The Most Unlikely Lady

by Barbara Devlin

  The Most Unlikely Lady

  Barbara Devlin

  COPYRIGHT

  Cover Art by Lyndsey Lewellen

  Copyright © 2012 Barbara C. Noyes

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to my little sister Carla Castillo, who, much like the heroine of this story, always marches to the beat of her own drummer. Carla, you are fun and fearless, and you have a heart of gold.

  To my father Eddie. Thank you, Dad, for loving me unconditionally.

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  Excerpt from One-Knight Stand

  PROLOGUE

  The Ascendants

  England

  The Year of Our Lord, 1313

  “I have a daughter.”

  The stars mocked Arucard as he gazed at the night sky, and his brother knights, the last surviving Templar mariners and first members of the Brethren of the Coast, a fledgling order formed by Edward II, remained conspicuously silent. Since his marriage, he had received one command from the King, to produce a suitable heir, and in that he had failed. Swallowing his disappointment, he scratched his head, kicked a small stone, and sighed.

  “Commiserations, brother.” Demetrius frowned, handing him a tankard of ale. “How is Isolde taking it?”

  “She must be devastated,” added Morgan.

  “Inconsolable, I imagine.” Geoffrey poured two more tankards, passed one to Aristide, and set the pitcher on the bench.

  “Well, her reaction has been quite curious.” Propping an elbow on his thigh, Arucard rested his chin in his palm. “She seems--”

  “Hysterical?” Aristide shook his head. “Poor thing. Must be disconsolate.”

  “On the contrary, my wife is overjoyed.” Arucard gazed at his fellow Nautionnier Knights and grimaced. “And I am at a loss to understand her response.”

  “Perhaps reality has yet to set in.” Morgan offered a reassuring pat on the back. “I mean, she carried the babe in her womb for nine months, only to discover it was not a boy. It cannot be easy for her.”

  “All that labor for nothing.” Demetrius clucked his tongue. “But Isolde is still young. You have many opportunities to succeed.”

  “And a girl can be of some use,” said Geoffrey, although he appeared pressed to explain his assertion.

  “Oh, really?” Arucard arched a brow. “How so?”

  Morgan snapped his fingers. “They cook.”

  “They clean,” chimed Aristide.

  Painful silence hung in the air.

  Seconds ticked past.

  His fellow knights shared discomfiting glances.

  “They sew,” offered Demetrius.

  “Wonderful.” Arucard slumped forward. “I have produced a future serving wench.”

  “Now, wait a minute.” Aristide stood. “There are many benefits to be had in the fairer sex.”

  “Name one.” Arucard narrowed his stare.

  “They are quite lovely to admire,” replied Aristide.

  “As is green water when it washes over the rail, but it is never a good sign when you are at sea,” countered Arucard.

  “How can you compare your daughter to green water?” Geoffrey shrugged. “What harm can she do?”

  “Precisely.” Demetrius took a healthy swig of ale. “Now, boys, on the other hand, are a world of trouble.”

  “Exactly.” Morgan slapped a hand to his thigh. “Boys are always more difficult than girls, because boys must be educated. You have to teach them how to handle a sword.”

  “And any son of yours must learn to sail,” said Aristide, to a chorus of agreement that rustled a bird from a nearby perch.

  “He would have to know how to fish. Think of the demands on your time.” Demetrius pointed in emphasis. “A daughter is Isolde’s responsibility. What have you to share with a girl?”

  “Brothers, you have eased the weight of my burden.” Arucard emptied his tankard. “You are right, a daughter can be a blessing in disguise. I mean, what trouble could she cause?”

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Descendants

  London

  April, 1812

  For most young women, attracting a man was as simple as breathing. Inhale. Exhale. A reflex action executed with little or no effort.

  Simple.

  But Sabrina Douglas considered courting something more akin to having a tooth extracted. Necessary, if she wished to marry, but painful--downright agonizing.

  Standing in the entranceway of Hawthorn Hall, she craned her neck and surveyed the crush. Her intended target Lord Everett Markham, dark, dangerous, and devastatingly handsome, stood amid a crowd of rakes. He glanced up, and she was certain he spied her.

  “Sabrina, your wrap,” her father prompted.

  As she gave her cloak to the footman, she kept her eyes averted. Everett fast approached their group, and she fought the urge to assess his reaction when he saw her--the new Sabrina--for the first time.

  Yes, that was the moment for which she had been waiting.

  The reason she had allowed herself to be poked and prodded while she was fitted for new gowns. The reason she had passed the morning with a gooey beauty potion slathered over her cheeks. The reason she had bit her tongue while that fussy Frenchman cut her hair. Had the tight curls framing her face seemed as ridiculous as she thought they appeared? Cara, her older sister and Miss Perfect, assured Sabrina that she had never looked lovelier.

  Indeed, that singular fragment of time was why she had spent the better part of winter walking up and down the stairs of their country manor, while balancing a book on her head. And with all that practice she still could not descend a flight of stairs without dropping the blasted old tome. As a soldier heading into battle, she had prepared herself for the start of the Season.

  Everett shook hands with her father, Admiral Mark Douglas. He bowed before her mother, Lady Amanda, and Cara.

  Sabrina was next.

  What had Cara said? Stare at your feet, and pretend not to notice him. Just stand there, looking like you don’t care.

  That advice had been a mistake.

  It reminded her of the daring, low-cut bodice of her gown, and telltale warmth flooded her cheeks. The dressmaker assured Sabrina the emerald silk contrasted nicely with her raven hair and cerulean eyes. She hoped the bloody woman was right.

  “Miss Douglas.” Everett swept her an elegant bow.

  With feigned surprise, Sabrina smiled. “Lord Markham.” Was her voice too high pitched? “How wonderful it is to see you again.” He quirked his brows at her greeting, and she suppressed a shiver as he took her gloved hand and raised it to his lips.

  “May I compliment your sense of fashion?”
His gaze scrutinized her from head to foot, and she wanted to run for the hills. “Daresay I almost did not recognize you.”

  Anticipation licked at her nerves, and she peered into the crowd, attempting to appear disinterested. “Perhaps I am not the woman you thought I was, my lord.”

  “Perhaps not.” His voice was as thick as the beauty muck she had smeared on her face as he held out his arm. “Would you allow me the honor of escorting you?”

  “I suppose you will do.” Her heart beat wildly in her chest when he chuckled at her response, and she reconsidered her plan.

  “You know, I expected no less than a saucy reply, and you did not disappoint me.” Everett shot her a boyish grin. “I wondered if your outward transformation had an impact on your charming personality. But to my relief, you seem to be in fine form.”

  “I am not sure if you are complimenting or insulting me, Lord Markham.” Sabrina lifted her chin and fixed her stare on the back of her sister’s head. “And I know of no such transformation. I merely made additions to my wardrobe during the summer.”

  “And you have restyled your hair.” He quirked his brows. “Oh, my, are you wearing rouge?”

  “I have done nothing of the sort.” She lied. “And my personal habits are none of your affair. If you do not cease your mindless prattle, I shall trounce your toes.”

  “Relax, my dear. I merely took note of the changes in your appearance. I thought all young ladies lived in hope of such praise,” he teased. “And, if memory serves, you will trounce my toes regardless of intent.”

  “Now you are insulting me.” In that instant, Sabrina quit the field. Her short-lived campaign to catch a husband at an end, she resolved to contract the plague and die at the first opportunity.

  “Stating a fact, my dear. So you deny the renovations to your person?” The insufferable man had the nerve to wink. “If that is your story, Miss Douglas, you stay with it.”

  They navigated the throng until they came to an arched opening. Couples whirled on the polished marble floor, beneath elegant crystal chandeliers. Vases filled with a wild mix of hyacinths, tulips, and white roses stood on pedestals in every corner, and their subtle bouquet hung in the air. A musical ensemble occupied the center of the back wall of the luxurious mirrored ballroom.

  Conscious of the multitude stares in their direction, Sabrina inhaled deeply. She had not anticipated the attention her unconventional campaign would attract and, given her less than stellar social performances in the past, she was unaccustomed to the limelight.

  “Shall we dance?” he inquired, with a squeeze of her hand.

  “Oh--I mean--yes. That is, it would be my honor, Lord Markham.” It was hell being a lady.

  Biting her lip and swallowing an unladylike curse, she followed his lead to the dance floor, sucking in a breath as his arm encircled her waist, pulling her close to his sinewy frame. Her ears pealed with excitement, as the bells in a Wren steeple, and fire coursed her veins, as every nerve charged.

  What had happened to her?

  As casual acquaintances, Sabrina had danced with Everett on many occasions and had often teased him, as would a distant relative. For his part, he always seemed disinterested, so that time could be no different.

  But it was different.

  Deep down inside, where she was always brutally honest with herself, she had to admit there was something drastically unfamiliar and enticing in the way he held her. How his arm anchored her near as they twirled to the soft beat of the music, and the way his thighs brushed her skirts. And whereas before he would stare at the crowd from over her head, searching for a new ladybird, no doubt, his amber eyes now captured hers. Sabrina stumbled and stepped hard on his foot.

  “Ouch.” His brow creased.

  “So sorry, Lord Markham.” She was supposed to be charming, alluring, and seductive. At least, that was the advice Cara had given. But, true to form, she was a poor excuse for her sex, and Sabrina lowered her head in defeat.

  “Tell me, my dear Miss Douglas, has anyone ever mistaken you for a lady?”

  In an instant, she lifted her chin. “No more than have mistaken you for a gentleman.”

  “Well said, my dear.” He laughed, and she realized he had deliberately baited her.

  How many times had Everett taunted her with the same insult, and why could she not resist him? Because she had not wanted to resist--a fact of which she suspected he was well aware.

  “You, sir, are a devil.” She smiled and lost her footing once more.

  “Oomph.” Everett winced. “Tell me you are not doing that on purpose.”

  “Certainly not.” She chucked his shoulder and focused on their dance. “I am clumsy by nature, as you well know.”

  When the music ended, Everett escorted Sabrina to her group of friends.

  “What are you so smug about?” Cara whispered in her ear, moments later. “Having some success?”

  Sabrina clenched her fists as Everett circled the dance floor with yet another beauty in his embrace. The man must have Herculean vigor, and again she wondered if she could compete in his league. Although she hated to admit it, she wanted to be the one for him--not the one of many.

  “Well, we have danced twice.” She frowned. “I suppose it would not be prudent to risk a third.” In silence, she counted the Brethren of the Coast, her lifelong friends, as they made rotations with various partners. Then she realized she had not seen Everett go by, and in a second, she scoured the room.

  Near the terrace doors, she spotted her connubial conquest as he reached into his waistcoat pocket and checked his timepiece. With a glance left and then right, he backed through the doors and slipped into the darkness beyond.

  What was he about?

  “It is dreadfully warm in here.” Sabrina fanned herself with her hand, exaggerating her movements. “I believe I will step outside for a bit of fresh air.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Cara asked.

  “No.” She shook her head, as she required no additional witnesses to what could be grave humiliation. “I will only be a moment.”

  With a casual pace, though fighting the urge to charge forth, she strolled to the same exit through which Everett had disappeared. Sabrina stepped quietly onto the tiled floor, so as not to disturb the laconic rendezvous inhabiting the shadows. As she navigated the gardens, a wicked thought crossed her mind. Perhaps tonight she would kiss Everett. Or was the man supposed to initiate such behavior? On the thought, gooseflesh covered her from head to foot, and she wrapped her arms about herself.

  A graveled path led to the opening of a meticulously groomed labyrinth. The lilting singsong of lovers mingled with the crunch of pebbles beneath her slippers, and she shivered, though she knew not why.

  Oh, where could Everett have gone?

  Was he not supposed to be chasing her? And then Sabrina homed in on his voice, smooth as well-churned butter, coming from the labyrinth. As she stood beneath the entrance to the maze, a pergola covered in pink climbing roses, she focused on his rich baritone, letting it guide her through the manicured hedges. Sabrina veered left, then right, and then left again.

  To whom was he talking?

  Another turn brought her to a small opening and what appeared to be a dead-end. A flirty feminine laugh brought her up short.

  The silvery light of the moon cast the silhouettes of her prince charming and a mystery woman in a clearing. With arms entwined, there was no possibility theirs was a family reunion. And Everett had never hugged Sabrina like that.

  “Darling, why so reticent?” The strange lady kissed Everett, and a familiar giggle tickled Sabrina’s ears. “Surely you are not interested in that gawky Douglas girl? What you need is a real woman.”

  She flinched at the inference and at once recognized the voice. The enemy was none other than Lady Moreton, a petite young widow, who was everything Sabrina was not, and she drew his head to her again.

  No.

  She wanted to cry out, to rush in, to part the lov
ers and halt their play, but she could not, because Everett was not hers to claim.

  He never had been hers.

  Her brief but ill-fated campaign had been a lark, because Everett was truly out of her league. With a heavy heart, Sabrina took one last look at the man for which she had set her cap and tiptoed away.

  #

  It was at that very moment Everett broke the kiss and gazed in horror as Sabrina fled. Setting the lovely widow aside, he cleared his throat and tugged at the lace trim of his sleeves.

  “It would appear, my lady, that I have acquired a fondness for gawky women. You may consider this an end to our arrangement and feel free to plant your affections elsewhere,” he said, offering a dutiful bow.

  “Arrogant bastard.” Lady Moreton snickered. “I can name ten men who would kill to have me--and they have titles.”

  The virago had pricked his Achilles heel, and Everett suddenly wondered what had attracted him to her in the first place. As she stormed off in a huff, he headed in the opposite direction.

  For all of the last ten minutes he had tried to convince himself he could ignore the inimitable Miss Sabrina Douglas. His jaw had almost hit the floor when he first set eyes on her in the foyer. But when she removed her cloak, he was positive lightning had struck his gut. He could not get over the change in her appearance. Although they had done nothing more than dance, his blood still boiled after holding her in his arms.

  They had not met since the last assembly of the Little Season. Thereafter, she had retired to the country for the holidays. The woman who had returned to London sounded like Sabrina, and acted like Sabrina, but had most definitely not looked like Sabrina. The jewel-toned dress encasing her body was a siren song of sensuous femininity, which was a drastic departure from the plain, immature, and unflattering styles she usually favored.

  What man could resist her?

  Certainly, not him--not that he ever could. Her frank honesty bordered on the improper and always delighted him, because with her there was no façade. Sabrina was genuine, and amid the various gems of society, he believed she was a diamond of the first water that he had grossly overlooked and neglected.