The Christmas Runaway Bride (Regency Runaway Brides)

On Christmas Eve, Lady Isabella Hartley discovers a devastating truth about her groom—and flees the altar rather than marry a man who ruined an innocent young woman. With nowhere else to turn, she disguises herself as a humble teacher and takes refuge at a London charity school, hoping to disappear until the scandal dies down.

Reginald Winterbourne, the new Earl of Winterbourne, is fighting to restore his family's tarnished reputation after his twin brother's notorious misdeeds. Determined to prove himself different from the rake everyone remembers, he dedicates himself to charitable works—including organizing Christmas festivities for the city's most forgotten children.

Working side by side through the Twelve Days of Christmas, Isabella and Reginald discover an unexpected kinship. He sees past her disguise to the compassionate woman beneath. She sees past his title to the grieving, honorable man struggling under the weight of another's sins. But Isabella's deception grows heavier with each passing day, and when the truth inevitably surfaces, will their fragile connection survive?

A heartwarming tale of second chances, found family, and discovering that sometimes the bravest choice is to follow your heart—even when Society says otherwise.

Chapter 1

The morning of Christmas Eve dawned cold and bright over Mayfair, and Lady Isabella Hartley woke with dread coiled tight in her chest.

Today she would marry Lord Dashmire.

She lay still beneath her coverlet, watching pale winter light creep across the ceiling of her bedchamber. Outside her window, London stirred to life, carriages clattering over cobblestones, a street vendor’s distant cry, the church bells of St. George’s marking the hour. In six hours, those same bells would ring for her wedding.

Lord Dashmire was wealthy, titled, and had impeccable manners. Her father had been delighted by his offer. Her mother had wept with joy. Even her friends had congratulated her on such an advantageous match.

And yet…

She pressed a hand to her stomach, willing away the unease that had plagued her since accepting his proposal three months ago. There was nothing wrong with Lord Dashmire, not really. He was handsome in a cold sort of way, always proper, always correct. But his eyes never warmed when he looked at her, and his compliments felt rehearsed, as though he were reciting lines from a play he had no interest in performing.

“My lady?” Her maid Laura’s voice came softly through the door. “Your family has arrived. Your mother asks that you come down to greet them.”

Isabella sat up, pushing back the covers. “I’ll be down directly.”

Twenty minutes later, dressed in a simple morning gown of pale blue muslin, Isabella descended to the drawing room where her family had gathered. Her father stood by the fire, looking pleased with himself. Her mother fussed with the arrangement of hothouse roses that had arrived yesterday from Dashmire. And there, just removing his greatcoat, was her older brother Nathanial.

“Bella!” Nathanial crossed the room to embrace her, but something in his face made her heart skip. He looked grave, almost ill, and when he pulled back, his eyes were troubled.

Behind him, his wife Hester stood near the doorway, her pretty face carefully composed. But Isabella had known Hester since childhood, and she could read the tension in every line of her sister-in-law’s body.

“We came as soon as we received your letter,” Nathanial said, too heartily. “Wouldn’t miss your wedding for the world.”

“How kind of you to make the journey from Derbyshire in winter,” their mother said, kissing Hester’s cheek. “And so close to Christmas, too. You must stay through Twelfth Night.”

“We wouldn’t dream of imposing,” Hester murmured. “We’ve taken rooms at Nathanial’s townhouse.”

Isabella’s unease deepened. Nathanial’s London townhouse stood empty most of the year. Why would they stay there instead of here, in the family home, on the night before her wedding?

“Isabella, dear,” Hester said, with a brightness that rang false, “might I see your wedding dress? I’m dying to admire it.”

“Of course.” Isabella forced a smile. “It’s in my dressing room. Come up.”

Her mother waved them away. “Go on, girls. I must speak with Cook about tomorrow’s wedding breakfast.”

Isabella led Hester upstairs, acutely aware of Laura following at a discreet distance. They climbed two flights to Isabella’s bedchamber, then through to the small dressing room beyond, where her wedding gown hung like a ghost against the wall, all white silk and delicate lace, beautiful and suffocating.

The moment the door closed behind Laura, Hester’s composure cracked.

“Isabella.” She grasped both of Isabella’s hands, her grip almost painful. “We must talk. Nathanial didn’t know how to tell you, so he brought me, but even now I hardly know where to begin.”

“You’re frightening me.” Isabella’s voice came out smaller than she intended.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Hester released her hands and pressed her own to her face for a moment, collecting herself. Then she looked up, meeting Isabella’s eyes directly. “You cannot marry Lord Dashmire.”

The words hung in the air between them.

“What?” Isabella whispered.

“You cannot marry him. He is...” Hester’s voice broke. “He is not the man your father believes him to be.”

Laura moved closer, her young face tight with concern. Isabella sank onto the small chair before her dressing table, her legs suddenly unsteady.

“Tell me,” she said.

Hester drew a shaky breath. “You remember my cousin Flora? She stayed with us two seasons ago, hoping to

find a husband in London.”

Isabella nodded. Flora had been sweet and shy, the daughter of Hester’s impoverished uncle. The season had not gone well for her, no dowry, no connections, no offers. She had returned to Derbyshire in disgrace.

“Lord Dashmire paid her particular attention that season,” Hester continued. “He was charming, attentive. He courted her properly, or so we all believed. There were flowers, poetry, drives in the park. Flora thought herself the luckiest girl in England.”

Isabella’s hands were ice in her lap.

“He took liberties,” Hester said flatly. “In a dark corner at a ball, in his carriage, in...” She stopped herself. “It doesn’t matter where. What matters is that he compromised her thoroughly, repeatedly, and she, poor fool, believed he would marry her. He had all but promised it.”

“Dear God,” Isabella breathed.

“When she told him she expected his proposal...” Hester’s jaw tightened. “He laughed at her. He said he had no intention of marrying a penniless nobody. He told her she should be grateful for the attention, that girls like her should know better than to expect marriage from men like him.”

The dressing room seemed to tilt. Isabella gripped the edge of her dressing table.

“Flora was ruined,” Hester said. “Utterly ruined. We brought her home as quietly as we could, claiming she was needed to help with the children. But the truth is, no decent man will have her now, and it’s entirely Dashmire’s fault. She lives with us as our governess, dependent on our charity, with no prospects and no future, all because she trusted a man who saw her as nothing more than an amusement.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” Isabella’s voice shook. “When he offered for me, why didn’t you...”

“We didn’t know!” Hester’s eyes filled with tears. “Flora was too ashamed to tell us the whole truth until last week. She finally broke down and confessed everything. The moment Nathanial learned you were engaged to Dashmire, we came at once. We would have been here sooner, but the roads...”

“Does Papa know?”

Hester shook her head. “Nathanial tried to speak with him, but your father wouldn’t hear it. He said Flora was a silly, lying girl trying to damage Dashmire’s reputation out of spite. He refused to cancel the wedding.”

Of course he did. Lord Hartley had been chasing a connection to the Dashmire fortune for years. He would never let a governess’s accusations stand in his way.

Isabella looked at her wedding dress, that beautiful shroud of silk and lace, and felt bile rise in her throat. In six hours, she would walk down the aisle of St. George’s and pledge herself to a man who had ruined an innocent girl and laughed about it. A man who would have power over her fortune, her body, her entire future.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t marry him.”

“I know.” Hester knelt beside her chair, taking her hands again. “I know, darling. That’s why we came.”

“But what can I do? Papa will never cancel the wedding. If I refuse, he’ll...” Isabella couldn’t even finish the thought. Her father’s temper was legendary.

“Then don’t refuse,” Laura said quietly.

Both women turned to look at the maid. Laura’s face was pale but determined.

“Don’t refuse the wedding,” she repeated. “Just don’t be there.”

“Run away?” Isabella’s heart began to pound. “Where would I go? Papa would find me within hours.”

“Not if you disappeared properly.” Laura moved to the wardrobe and began pulling out garments. “Not if no one knew where to look.”

“Laura, what are you suggesting?” Hester asked.

The maid turned, holding a plain grey dress, the governess gown Flora had left behind two years ago, forgotten in the back of the wardrobe.

“My lady has been so kind to me,” Laura said, addressing Isabella directly. “When I was sick last winter, you paid for the doctor yourself. When my mother died, you gave me wages enough to bury her proper. I won’t see you married to a man like Dashmire. I won’t.”

“But Laura...”

“Listen to me, please.” Laura’s voice was urgent now. “In that dress, with your hair done plain, you could be any shopkeeper’s daughter, any clerk’s wife. No one would look twice at you. And I know a place you could go, at least for a few days, until, until we can think what to do.”

“What place?” Hester asked sharply.

“St. Catherine’s Charity School, in Southwark. My sister Mary volunteers there sometimes. They’re always desperate for teachers, especially during the holidays when most of the volunteers go home to their families. The headmistress, Mrs. Dawson, she’s a good woman, my lady. She’d take you in, no questions asked, if you had a letter of recommendation.”

Isabella stared at the grey dress in Laura’s hands. A charity school in Southwark.

“I could write the letter,” Hester said slowly. “I could say you’re the daughter of our village vicar, looking for a teaching position. I could...” Her eyes lit with sudden purpose. “What name shall we use?”

“Mary Edwards,” Laura said immediately. “It’s common enough. No one would question it.”

“This is madness,” Isabella whispered. But even as she said it, she felt something kindle in her chest. Hope, perhaps. Or desperation. “Papa will be furious. The scandal...”

“Better a scandal than a lifetime married to that monster,” Hester said fiercely. “Isabella, you’re twenty years old. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don’t let our father sell you to a man who sees women as disposable playthings.”

Isabella looked from Hester to Laura, these two women who cared for her enough to risk everything. Then she looked at her wedding dress, hanging white and perfect and damning against the wall.

“How much time do we have?” she asked.

Laura glanced at the clock. “The wedding is at two o’clock. We should leave within the hour, while your parents are occupied with preparations.”

An hour to unmake her entire life.

“Tell me what to do,” Isabella said.

*

They moved with quiet efficiency. Hester sat at Isabella’s writing desk and composed a letter of recommendation. Laura packed a small valise with the plainest of Isabella’s undergarments, two chemises, stockings, a shawl, and the grey governess dress.

“You’ll need coin,” Hester said, pulling a purse from her reticule. “Take this. It’s all I have with me, but it should be enough for a week or two.”

“I can’t take your money...”

“You can and you will.” Hester pressed the purse into Isabella’s hands.

Isabella nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.

“Now, we must get you changed,” Laura said. “Quickly, my lady.”

With shaking hands, Isabella removed her morning gown and stays. The governess dress was looser than her own clothes, the fabric coarse and worn. Laura helped her into it, then attacked her hair, pulling it back into a severe knot at the nape of her neck.

When Isabella looked in the mirror, a stranger stared back. Without her usual ringlets and fine clothes, she looked younger, plainer, entirely unremarkable. Perfect.

“What now?” she asked Hester.

“Go to our townhouse. Nathanial is there now. He’ll help you get to Southwark safely.”

Isabella embraced her sister-in-law tightly. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Be safe,” Hester whispered back. “And don’t come back until Dashmire has given up looking for you.”

Laura led Isabella down the servants’ stairs, the narrow, dark passage Isabella had never used in her life. They moved silently past the kitchen, where Cook argued with a footman about tomorrow’s menu, and slipped out through the scullery door into the mews behind the house.

The cold hit Isabella like a slap. She had no cloak, only her thin shawl, and already she could feel the December wind cutting through the worn fabric of her dress. Laura pressed the valise into her hands.

“Walk toward Oxford Street, then hire a hackney to Jermyn Street,” Laura said urgently. “Keep your head down. Don’t speak to anyone if you can help it.”

“What will you tell my parents?”

“That you went for a walk to settle your nerves. By the time they start looking for you properly, you’ll be long gone.” Laura’s eyes were bright with tears. “God bless you, my lady.”

She turned and walked out of the mews into the street beyond.

*

The journey to Nathanial’s townhouse passed in a blur. Isabella kept her head down, one hand clutching her valise, the other holding her shawl tight against the wind. A hackney driver barely glanced at her when she gave him the Jermyn Street address.

Nathanial answered the door himself, still in his shirtsleeves, and nearly didn’t recognize her.

“Good God, Bella.” He pulled her inside quickly, looking past her into the street. “You actually did it.”

“Hester said you would help me.”

“Of course I will.” He led her to the small parlor and rang for his housekeeper. “Mrs. Barnes, we need a cloak, something warm, something plain. Quickly, please.”

While they waited, Nathanial paced. “Papa will tear London apart looking for you.”

“I know.”

“Dashmire will be livid. He’ll demand...” Nathanial stopped himself. “Actually, I don’t care what he demands. He deserves this and worse for what he did to Flora.”

Mrs. Barnes returned with a serviceable wool cloak, dark grey and patched at the hem. Isabella wrapped it around herself gratefully.

“Where are you going?” Nathanial asked.

“St. Catherine’s Charity School, in Southwark. I’m to be Miss Mary Edwards, a teacher.”

He pulled her into a fierce embrace.

“You’re the bravest woman I know,” he said roughly. “Stay safe, little sister. And send word through Laura when you can. We’ll find a way through this.”

He helped her into a hired coach, not his own carriage, nothing that could be traced, and gave the driver the Southwark address along with twice the usual fare. Then he stood on his doorstep and watched until the coach turned the corner.

The streets grew narrower and dirtier as they traveled south. Grand townhouses gave way to modest shops, then to cramped tenements and warehouses. The Thames appeared, dark and sluggish, its banks crowded with wherries and coal barges. This was a London Isabella had never seen, the London of the poor, the desperate, the forgotten.

The coach stopped before a narrow building of sooty brick, three stories tall and cheerless. A painted sign above the door read: ST. CATHERINE’S CHARITY SCHOOL FOR CHILDREN.

Isabella stood on the pavement, clutching her valise. Behind her, the coach rattled away. Ahead, the school’s front door stood closed against the cold.

From somewhere inside, she heard children’s voices raised in song, a Christmas carol, slightly off-key but full of earnest joy.

God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay...

Isabella thought of the bells at St. George’s that should have been ringing for her wedding in just a few hours. She thought of her father’s fury, her mother’s tears, the scandal that would come.

Then she thought of Flora, ruined and forgotten, her life destroyed by a man’s casual cruelty.

Isabella climbed the steps and knocked on the door.

After a moment, it opened to reveal a woman in her sixties, grey-haired and bespectacled, wearing a plain brown dress and a look of mild surprise.

“May I help you, miss?”

Isabella drew a breath and stepped forward into her new life.

“My name is Mary Edwards,” she said. “I’ve come about the teaching position.”

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