The Runaway Bride Read online

  The Runaway Bride

  Sheila Walsh

  Copyright © 2019 The Estate of Sheila Walsh

  This edition first published 2019 by Wyndham Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1984

  www.wyndhambooks.com/sheila-walsh

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Cover artwork images: © Period Images / Apostrophe (Shutterstock)

  Cover design: © Wyndham Media Ltd

  Also by Sheila Walsh

  from Wyndham Books

  The Golden Songbird

  Madalena

  The Sergeant Major’s Daughter

  A Fine Silk Purse

  The Pink Parasol

  The Incomparable Miss Brady

  The Rose Domino

  A Highly Respectable Marriage

  Many more titles coming soon

  Go to www.wyndhambooks.com/sheila-walsh

  for more news and information

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Preview: Cousins of a Kind by Sheila Walsh

  Chapter One

  In the near intolerable heat of an August afternoon two horses galloped across the scorched unyielding turf of the Sussex Downs. The slighter of the two riders, finding a straggling clump of gorse in her path, put her sturdy mare at it and, with the skirt of her brown habit billowing, cleared it with an exuberant ‘Huzza!’

  Her laughter floated joyously on the still air and Henry, Viscount Linton, following close on her heels, dabbed at the perspiration beading his brow, very much aware that with the ends of his crisply waving hair already clinging in limp, straw-coloured wisps to his face, he was in imminent danger of losing the fashionable image of which he was so justifiably proud.

  ‘Enough!’ he cried at last in desperation. ‘Consuelo, you are the most complete hand! I can’t think how you manage to raise so much energy in the abominably enervating heat.’

  For answer, Consuelo Vasquez wrinkled her nose at him. It was a delightful nose, short and straight, flaring slightly above a wilfully curving mouth.

  ‘But then, mi Enrique, it is clear to me that you have never experienced Bilbao in the height of summer, for if you had you would not find this present weather so intemperate.’

  ‘Maybe,’ admitted the young man, unconvinced. ‘But it ain’t something I’d care to hazard money on. Anyway, I decree that we stop and rest for a while. See, there is a dew pond set in the shelter of that coppice yonder.’

  Without waiting for answer, he urged his mount towards the welcoming shade where he dismounted and turned to lift his companion down. Her waist was so tiny that his hands all but encompassed it as he swung her to the ground. Eyes as black and bright as ripe sloes looked wickedly aslant at him from under winged brows.

  ‘It is well, I think, that Señora Diaz is prostrate with one of her bad headaches. She would be scandalized to know that I am riding with you … alone!’

  ‘It would seem that your duenna suffers from a permanent state of the megrims. I have scarcely laid eyes on her in the two months you have been with Lady Covington.’

  ‘Poor Señora Diaz ‒ she does not care for England. The customs are strange to her, and the food makes her ill.’ Consuelo flopped down without regard for her beautiful velvet skirt and leaned back on her hands, watching him. ‘Only two months! It does not seem possible. I can scarcely remember a time when I did not know you.’

  Henry, returning from watering and tethering the horses, found his blood stirring in his veins. He wondered if she knew how much allure was conveyed in that graceful unstudied pose. He had set out quite cynically to engage her affections and had succeeded with an ease that would have flattered his ego more had he not been aware that, unworldly as she was, she was ripe to be awakened.

  What he had not expected was that he would enjoy the experience so much. It hardly seemed possible that this was the same girl who had arrived in London in June with her duenna ‒ shy, repressed and at first disbelieving of the freedom permitted to English girls of her age. It had been amusing to draw her out, to play the romantic and watch the dawning of youthful adoration, to encourage her to throw off the inhibitions that prompted her to see all pleasure as a black sin. Soon she had blossomed beyond belief ‒ sometimes a wayward innocent, sometimes incredibly mature for her years ‒ a beautiful, tantalizing creature ‒ and possessed of an immensely rich father withal!

  He crouched down and tipped the delicately pointed face up to him. ‘And I,’ he said, ‘can scarcely bear to contemplate a future without you.’

  Consuelo put up a hand swiftly to cover his. ‘It will not happen, querido,’ she told him confidently.

  Moving her skirt aside, she patted the ground beside her and was amused when he spread a large silk handkerchief on the space before committing his spotless buff breeches to the turf. She teased him often about his concern with his dress, but oh, how she admired his handsomeness and his elegance!

  ‘Have I not said?’ she continued when he was comfortably settled beside her. ‘I mean to remain here in England so that we may be married.’

  ‘You have said it, my lovely Consuelo,’ sighed his lordship. ‘But you are not free to choose, and if you were, what have I to offer you except my name? If you were not so absurdly young ‒’

  ‘I am seventeen ‒ almost eighteen years! In Spain that is not so young …’

  But she fell silent none the less, remembering that she should by now be back home in Bilbao, to be married on her birthday to the hateful Don Miguel Alfonso de Aranches, who was very old ‒ almost as old as her father ‒ and wore corsets that creaked when he bowed. She had not seen Don Miguel since their betrothal when she was fifteen, and had resolutely put from her all thought of him and the faintly clammy touch of his fingers as he raised her chin to rake her with his snake-like eyes.

  Until now. In these last weeks she had been forced to compare the fate intended for her with the almost unimaginable bliss of spending the rest of her life with Enrique. There was only one choice open to her.

  Lord Linton observed the sudden pensive frown. ‘I am right, am I not, dearest? And there’s the rub, for every time I see a carriage approaching the house, I fear that it will be your father come to carry you back to Spain.’

  Consuelo’s profile took on an imperious tilt. ‘It will not be so, I promise you. My father will by now have received my letter, and Lord Covington has also written on our behalf. He thinks very well of Lord Covington who was some kind of diplomat in Spain many years ago. They became friends, which is why my father permitted me to make this visit when my lord so kindly suggested it.

  ‘So you see,’ she laid a slim gloved hand on his arm, ‘by now it must be quite clear to him that my whole life is here with you. He cannot the
n force me into this marriage which is so utterly repugnant to me!’ Consuelo’s English had improved vastly during her stay and she delighted to use long words.

  ‘I hope you are right.’

  ‘Of course I am right,’ she declared, confident once more. ‘You will see. We are indeed fortunate to have Lord and Lady Covington for our allies, are we not? Only consider, querido ‒ if you had not been Lady Covington’s very good friend, we might never have known one another!’ So diverted was she by this happy thought that she did not observe the telltale colour that crept into his face. Abruptly he sprang to his feet.

  ‘Come.’ He held out his hands. ‘We had better be on our way.’ His tawny eyes did not quite meet hers. ‘Don’t want to take unwarranted advantage of our hosts.’

  They were within sight of Covington Manor when Consuelo lifted a hand to mark the progress along the curving driveway of a gig drawn by a sedate brown horse. ‘See ‒ my lady Covington has a visitor.’

  She turned her mount in the direction of the approaching gig, impelled by curiosity and a little by fear. For all her much-vaunted confidence she did not wish for a confrontation with her father. He was not slow to anger, and when roused he could be truly formidable.

  Henry laid a restraining hand on her bridle, and as she turned to look at him: ‘Do you suppose ‒?’ he began.

  ‘No,’ she assured him. ‘I am quite certain that my father would never travel in so insignificant a carriage.’

  They both watched in silence as the gig drew to a halt before the imposing west front of the manor house with its four fine Corinthian columns. The figure that descended and ran up the steps was clearly that of a younger man.

  ‘There! Did I not say?’ Consuelo was triumphant in her relief. The horses were set in motion once more, the path leading them between high yew hedges that masked the house from their view. When it came once more into sight, the gig had gone. She sighed. ‘Quite clearly it was a person of no account.’

  Lady Covington was alone in the yellow drawing room when her butler, Hepworth, announced to her that there was a gentleman below seeking audience with his lordship. First instincts favoured sending the visitor packing. Her husband could never be found when he was wanted, and she had no desire to entertain one of his dull cronies.

  Verena Covington was filled with ennui. She was in that wearisome lull between the departure of one group of guests and the arrival of the next. Like the selfish, beautiful woman she was, she very quickly became bored without an audience to shower her with compliments, regale her with the latest scandals and generally relieve the tedium of the days between one London Season and the next ‒ and in this, Consuelo Vasquez and Henry Linton were less than useless, having become quite tiresomely engrossed in one another. But for the debilitating heat, she might have contemplated driving into Brighton.

  She sighed and asked with an air of indifference, ‘What kind of a gentleman, Hepworth? Do we know him?’

  ‘I think not, my lady.’ The butler looked vaguely disdainful. ‘A seafaring gentleman, I would hazard.’

  A gleam of interest flickered momentarily in her sleepy green eyes. ‘Really? A contemporary of his lordship’s, would you say? An acquaintance from the late war, perhaps, though I am not aware that my husband had any particular friends in the Navy.’

  Hepworth cleared his throat. ‘Begging your pardon, my lady, but I don’t think … that is to say, I would not presume to class Captain Bannion as a contemporary of his lordship’s … not in any way, if you follow me. The captain is a younger gentleman ‒ very purposeful. Most insistent, in fact.’

  Lady Covington’s silken lashes veiled her expression as she put up a limp hand to cover a yawn. She stretched herself languidly.

  ‘Well, I suppose I had better see him. You may show him up, Hepworth ‒ and send someone to find Lord Covington. They might try the gamekeeper’s cottage. I believe he spoke of calling there.’

  As the door closed behind the butler, she rose and crossed the room to stand before one of the three pier glasses which ornamented the spaces between the windows. Her reflection showed also the white and gold furnishings ‒ a perfect setting, it could not be denied, for a woman once dubbed by the Prince Regent ‘an Aphrodite among women’. That was some years ago, it was true, but her looks were, if anything, better than ever now.

  When Captain Bannion was admitted, she was standing by the window just where the sun filtered through the muslin curtains to make an aura of light about her silver blonde hair.

  As they exchanged greetings, she saw at once why Hepworth had been faintly disparaging. The captain was a very physical man, not destined to shine in a lady’s drawing room; not more than thirty, she decided, and a little above medium height, he had the deeply bronzed look of a man more used to spending his time in the open air. Yet, for all that, his coat was well cut ‒ by Scott, perhaps, for it certainly did not bear Weston’s stamp ‒ though it was clear that he favoured comfort rather than elegance since it had been made so that he could shrug himself into it without assistance. And his buckskins displayed an excellent leg.

  Also, he did have the most devastatingly blue, blue eyes, Verena decided as she gestured gracefully for him to be seated ‒ thickly lashed eyes with interesting creases at the corners and an intolerance in their depths that was echoed in the thrust of his jaw as he made his bow. Her interest was aroused.

  ‘Is your business with my husband of a confidential nature, Captain Bannion?’ she inquired huskily as he took the chair opposite her.

  ‘No, ma’am. I daresay it concerns you quite as much as his lordship. More so, perhaps.’ His voice was firm, crisp ‒ the voice of a man accustomed to giving orders and being obeyed without question. ‘I am here on behalf of Señor Vasquez. He is much vexed by his daughter’s continuing absence from home.’ His keen eyes challenged her. ‘I understand she was to have returned home several weeks since.’

  ‘That is true.’ She met his glance with limpid innocence. ‘But surely ‒ Consuelo wrote to her father to explain. My husband also. Has the good señor not received these letters?’

  ‘He has.’ The captain’s voice was curt. ‘It is as a direct result of receiving them that I am here now to escort Señorita Vasquez home without further delay. I must ask you, ma’am, to summon her ‒ and her duenna ‒ so that arrangements may be put in hand.’

  Lady Covington raised her finely plucked brow in amused surprise. ‘Just like that, captain?’

  ‘My time is precious, ma’am. I have commitments ‒’

  ‘Maybe so. But, my dear sir, you cannot uproot a young girl at a moment’s notice, especially one of Consuelo’s temperament, without inviting severe repercussions!’ She shrugged. ‘I will not pretend that I have not expected something of this nature, though I had supposed Señor Vasquez would wish to deal with the matter personally.’

  ‘Had it been possible, he would have done so. Regrettably, the señor’s health at the present time precludes any undue exertion.’

  ‘I see. And so he sends you.’ She spoke as though the thought amused her.

  It did not, however, amuse him. ‘No one sends me anywhere, Lady Covington. I agreed to lend Señor Vasquez my support in this affair because we have been acquainted for many years, because he was ill and distressed, and because the speedy return of his daughter is of paramount importance to him. It touches upon his honour.’

  ‘Well, then.’ She shrugged again. ‘You will have some form of authorization, I presume?’

  ‘I have.’ He didn’t offer to produce it and she was not really interested. She had no wish to involve herself with tiresome details. She rose unhurriedly.

  Her silk skirts swished softly as she moved about the room, and Captain Bannion, coming to his feet also, watched her with a kind of cynical amusement, aware that she was aware that he watched.

  ‘Señor Vasquez will have told you, I suppose, that the child fancies herself in love?’

  ‘At seventeen?’ His mouth curled derisively. ‘Roman
tic twaddle, ma’am. In twelve months’ time, I doubt she will even recall the young man’s name.’

  ‘Oh, fie, sir!’ Verena whisked across the room, a subtle fragrance teasing his nostrils as she swayed perilously close to him, her beautiful green eyes lifted provocatively to his. ‘Have you no heart? Would you wrest so lovely and spirited a creature from the arms of her Adonis? For young Henry Linton is quite distractingly handsome, as well as being perfectly eligible. His father is the Earl of Gratton. Consuelo could do a lot worse!’

  He was not in the least disconcerted by her nearness; rather, he seemed to be enjoying the experience. ‘It would make no difference. The girl’s future is already decided.’

  ‘The fat, elderly Spaniard?’ She wrinkled her nose in distaste. ‘I have heard of him.’ She sighed deeply, displaying a tantalizing glimpse of milk-white breasts. ‘Such a pity! But then, I know what it is to be married to an older man!’

  Nick Bannion was no stranger to women and he knew well enough that he was being offered a none too subtle invitation. For a moment he even entertained the possibility of taking it up ‒ the lady was obviously much pampered ‒ and bored! Reluctantly he remembered his mission.

  She sensed his withdrawal and flounced away, her lip caught vexatiously between even white teeth. It was perhaps fortunate, however, for almost immediately the door opened to admit a large genial man busily engaged in mopping his face with a large spotted handkerchief.

  ‘Well now, m’dear ‒ Hepworth tells me we’ve a visitor.’ Lord Covington’s amiable glance shifted to Captain Bannion as his wife performed the introductions. ‘Servant, captain. Hepworth is on his way with some refreshment. You’ll take a glass of Madeira, eh?’

  ‘With pleasure, my lord.’

  ‘Stout fellow!’ His lordship ran the handkerchief round the back of his neck and stuffed it untidily into the pocket of his once elegant frock coat. ‘This heat ‒ quite insupportable, what? Now then, my dear sir ‒ sit down. Make yourself comfortable and tell me how I may serve you.’

  Nick Bannion explained his mission yet again, as succinctly as possible, whilst very much aware of Lady Covington’s eyes resting on him. He wondered briefly what had made her marry a man who must surely exasperate her with every breath he drew.