Free Stealing the Bride by Elizabeth Boyle

Geddington. A quaint, medieval-style town, it would probably have slipped into obscurity if it had not been for the fact that one night, some five hundred years earlier, the body of Eleanor of Castile, Queen of England, had lain in rest in the tiny hamlet during her long funeral procession back to London. For this moment in history, it proudly bore one of the legendary crosses raised by her grieving King and husband as monument to her selflessness and bravery.
    Beyond the historical significance that put the town in Billingsworth’s learned tome, the village also boasted a wheelwright…and as luck would have it, a magistrate.
    The wheelwright promised he would have the viscount’s coach fixed by morning. The magistrate was another matter.
    They had all settled at an inn, aptly named The Queen’s Respite, where the innkeeper greeted them smartly, obviously seeing a tidy sum to be had from a lady, her companion, a viscount, and a marquis.
    “Yes,” Temple said, looking around the common room. “I do believe I will stay the night with your party, Lady Diana.”
    Just as long as it takes me to engage the magistrate and his constable in securing your betrothed in the nearest cell.
    Diana frowned. “But you don’t have to stay on my account, my lord,” she said, her Bath manners coming to the forefront. “I couldn’t live with myself if I was the reason you delayed your attendance at this house party.” Her gaze narrowed. “I don’t recall hearing about any house parties being formed. Just where is it that you said you are going?”
    “I don’t recall that I said,” he told her in a blithe, breezy manner. “Besides, you need someone here to safeguard your reputation, my lady. I would be remiss as a gentleman if I didn’t add my protection to your fair and unblemished virtue.” He bowed low.
    She snorted, in that so very eccentric manner of hers. “At nine-and-twenty I don’t think I need worry about that.”
    Temple rose and leaned toward her ear. “I wouldn’t go announcing your age so loudly. Cordell is lousy at numbers, and probably still thinks you are but in your third or fourth Season.” He grinned and left the room whistling a saucy tune.
    Looking back, Temple wagered she was trying to decide which of the innkeeper’s tankards she could afford to break over his head. Before she counted out her coins, he continued out of the yard and into the town to discover where the magistrate lived.
    Unfortunately for Temple, the town official was gone, away on business until the next morning, along with the constable and the constable’s assistant. All that was left standing between Geddington and lawlessness was the magistrate’s pimpled clerk, a lad who appeared too nervous and flustered even to read the writ Temple carried, let alone execute it. Instead, he offered his assurances that his employer would be back in Geddington first thing in the morning.
    Temple muttered and cursed at this turn of luck, for there was nothing left to do but return to the inn and keep an eye on his quarry.
    Cordell proved easy to find. The viscount was settled at a table in the common room playing vingt-et-un with a florid-faced wine merchant and a traveling vicar—who looked more dissolute than holy. The stakes were already starting to pile up, and not in front of the viscount.
    Diana was nowhere in sight.
    “Where is your bride, Cordell?” Temple asked, wondering if the man even remembered that he was supposed to be traveling swiftly for the Scottish border.
    “Dunno. Went for a walk, I believe. Her and that wretched book of hers.” The viscount glanced up from his hand. “Thought tonight was going to be a dead bore, but as you can see I’ve found a fine set of company. I’d invite you to play, but as I recall you don’t.”
    Temple tapped his forehead with his finger. “Haven’t the wit to keep my cards straight, I fear.”
    Cordell’s companions looked up and eyed him as if he’d suddenly turned into a