The Runaway Bride

By Lynn Kerstan

A traditional Regency romance novella, chock full of humor, trouble, and the mysterious ways of the human heart.
At his first meeting with Miss Penelope Wright, Colonel Lord John Corbett fell head over heels in love and immediately tripped himself up. After proposing a speedy marriage, he is on his way to the London wedding when he spots her scarpering full speed in the opposite direction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynn Kerstan
• Release date: Sep 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476310640

Lynn Kerstan

Lynn Kerstan, former college professor, folksinger, professional bridge player, and nun, is the award-winning author of nine Regency romances, seven historical romances, and several novellas. A dedicated traveler and lover of history, she writes romantic adventures set in early 19th-Century England, where intrepid women and elegant, dangerous men are to be found, For many years a teacher of English literature and writing at the Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C. and the University of San Diego, Kerstan now conducts popular-fiction workshops for writers groups and conferences. When off-duty, she lives an exemplary life in Coronado, California, where she plots her stories while riding her boogie board, walking on the beach, and watching Navy SEALs jog by.

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The Runaway Bride

By Lynn Kerstan

The Runaway Bride

Copyright 2012 Lynn Kerstan

Published 2012 by Lynn Kerstan

Smashwords Edition

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Table Of Contents

The Runaway Bride

Bonus Excerpt: The Rake and The Spinster

Bonus Excerpt: The Golden Leopard

Bonus Excerpt: Gwen’s Ghost

About The Author

The Runaway Bride

I, John Corbett informed the world at large, am a happy man.

Ricco, having listened to similar declarations for the past several miles, expressed his indifference with an inelegant snort.

John’s good humor remained undiminished. Your time will come, old boy. I’ll see to it myself. Prime English stock, no expense spared, and you can make the choice yourself. Meantime, it’s my turn, so pick up the pace, will you? Fifty miles to London . . . and the woman of my dreams.

The grin, permanently carved across his face since he had met Penelope, widened at the thought. He’d seen enough of war and death to appreciate his good fortune, and was so busy counting his blessing that he nearly turned from a side road onto the path of a thundering coach.

Back, Ricco.

The enormous bay, battle-trained and smarter than most men John knew, retreated several yards.

A youngster with more capes on his coat that wits in his head had taken up the ribbons, snapping the tommy at the straining wheelers’ flanks until they lurched into a gallop. John swallowed his anger. Reckless boys, lathered horses, and irresponsible coachmen were none of his business. As the stage hurtled past, his keen eyes picked out the legend Blazing Star on the panel and lifted with casual interest to the open window. His heart skipped several beats.

Conditioned to action, he moved without thinking, chucking Ricco after the coach at a slow trot. Looks like a slight detour, he advised the horse.

What the devil was she up to? In ten days and twenty-two hours, on the thirty-first of May, Penelope Wright was to marry him at St. George’s in Hanover Square. It was all arranged, signed, and delivered. He’d advanced her repugnant father several thousand pounds to cover expenses, including the bridal trousseau and an elaborate ceremony and reception. The baron had insisted that only the best would do for his cherished firstborn child.

Now the firstborn was taking herself out of London on a common stage, for unmistakably that had been Pen’s face in the window. John swore fluently. A family crisis was the only explanation he wanted to acknowledge, but she’d no relations beyond her father and sisters and thus could not be rushing to the bedside of an expiring uncle.

One hellishly cold winter, when his regiment was forced to bivouac in an open field, he had wakened to find his hair frozen to the ground. That same fierce cold gripped him now as he considered the two reasons Pen might bolt days before her wedding,

He, of course, was one of them, but she had seemed to like him well enough. If she objected to the marriage, why the devil hadn’t she said so when he proposed? Or the next day, which was the last time he’d seen her until a few minutes ago?

A lot could happen in a month, he reflected. He should never have given her a chance to think things over and change her mind. But what the hell did he know? All his friends had advised him to get out of town and stay out of sight until the last possible moment. Females in the throes of wedding preparations would trample any man bacon-witted enough to wander underfoot.

Besides, he’d not seen Walford since his last extended leave more than six years ago, and his predecessor rarely parted with a shilling for repairs. Surely duty required him to make certain his new home was fit to welcome a bride.

The trouble was, John had little experience of civilian life and none at all as a peer of the realm. The youngest of four sons, he always figured to end his days a crusty bachelor officer, entertaining subalterns with war stories at regimental dinners. But his brothers fell like duckpins, the heir in a hunting accident, his successor of influenza, and Edgar by strangling on a hunk of tough mutton.

Suddenly plain John, the military boy who played with toy soldiers before he could walk, was Viscount Walford and heir to a sizable fortune. Even so, he declined to sell out until Bonaparte was stowed on Elba, but everything went at full speed after that. Less than a week after returning to England he met Penelope Wright and tumbled head over ears in love.

Pen was everything he’d fantasized about during the long years in Portugal and Spain and France. Once, on a ride into the countryside while recovering from a minor wound, he’d come across huge fields of sunflowers that seemed to stretch as far as the horizon. They stood tall and bright, frank and open, blazing with light. Mesmerized, he sat for hours, watching the flowers swing slowly as they tracked the sun across the sky. That day was the happiest of his life, until the first time he saw Pen.

Like the sunflowers, she was magnificent. Her wide smile lit up the ballroom. Her thick hair, every shade of sunlight from pale dawn to amber sunset, made his fingers burn to uncoil the heavy knot clamped at the back of her neck. Even her freckles reminded him of sunflower seeds.

She was three-and-twenty, on the shelf everyone said, on the town only to chaperone her incomparable sisters. He thanked his stars London men were blind, deaf, and dumb. He could scarcely believe his good fortune in finding her, and the little time he managed to spend with her confirmed his every wish. Pen was intelligent and witty, hot-tempered and sensible, and given to odd flights of fancy that intrigued him.

She’d been wary, which hurt him, although he could not be surprised. He’d bought his first commission at sixteen and spent all his life in the army. His manners showed it. When he spoke to her, words came out that bore no resemblance to those in his head. He kept looking over his shoulder to see who was saying them. He’d shed his uniform, but clearly the professional soldier was not so easily cast off. And that soldier had no address whatever.

Fortunately, Pen never ran short of words. She filled his aching silences with bright chatter, and he longed for the day when his tongue and brain joined forces to produce something intelligible in return. Meantime he was stiff as a post