The Runaway Bride Read online

  John Corbett was her dream come to life, but in the cold light of the next morning her doubts had rushed back. She was awash in them when he called to bid her an awkward farewell, claiming urgent business at the family estate. She’d listened carefully for any hint of sorrow at leaving her or the tiniest enthusiasm about their wedding, but he was gruff as a bear. Didn’t want to keep his horse standing, he said, practically catapulting out the door. Her sisters, lurking in the hall to eavesdrop, laughed at her when he’d gone.

  Even then she didn’t ruffle the waters. Perhaps he would write to her, and they could get to know each other through the mails. She’d crafted a great many letters to him, not daring to send a one until he contacted her first, but he did not. When a month passed with no word from her betrothed, she was certain he regretted his impetuous proposal.

  The truth was inescapable. Colonel Corbett, too long at the wars, sought to marry and breed an heir. Apparently he was in a hurry, or not very particular about bloodlines, because he’d aligned himself with the least attractive female member of a thoroughly disreputable family. Creditors were practically beating down the door, not that the Baron of Burnwich would pay a one of them from the marriage settlement. All he really wanted was a stake for the gaming hells.

  He didn’t get much for his efforts, she thought with some satisfaction. Apparently John Corbett pinched a penny until it squeaked, the way his brother had done. Her father made it clear how little the colonel offered by way of a marriage settlement, and slapped her when she observed that it was considerably more than she brought in dowry.

  He’d have paid well, no doubt, for the Incomparable, but Philia wouldn’t have him. Pen had listed to the story of that courtship more times than she cared to, with Philia expanding on the colonel’s ardor and her dramatic refusal at each telling.

  That ardor was noticeably missing when he offered for his second choice. Colonel Corbett had proposed with military efficiency, received her stammered acceptance with a brief smile, and kissed her hand. She was surprised that he didn’t salute on the way out. If it were not for a peculiar, almost hot look in his eyes, he might as well have been negotiating for a brood mare.

  Which was, she admitted fairly, exactly what he’d purchased, cheaply and with dispatch. Immediately the deal was closed, he left for his estate, where he apparently intended to remain until time to meet his brood . . . bride . . . at the altar.

  He’d have recognized her immediately—the freckled plowhorse lumbering behind her three graceful sisters, wearing a homemade dress, trying to hold her drunken father erect. She’d visualized the ceremony a hundred times, and the picture never changed. The real thing would be even worse because John would see it too. She’d spared them both the worst day of their lives by calling off the wedding.

  Levering herself off the bed, she splashed cold water on her dirt-streaked face and vowed to stop feeling sorry for herself. Facts were facts, and she despised self-pity. Besides, things could be worse. She’d enough money to get by for several months, an excellent if unusual education thanks to her dour grandparents, and a new life to make for herself. Nothing was going to stop her now.

  John Corbett had no legal control of her, and if he turned her over to her father, who did, the baron could beat her senseless before she’d willingly jump from one cage into another. She knew all too well how it was to be possessed without being wanted. While she remained free, there was a chance for happiness. Married to the autocratic colonel, she’d be chattel for the rest of her life.

  She scowled at her reflection in the mirror. Her freckles looked like mold growing on a slab of white bread. Her eyes were bloodshot and felt dry and gritty. She stank of sweat and pigs. Obviously freedom did nothing for her looks.

  Her ex-fiancé had come a long way to ring a peal over her, but men did not like to be thwarted, Once he’d vented his wrath, she could be on her was because men generally went about their own business when they were done asserting themselves. Nothing was ever gained by confronting them. She had years of practice ignoring her father’s rages and her grandfather’s sarcasm while concentrating on her own hot temper, although sometimes the urge to fight back almost strangled her.

  She took a long deep breath, summoning every ounce of meekness and self-discipline in her nature. Tomorrow, she’d buy passage on another coach. Tonight, if the price wasn’t too dear, she’d treat herself to a bath. This was her one and only great adventure and she meant to enjoy it, but first she had to eliminate a large male roadblock.

  ***

  The colonel favored her with a bow, which earned him a false smile, and settled her at a small table laid out with a feast. Suddenly ravenous, Pen eyed a chicken leg with longing before wrenching her gaze to his disturbingly handsome face. This was no time to eat. He stood erect and supremely confident, like a commander preparing to rake down an insubordinate recruit.

  Meekness flew to the winds as she launched a surprise attack. “Since we are no longer engaged,” she clipped, “you ought not to be in a room alone with me.”

  His lips twitched. “If you feel compromised, Penelope, I am willing to do the honorable thing.”

  Round one to the colonel, she thought peevishly. “Oh, very clever. As if you would, now that I’ve publicly shamed you.”

  He shrugged. “In matters of importance, a certain amount of unpleasantness is to be accepted. I learned that lesson in the army.”

  “The war,” she reminded him, “is over.”

  He reached for the pitcher of lemonade, “Not this one, I suspect.” Their gazes locked, until she broke contact to hand him a glass. “A soldier can always find a war somewhere,” he continued briskly, “however senseless the conflict. If my brother hadn’t cocked up his toes I’d be on my way to America by now.”

  She took the glass of lemonade with a curt nod of thanks. “So now you have a title instead of a rank. Is that so bad?”

  “Too soon to tell.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve been a soldier all my life, and God knows I haven’t a clue how to be a viscount. Estates, tenants, investments, harvests, distant relations looking for a handout . . . .” He grimaced. “I spent the last three weeks trying to evict my brother’s wife, who has her claws dug into Walford and refuses to be dislodged. “

  Pen looked shocked. “You would cast out your own sister-in-law?”

  “Damn right I would.” Heat rose up his neck. “Apologies, Pen. My language is from the barracks. Estelle is half-vulture, half-shrew, and you would not wish to live with her any more than I do. She’s been offered a townhouse in Mayfair, another in Bath, and is welcome to reside at any of several estates my brother accumulated in his career as a miser. What she cannot do is live with us at Walford.”

  “With you,” Pen corrected sharply. “I won’t be there, remember?”

  “Would you mind explaining why? You did accept me. I remember it clearly. I asked you to be my wife and you agreed.”

  She took a swallow of lemonade. “I changed my mind. Besides, I never really said yes. I said if it pleases you, and it does not.”

  “What in hell makes you think that? Of course it pleases me. Why else would I offer for you?”

  “Because you couldn’t have Philia and knew I was in no position to refuse any offer at all.”

  “Who the devil is Philia?”

  “Oh, you are clever.” She wrinkled her nose, “But it won’t fadge, because she told me all about it. Women talk, you know.”

  In fact, he didn’t. His women had spoken Portuguese, or Spanish or French, and their communication was primarily physical. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually had a long talk with an intelligent, articulate woman, which was something he’d looked forward to with Pen. “Is Philia one of your sisters?” he asked uncomfortably.

  She shot him a look of acute dislike. “Indeed. The one you danced with twice before you were introduced to me. The one you proposed to. The one who thought you too old and too barbaric to make an agreeable husband. Besides, you
are only a viscount, and Philia is hanging out for a duke.”

  “Is she?” He remembered her now, a snippy chit with a creamy complexion and hard, calculating eyes. Had she really told Pen he’d proposed to her?

  “Don’t take it personally,” Pen was saying. “I ought not to have betrayed what she spoke in confidence.” She regarded him curiously. “By the way, how old are you?”

  He smiled. “Three and thirty. Too old for you too, Pen?

  “When a female is moldering on the shelf,” she muttered sullenly, “no suitor with one tooth left in his head is too old.”

  “Actual suitor. I never offered for your sister. Only for you.”

  She frowned. “No man in his right mind would have me if he could have Philia. I am sorry your hopes were shattered, but you’ll have no trouble finding yourself a wife once the gossip has died down. I am also sorry for embroiling you in a scandal, but I couldn’t think of any other way and time was running out.”

  “Way for what?” He regarded her with brooding eyes. “Is there . . . another man?”

  She looked surprised, and then her lashes swung down. “Well, now that you mention

  it—”

  “Don’t lie to me about this,” he warned.

  With a sigh, she turned her attention to the food and picked up a chunk of crusty bread. “No,” she mumbled. “No other man. Not ever.”

  “I find that impossible to believe. Every time I saw you in public, you were surrounded by young bucks clamoring for your attention.”

  She flashed a humorless smile. “I am the friendly sister, don’t you know. I talk to anyone. They all like me and hope I’ll put in a good word for them with the Incomparables. But when the music begins, they go off and dance with someone else.”

  A vast feeling of relief swept over him, followed by a hot wash of rage. He wanted to flatten every insensitive lout who’d dared to hurt her feelings. But devil take it, he was one of those ratbags. He’d danced with her, yes, but only one time, lumbering around the polished floor like a gut-shot pack mule. He’d thought he was sparing her toes and her feelings by not asking again.

  Damn. He knew nothing at all about courting well-bred young ladies. Come to think of it, he’d never really courted Pen. He saw her, danced with her, paid one formal morning call, took her driving twice, offered, proposed, and was accepted. All in the space of three days. When the business was concluded, he left town feeling on top of the world. He’d wanted her so badly it never occurred to him she might not feel the same way.

  He watched her spread butter on the bread, place a slice of cheese on top, and bite into the combination hungrily. Her white teeth and open mouth sent a shot of desire through him. He wondered if she remembered that he kissed her once, briefly, but with more passion than he’d ever kissed a woman. “It’s not too late to change your mind,” he ventured into the long silence. “Why do you dislike the idea of our marriage?”

  She swallowed hard. “If I tell you the absolute truth,” she said tonelessly, “will you let me go and not make trouble with my father?”

  He poured a glass of claret and held it up to the light. I will let you go,” he lied.

  Carefully, she put the half-eaten bread and cheese on a plate and sat back in her chair. “If I married you,” she said, “it would be the end of my dream.” Her gaze swung to the ceiling. “I would be bound to you for the rest of my life. There would be no hope, ever.”

  His stomach clenched. “What dream is that, Pen? What is it you hope for?”

  She closed her eyes. “All women have dreams, Colonel. Philia wants to be a duchess. Antonia and Appolonia want to marry the handsomest men in London. Perhaps my own dream will never come true, but while I am free, anything is possible.”

  He stared down at the flagstone hearth. “I’m not the answer to any woman’s dreams, but I would do my best to be a faithful and devoted husband.”

  She mustered a smile. “I’m certain that you will, with the right woman. And that’s all I’m going to say, because there aren’t any words to explain. I apologize for embarrassing you, and for costing you money. You need not forgive me, but you must let me go because you promised. I shall take another coach tomorrow.”

  John took a deep swallow of wine. “Under no circumstances will you ride a public coach again, Penelope Wright. It is uncomfortable, unseemly, and dangerous. If you insist on continuing, I’ll see that you have a coach and driver. In fact, I’ve already sent to my estate, which is only a few miles from here, for a vehicle.” He smiled wanly. “I had hoped we could ride back to London together.”

  She pulled herself off the chair. “I’m not going back to London.”

  “Then the coach will take you where you wish to go. This is not negotiable.”

  She saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  With a sigh, he crossed to the table and dropped onto a chair. “I’ve sold out, you know.”

  “Sorry. It’s ‘my lord’ now.” She clasped her arms around her waist. “Will you compel your driver, my lord, to tell you where he left me off?”

  He cocked his head. “Would that be so terrible?”

  “Let us say uncomfortable. For a great many reasons, I want to disappear. “

  “In that case,” he said smoothly, “the driver and footman will be sworn to secrecy.”

  She regarded him doubtfully. “You could still hire someone to trace me.”

  “What are you afraid of, Pen? Do you imagine I’d do anything to harm you?”

  “Not,” she said after some thought, “deliberately.”

  He winced. “If it will make you feel better, I swear not to trace you through my servants, nor will I hire anyone to find you. I only want you to be safe and comfortable.” He gave her a questioning look. “You do have a place to go?”

  “Certainly. I’m not a complete fool, Colonel.”

  No, she was not. He’d been the fool, letting her out of his sight before the ring was on her finger. Now she’d maneuvered him into promises that would be damnably hard to keep. He gazed at her with respect and no little degree of frustration, wondering if he could salvage anything of the evening.

  “Tonight you can sleep well, have a good breakfast in the morning, and be on your way,” he said with counterfeit nonchalance. “I’ll be long gone before you are awake, and my servants will not disclose your whereabouts.” He sat back and crossed his arms behind his head as if putting an unpleasant piece of business to rest. “So, Miss Wright, now that things are settled between us, will you join me for dinner?”

  ***

  Pen ate in silence, swallowing past a heavy lump in her throat while John played host. He seemed to have found his tongue now that the burden of marrying her was lifted, and told her fascinating stories about life in the army.

  “Were you ever . . . hurt?” she asked, when he paused to sample the roasted chicken. It was the first time she’d spoken for half an hour.

  With a pleased smile, he carved her a slice. “A time or two, nothing worth mentioning. Unless you count being shot by a farmer who thought I was stealing his piglets.”

  Her brows shot up. “Stealing?”

  “In the army, it’s called foraging, but as it happened, we were returning the pigs. Some of my men had spent the afternoon supplementing their sparse rations, and when I made the rounds of the camp that night . . . well, pigs make a damnable lot of noise. Wellington had strict rules about pilfering from the locals, so we bundled up the little wretches and took them back. That’s when the farmer came out of his house. Everyone else dropped the pigs and ran like hell, but I had three of them wriggling inside my shirt and wasn’t fast enough. He got me in last part over the fence, so to speak.”

  She bent over, laughing until tears streamed down her face.

  He regarded her ruefully. “Needless to say, my war wound was not mentioned in the dispatches. Welling pointed out that I was clearly retreating when shot, and hoped he’d heard the end of the matter. Told me not to get behind in my work.”

&
nbsp; “I expect,” she gurgled, “you didn’t take that sitting down.”

  “Not for several weeks,” he admitted cheerfully.

  She shot him a wry glance. “Much the same thing happened to Sir Lancelot, you know. A huntress shot her arrow at a”—she chuckled—“oh dear, at a hind. She missed, and poor Lancelot wasn’t wearing his armor. The wound was ‘passing sore,’ and in such a place that he ‘might not sit in no saddle’.”

  His brows lifted. “Pen, you are making that up.”

  “Certainly not. Didn’t you read Malory at school? ‘Ye have mischieved me,’ said Lancelot, as well he might.”

  Laughing, John refilled her wineglass. “I gather this is not something a man ever lives down.”

  “The stuff of legends,” she agreed solemnly. “You follow an heroic tradition.”

  “The rear guard,” he riposted, sending her into whoops.

  She plastered her hands over her mouth and assumed a guileless look. “I shouldn’t tease you so,” she murmured between her fingers. “Pig farmers notwithstanding, you are most certainly a hero. Everyone says so.”

  “Tease me all you want,” he urged. “I like it. So much, in fact, that I am now going to offer further proof of my alleged heroism.” Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees. “Three years ago, on a scouting foray, I was caught behind enemy lines by a behemoth of a guard who tried to seduce me.”

  She blinked.

  “Mind you, I was disguised as a woman,” he said with a grin. “And there was no moon.”

  Pen threw up her hands. “The man must have been blind as a tree stump. No one in his right mind could mistake you for a female. Not a female human being, at any rate.”

  “Pierre could, and did. He was most importunate. ‘Ah, my leetle Brussels sprout’.” John’s deep voice rose several octaves. “ ‘Voulez-vous coucher avec moi’?”

  “What does that mean?” she demanded, eyes wide.

  He bit his wayward tongue. “Uh . . . it’s French for meet me in the barn. I was encumbered by skirts instead of pigs that night, but I practically flew out of there.”