The Most Unlikely Lady

by Barbara Devlin

  Winding his way through the complex network of greenery, Everett paused and subsequently apologized to the couples he disturbed. He veered left, then right, and then left again.

  Where could Sabrina have gone?

  Everett hadn’t realized that he was searching for a wife when he arrived at the evening gala, but he was smart enough not to pass on a golden opportunity when it so readily pounced on his feet.

  Sabrina Douglas wanted him.

  The second son.

  A man with a fortune but no title.

  How many women had turned their noses to him and sneered, I never dance with younger sons. Of course, as the boy grew into the man, and the man amassed a treasure in the transatlantic timber trade, his prospects as a suitor suddenly seemed more appealing.

  To everyone but Everett.

  And then one witty, somewhat unconventional woman danced, or rather tripped, into his staid existence. She waltzed on his toes, swore like a sailor, and ate twice the amount of any man in the room. She laughed at his jokes, elbowed him in the ribs when his teasing grew illicit, but above all, she accepted him--just as he was.

  And her sincere appreciation had somehow escaped him.

  Until now.

  “Excuse me,” said an obviously perturbed male from the shadows.

  “I beg your pardon,” Everett replied, as he interrupted another tryst. “Please, carry on.”

  How extensive was the bloody maze?

  Just as he was about to abandon his search, a feminine sniffle caught his trained ear. Peering into a hedged rose garden, he found the object of his quest, sitting on a small stone bench.

  “What were you thinking?” she asked, eyes looking to the heavens.

  Perplexed by her query, Everett paused, glanced around, and discerned they were alone.

  “To think I could ever attract a man like that.” Sabrina shook her head and emitted a soft sob. “I must have been out of my mind.”

  So her transformation was for his benefit. Conscious of his surroundings, he compressed his lips and folded his arms with nary a sound so as not to disrupt her.

  “Why, he is prettier than I am, and he could have any woman.” She snorted. “I must have been daft to think he could ever want me.”

  A tremor of surprise shivered down his spine, and he bit his tongue against a ripple of laughter, because her unintended confession was a treasure not to be missed.

  “Why would any man ever want to marry such a woman?” She sighed, and her shoulders drooped.

  Her despair, her defeat, scored a direct hit, and Everett could take no more. “That is quite a compliment, my dear, but wholly inaccurate, I assure you.”

  She spun, shock evident in her features as he emerged from the shadows. “How did you find me, and why are you here?”

  “Darling Sabrina,” he purred as he strolled in a circle about the bench, eyes pinning hers.

  Averting her stare, she wiped tears from her cheeks, and he cursed himself for making her cry. “It is Miss Douglas to you.”

  “Oh?” He chuckled at her haughty demeanor. “Since when have we become so formal?”

  “We have never been informal, Lord Markham,” she replied, cold and impersonal.

  “And you wish to marry a man with whom you have never been informal?”

  She snapped to attention. “Who said I wanted to marry you?”

  Rounding the bench, Everett stalked Sabrina, as a lion would hunt its prey. “You did, my dear.”

  “I did no such thing.” She humphed. “I made polite conversation.”

  “With yourself?” He wrinkled his nose.

  “Indeed.” She pouted and shrugged. “People talk to themselves all the time.”

  “I see.” He lowered his chin, but he believed her not for a second. “So you do not want to marry me?”

  “I did not say that.”

  “So you do want to marry me?”

  Sabrina bit her lip. “I did not say that, either.”

  “Then what do you want to do with me?” Brows arched, he hinted at something more illicit than a betrothal and could only hope she took the bait.

  “I do not...that is to say...oh, blast.” She stared at her feet, which left her unguarded.

  And Everett made his move.

  Straddling the bench, he grasped her by the waist and hauled her against him.

  Venting a plaintive cry, she pressed her palms to his chest. “Lord Markham, what are you doing?”

  “I thought it obvious, my dear.” He smiled as he prepared to conquer his prize. “I am going to kiss you.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Everett, no--”

  There was no time for protest as he enfolded her in his arms and set his mouth to hers. Their lips moved in concert, slowly at first, but quickly reached a fevered pace that could rival a Hungarian dance. Hands that were once pushing him away inched to his shoulders and squeezed, and Sabrina moaned low in her throat.

  With gentleness and patience that should qualify him for sainthood, he prodded her with his tongue, begging a sultry dance with hers. After a few frustrating seconds, she twined her fingers in his hair, pulled him impossibly closer, arched into his embrace, parted her sumptuous flesh, and came at him with a hunger to match his own. The woman was temptation personified, and Everett shuddered.

  God, she was sweet.

  The next moan was his.

  Fire raged in his loins, as had a rampant erection. How he wanted to let go the reins of lust and ride wild inside her, but he could not. He would do the honorable thing and marry her first, and then he would have his way with her--every morning, noon, and night for the rest of their lives.

  After a few desperately heated, groping minutes, they separated.

  Stunned by the power of their voracious kiss, Everett sat stone still as he struggled to maintain control of his desires and regain his composure. Hanging on by mere threads, he dared not move for fear he might topple Sabrina onto her back and take her in front of God and everyone.

  An obvious innocent, with a countenance of unutterable shock and mouth agape, Sabrina simply stared at him. Her breath came in a rush of pants, as she balled her right hand into a fist. Everett saw the punch coming but had not paid it much heed because she was, after all, only a woman.

  That was his last coherent thought as he fell, unconscious, on top of her.

  #

  “Get off me, you oafish clod.” Sabrina had not realized she was shouting as she squirmed beneath Everett’s large frame. Nor had she given any regard to the multitude of whispers growing in number until it was too late.

  Lady Cowper’s shrill scream was the first hint of the audience that had amassed in the opening of the tiny rose garden.

  Sabrina froze. “Bloody hell.”

  While everyone gathered was more than willing to watch her struggle with Everett’s weight, no one stepped forward to aid her.

  No one, that is, except her father.

  “What in the devil is going on here?” Her sire stomped into the garden and dragged Everett’s limp form from atop her. “Lord Markham, I demand--” He blinked owlishly. “Great heavens, he’s out cold.” He trapped her gaze. “Sabrina Francis, why is this man unconscious?”

  Oh, dear.

  Was it too late to plead insanity?

  Perhaps she could play the ignorant.

  She was sitting in the maze, minding her own business, and had no idea how the man came to be on her. Or she could claim that he had dropped from the sky. Then, an even better story came to mind; one that she was positive would save her posterior.

  “I tripped and fell beneath Lord Markham,” she declared with gumption. “In the process, Everett swooned.”

  “Sabrina!”

  “Well.” She winced. “You have to admit it was one of my better excuses.”

  “Young lady, I am waiting.” Her father tapped his foot in a telltale rhythm, which conveyed the depth of her predicament and portended a sound lashing.

  “Well, all right.” With ne
rvous agitation, she shuffled her feet. “I hit him.”

  For a brief respite, her father glanced at the night sky before refocusing his ire on her. “Why did you do that?” He narrowed his stare. “Was Lord Markham making improper advances on your person?”

  “Good gracious, no.” She held a hand to her throat. “Lord Markham is a perfect gentleman.”

  In a flash, she grimaced, because the words were spoken as Sabrina realized she had left herself without a justifiable excuse for her behavior. Whatever was she going to do now? “Papa, I can explain.”

  He shifted his weight. “You had better, or I will kill this man.”

  Her mind raced in numerous directions in an effort to save Everett. After all, she could not marry a corpse. At that moment, her prize mumbled. His eyelids fluttered, and Everett rubbed his jaw as if she had hurt him.

  “What happened?” He gazed, with an expression she would characterize as dazed and confused, into her sire’s angry eyes.

  To wit her father groaned. “Young man, that is precisely what I wish to know.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The following morning, as she stood before the door to her father’s study, Sabrina took one last assessment of her attire. The pale blue sprig muslin dress was Cara’s choice, not hers. She would have preferred to face her father and Everett in breeches and boots, with her trusty foil strapped to her side. Taking a deep breath, and uttering a last prayer for the health and welfare of her posterior, she knocked once and charged forth.

  Her father perched behind his imposing desk, his hands folded and rested, neat and calm, in his lap. It was an illusion--one that had not fooled Sabrina.

  Her mother, the co-prosecutor, occupied a seat beside Sabrina’s father.

  So she was to face the inquisition--what else was new?

  Everett sat in a high-back chair before the desk, with an empty mate that had been relocated for the occasion. Looking quite pale, he stood as she entered the room.

  “Mama. Papa.” Slowly, she curtseyed. “Lord Markham.”

  “Come in, my dear.” Her sire rose. “Have a seat.”

  As she took her place, Sabrina reminded herself of her plan.

  Her father was angry, and of that she had no doubt. He would insist Everett marry her, to wit she would refuse, not that she had not wanted to marry him; she just had not wanted to appear a charity case. No, she would let her father force the marriage and, by default, she would wed the man of her choosing. And though she was certain Everett loved her not, in time, she would win his heart.

  “Sabrina!”

  She flinched. “Yes, Papa?”

  He sighed, a weighty affectation often associated with her visits to his study. “I asked you a question.”

  She shifted with wild anticipation of a glorious future. “Could you repeat it?”

  Her father gazed at the ceiling and huffed a breath again. His shoulders seemed to ease when her mother placed her hand on his arm.

  “As I stated, Lord Markham has made a gracious offer.” Her father rubbed the back of his neck. “What say you, my dear? Do you wish to marry him?”

  “While I am conscious of the scandal resulting from the events of last night, I cannot allow Lord Markham to sacrifice himself for my honor. I do not wish to marry him.” With bold determination she lifted her chin and cleared her throat. “Indeed, I will not marry him.”

  The ensuing silence was deafening.

  Aware of nothing save the beat of her own heart, Sabrina was very proud of herself. She had delivered her speech as she had prepared it. All she had to do was sit back as her father ranted and raved. He would insist she marry Everett and, as a dutiful daughter should, she would acquiesce, her pride intact.

  “You can’t be serious.” Everett stared at her, wide-eyed. “Think of the malicious rumors.”

  “Lord Markham.” Her father leaned forward and rested his steepled hands on the blotter. “I love my daughter and value her happiness more than anyone’s good opinion, so I stand by her decision. If Sabrina does not wish to marry you, I will not force her.”

  Sabrina thought she would faint from the shock.

  She blinked several times and was afraid she might swoon. And Sabrina Francis Douglas would not swoon. But he had not made sense.

  Was that her father?

  Why was he not yelling?

  Why was he not pounding his fist on the desk?

  She knew the routine, had seen it many times for a wide variety of infractions. He was supposed to be forcing her into a betrothal. Whatever was she going to do now?

  “I beg your pardon.” Everett tugged at his cravat as though he had tied it too tight. “Admiral Douglas, with your permission, I would like to court Sabrina. Perhaps, with gentle persuasion, she would see fit to accept my offer. I am entirely to blame for the situation. Had I not kissed her--”

  Oh, dear.

  “You kissed her?” Her father bounded out of his seat, and his icy gaze pinned Sabrina to her chair.

  She had been hoping that particular piece of information would not present itself. In the face of her sire’s fury, she traced the pattern on the fabric-covered armrest.

  “Sabrina Francis!”

  “Yes, sir?”

  His hands settled on his hips, and she knew she was in serious trouble. “Why the devil did you not tell me Lord Markham accosted you?”

  “You did not tell him?” She was certain Everett’s amber orbs were going to pop out of his skull at any moment. “Why ever not?”

  “I forgot.” She shrugged. “And he did not accost me. We kissed--that is--he kissed me, and I kissed him.”

  Her father closed his eyes, pressed a hand to his temple, and shook his head in disbelief. Her mother appeared to be staving off tears, or possibly laughter, she was not sure which. Everett continued to stare at her as if she had sprouted horns. Bother that. A good pair of antlers might be just the thing to keep her halo atop her head.

  “Sabrina, are you sure you will not consider Lord Markham’s proposal?” her father asked in an uncharacteristically gentle fashion, which frightened her a vast deal more than his shouts in anger.

  She bit her bottom lip. If she would not change her tack, she could lose Everett, forever. What mattered more, a measure of pride or the man for which she had set her cap? Faced with such dire circumstances, the solution, when it came to her, was obvious.

  “I believe Lord Markham asked permission to court me, and I would be amenable to such a proposition, Papa.” She peered at Everett. Was that relief in his countenance?

  Her father studied her as if she was a priceless portrait, and for some reason she could not fathom, she wanted to cry. “Are you certain, my dear?”

  “Yes, Papa.” For good or ill, she nodded once. “Lord Markham may court me.”

  #

  Two days later, with a large bouquet of roses in hand, Everett bounded up the entrance stairs to 24 Upper Brook Street. After gaining admittance to the home of his lady, he waited with baited breath in the fashionable drawing room.

  Ever since the night in the maze, when he had stolen a kiss from Sabrina, his life had been a whirlwind of emotions. He still could not believe Admiral Douglas had not insisted Everett marry Sabrina.

  He had ventured to her residence, expecting her father to hurl a slew of curses on his head, and the admiral had not disappointed Everett, in that respect. Afterward, he was fully prepared to offer for her. The admiral would then threaten Everett with death if he would not marry the awkward debutante. He could spare his dignity and spend the rest of his days with the woman, laughing all the way.

  That had not happened.

  Instead, the man supported his daughter’s refusal of his proposal.

  Who would have thought it?

  He supposed a gentleman would have accepted her rejection. And prior to that night, he might have. But Everett could not, would not. Not now.

  Not after that amazing kiss.

  So, faced with the prospect of losing her, he had done
the only thing possible. He had requested permission to court his most unlikely lady. Of course, he had not doubted his ability to win her. Attracting the fairer sex had never been a problem. But one single fact nagged his conscience.

  Sabrina had refused his proposal.

  Prior to the meeting in the admiral’s study, Everett would have sworn she was indifferent to his lack of title. The quirky Miss Douglas seemed unconcerned with social status and rank among the ton. Could he have been wrong? Was her new hairstyle and flattering attire an attempt to ensnare a better prospect?

  For that reason, Everett had never felt more uncertain--or unworthy--in his life.

  The previous day had been spent purchasing various objects of affection, all intended to declare his suit. Today was only the beginning. To mark the special occasion, he had chosen red roses, the bloom of love, for the commencement of their courtship. As would any other female, Sabrina would fuss and preen, and perhaps express her gratitude in the currency he cherished most. At the thought, he smiled.

  “Lord Markham.” She curtseyed.

  Ah, there she stood. He held the bouquet behind his back. “Hello, my dear. As I have secured permission to court you, you must call me Everett. May I address you as Sabrina?”

  “You may.” She narrowed her stare. “What are you hiding from me?”

  “I can see I will never be able to pull the wool over your eyes.” He chuckled, straightened his back, and presented her with an offering to her beauty. “These are for you.”

  “Oh?” Sabrina studied the fragrant flowers. “It is not my birthday.”

  “My dear, they are a gift.” Waiting for acknowledgement, he shifted his weight, and his smug, self-satisfied confidence faltered. “Do I need an excuse to give you something which might bring a smile to your lovely face?”

  “I suppose not.” Turning the bouquet in her grasp, she looked at him as if he had spoken some long dead language she could not comprehend. “But whatever am I to do with them?”

  As if on cue in a romantic comedy of errors, Cara, holding a cut-glass vase filled with water, entered the room. Without a word, she approached her younger sister, took the roses, placed them in the vase, and set them on a nearby table.