the responsibility lies with the snake.”

  He grinned. “Snakes only tempt, you know, and they can scarcely help themselves for it is their nature to do so. The choice ultimately resides with the woman.”

  “A most confounding choice, you must admit. Serpents also lie, and have been known to disguise themselves as gentlemen.” She paused before wide glass-paneled doors. “Here is the orangery, Lord Keverne. You’ll be anxious to coil among the plants, so I wish you good day.”

  Shaking with laughter, he pinned her hand in the crook of his arm. “You cannot mean to abandon me in this jungle. Was I not promised a tour?”

  “Nothing of the kind,” she protested ineffectually as he towed her inside.

  Morning light slanted through the glass ceiling and a loamy scent of moist soil mingled with the heady fragrance of fruits and flowers. Keverne immediate assumed the role of guide, commenting easily on promising young pineapples and colorful gourds as he drew her along the narrow path.

  “You may release my arm,” she informed him frostily. “I shan’t run away.”

  “As you wish.” He stepped back to regard her curiously. “We’ve only just met, and already you dislike me, Lady Magdalen. How have I offended you?”

  She blinked. “What a bird-witted question! You are an offense to any decent woman.”

  “I doubt your sisters would agree,” he said thoughtfully. “Yvette finds me amusing, and as for Allegra… well, that remains to be seen. What a wonder it is that you are related. I’ve never met three women so very unlike.”

  “Not for the reason you probably think,” she countered at once. “We each have dark blue eyes, exactly like our father’s.”

  He smiled beatifically. “Heavens thy fair eyes be, heavens of ever-falling stars; ‘Tis seed-time with thee, and stars thou sow’st.”

  Arrested, she looked a question at him.

  “From Crashaw’s poem to your namesake, Lady Magdalen. Alas that I meet you after your conversion to righteousness. Have you a wicked past secreted behind all that formidable rectitude?”

  “I have no kind of past at all, and what is more, I’ve no intention of ever having one.” That sounded ridiculous even to her, and she felt heat rise t
o the tips of her ears. “Papa was of a whimsical mind and named us for the places where we were conceived—Allegra in Italy, Yvette in France—”

  “While you are the harvest of the Holy Land,” he concluded, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Dare I hope that Magdalen Galilea Rhodes will reverse the biblical story and turn profligate in her maturity?”

  “I am thirty years old, Keverne. Profligacy is out of the question, even if I wished it.”

  “Then how do you account for me, nigh onto forty and awash in depravity? Have I overrun my course?”

  She couldn’t help but laugh at the expression of mock despair on his face. “Doubtless you have great stamina and fancy yourself a glamorous rakehell. But bear in mind that’s it’s a short step from charming rogue to degenerate roué.”

  “Satan’s wrinkles. Maggie, you do know how to prick a man’s illusions.”

  “Delusions,” she corrected sharply. “For all our differences, the Rhodes sisters have more in common than dark blue eyes. We are honorable ladies, and casting lures at any one of us is a waste of your time. What little you have remaining,” she added tartly.

  He clapped one hand to his heart. “The lady strikes a mortal blow, but even as I fall I see her eyes, the color of lapis lazuli, shining with the promise of heaven.”

  She cast him a scornful look. “What a soufflé of nonsense you are, Keverne. Do collapse in silence, if you please.”

  “Indeed you have deflated me,” he mourned dramatically. “But only for the moment, because I’ve a mind to consummate my fading career in one last blaze of glory.”

  “An excellent notion,” she agreed, moving past a display of fuschias. “May I suggest you blaze elsewhere? The antipodes, for example.”