The Most Unlikely Lady

by Barbara Devlin

  Rocking on his heels, he clucked his tongue. “You knew that when you married me.”

  “I did.” She giggled. “And I like it.”

  Oh, yes. Sabrina wanted him, and he rested his hands on the sumptuous curves of her bottom. “Do you?”

  Her breath hitched as he kneaded her pliant flesh, and he thrust his hips in a suggestive rhythm. “What else do you like?”

  Closing her eyes, she nuzzled him. “The way you make me feel.”

  “Tell me.”

  “All warm inside.” Her brow furrowed. “It is similar to the first time I drank brandy, but without the choking.”

  Though Everett was not in a comedic mood, he could not suppress a chuckle. “Sabrina, you say the damnedest things.”

  “You knew that when you married me.” She snuggled close.

  “I did.” He waggled his brows. “And I like it.”

  “What else do you like?” she asked in the throaty tone that told him she was primed for passion.

  “The way you make me feel.” Was there not something about which he needed to speak with her?

  Sabrina pressed herself to him, and rational thought escaped him. “Tell me.”

  “As if I could conquer the world.” He uttered the words before he realized what he had said. “If only to deposit the spoils at your feet.”

  His beguiling bride cast him the misty-eyed expression that declared he had managed to touch her without actually touching her. “But I do not want the world.”

  How he loved her. “What do you want?”

  “You.” Perched on her tiptoes, she whispered against his lips, “Only you.”

  The kiss he bestowed on her that time was hard and tinged with urgency impossible to deny. When next Everett lifted his head, they both breathed erratically.

  “I want you.” He glanced left then right. “Now.”

  “Here?” Was he mistaken or had she looked interested?

  “No. Though the stalls are clean, I do not relish the idea of someone interrupting us.” Everett peered skyward. “How about the loft?”

  “Oh, my lord.” Sabrina giggled her naughty giggle. “Last one there is a rotten egg.”

  Offering his escort, he led her to the wooden ladder access to the hayloft. “After you, my dear.”

  With a mischievous grin, she draped the skirts of her riding habit over one arm, clutched a rung, and began her ascent.

  He waited until she was half way up to follow. When he checked her progress, he was treated with a spectacular view of her bare bottom. Whistling a frisky little ditty, he hastened his pursuit.

  Approximately twenty minutes later, Everett recalled what had plagued his morning ride and spurred his quick return to the stables. As had become her post-coital custom, Sabrina drew imaginary circles on his naked backside. With a frown, he propped himself on his elbows.

  “Darling, there is something I have been meaning to ask you.” For a few seconds, he searched for the proper words with which to frame his delicate query. “When I near a certain point in our lovemaking, you put your hands on my posterior and squeeze rather roughly.”

  “Have I displeased you?” Sabrina appeared crestfallen. “Do you not like it?”

  “On the c-contrary,” he stammered. Bloody hell, his cheeks burned--and he referred not to the ones on which he sat. “I like it very much. But how do you know when to do it?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You mean just before you howl?”

  “I beg your pardon?” That was his worst nightmare. “I do not howl.”

  Whistling in monotone, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, yes you do.”

  “Madame wife, I assure you I do no such thing.” The gentleman in him would not allow it. “I merely groan my pleasure.”

  “What is this?” She pinched his arse. “Is my shameless lord embarrassed?”

  “Do you not want to know my secret?” When Everett tried to disengage, she wrapped her legs about him. “What signals that you are about to howl?”

  “Do tell.” His male ancestors must be rolling in their graves, as Markham men were known for their talent with ladies.

  “You get gooseflesh.” It was apparent Sabrina tried to keep a straight face, but in the end she succumbed to another flirty giggle. She settled her palms on his backside, and her fingers sank into his flesh. “Right here. When I feel it, I squeeze, and then you howl.”

  “I do not howl,” he reiterated through gritted teeth. Of course, he might have argued the fact more had she not, at that instant, kneaded his bottom.

  Bloody hell, it felt good.

  In less than two seconds, he was aroused. So, there was only one thing to do. However, another twenty minutes later, Everett admitted, albeit in silence, she had been right.

  He howled.

  #

  In the following days, Sabrina busied herself with preparations for the celebration. She prepared the menus for the refreshments, arranged for an orchestra to entertain their guests, and planned a series of games to amuse the children. After checking and rechecking the guest list, she assigned the multitude of guestrooms in the grand home by rank.

  But no matter how hard she worked, she could not elude the doubts plaguing her. When she married Everett, she had fully prepared to be his wife and mother of his children.

  Not his countess.

  How she wished she had paid more attention to her mother when she had the chance. Though nothing had been said, or even implied, she could not help but feel inadequate to the task. A countess was supposed to be a regal lady. A beauty. Graceful. Charming. All knowing.

  Sabrina was none of those things.

  As a child, she and Cara had often played lady of the manor. Dressed in their mother’s clothes, they held tea parties, complete with the King as an imaginary guest. Cara’s affairs were elegant events that never failed to go off without a hitch. Hers, however, almost always digressed into something more akin to a food fight, with shortbread and scones sailing through the air. Recalling the time she tripped over the toes of her mother’s slippers and broke her arm, she stared at herself and sighed.

  Though the mourning clothes she wore were made expressly for her, the jewel on her finger signified the husband was hers, and the ring of keys in her pocket declared her chatelaine of Beaumaris, she could not escape the uneasy feeling that something had not fit.

  Sabrina was not certain she belonged amid such elegant surroundings.

  She feared that if she inquired, she would discover it had been a horrid mistake. That some years long ago, Parliament had passed an edict declaring any woman found to be failing in her wifely duties should be packed up and exiled to the Americas.

  And she could not agree more.

  While she stumbled and tripped through household management, Everett had governed his estates--and succeeded brilliantly. He had already ordered new roofs for several tenant homes. And after an in-depth study of agricultural reports, he reorganized the planting schedules and purchased additional livestock.

  Though the situation was still muddled, things were getting better. Her husband was a marvel, and everyone loved him. The staff and tenants sang his praise. And she heard it all, because she dealt with them every day, and not a one passed without someone telling her that the Earl of Woverton was a wonderful lord.

  Everett was kind, generous, thoughtful, and held in high esteem. And he deserved a wife just as accomplished.

  Instead, he had her.

  Sabrina had determined not to let him down, had resolved to try harder. She spent every afternoon in her sitting room, pouring over her book of etiquette; the one Celia had given her before departing Tantallon Hall. Having met with the cook and the housekeeper, she discerned that everything was well ordered and efficiently run. Why fix what was not broken?

  So she was content to let things remain as they had before she married Everett, only making changes where she was certain improvement was possible. She paid attention to the duties of each servant, gleaning every last drop of information
about the home. In her spare time, she helped stock the stillroom, assisted in making preserves, and began to oversee the purchase of household supplies.

  And yet Sabrina felt incompetent.

  Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that wherever she was, and whatever she had done, she perceived the ever-present gaze of her husband. Everett watched her constantly. Had she done something wrong?

  Could he not trust her?

  But that was not the only thing bothering her. She tried not to dwell on the fact that her husband had not declared his love. She was positive his mother’s criticism would not gnaw at her half so much if she had Everett’s heart as a shield.

  While all was well in their bedchamber, and in the alternate locales they had shared illicit trysts, their time spent together in other endeavors had dwindled to almost nothing. And she was not so naïve as to think that marital relations alone could sustain a marriage. At least, not the kind of partnership for which she hoped.

  As a result, on the eve of the fête-champêtre, Sabrina tossed, restless and impatient, in bed. Beside her, Everett snored softly, sleeping the sleep of the sated after a vigorous round of lovemaking. Fraught with worry, wondering if there was anything she had missed, her mind raced.

  At the rate she was going, she would never get any rest. And if she continued on her present course, she might wake him, and they would both be exhausted for their special occasion. Finally, with great care not to disturb her husband, she slid from the bed, pulled on her silk nightgown, and shrugged into the matching robe.

  The thick carpets of the master suite muted her footsteps as she crossed the room to the door. She hesitated, then tiptoed to the tallboy and retrieved the candlestick Everett left atop it just before they had ripped each other’s clothes off and jumped into bed.

  Once in the hall, she held the candlestick high and made for her intended target. Since rolling in the sheets with her husband had not quieted her mind, there was one other activity that all but guaranteed to dispense with her pent up energy.

  Before she knew it, she stood at the top of the grand staircase. Glancing from left to right, she determined no one would witness her christening of the banister. Sabrina chuckled.

  Yes, it was childish.

  No, it wasn’t appropriate behavior for a countess.

  But, at the moment, she cared not.

  Tomorrow was a big day, and she needed sleep. A ripping ride down the banister at home, her childhood home, she corrected herself, had always done the trick.

  She was sure it would work.

  Setting the candlestick on a nearby table, she noted the faint light it afforded in the cavernous entryway of the elegant estate house. Reminding herself to be careful of the newel post at the end, she perched atop the polished oak and let go of the rail. Accustomed to the cotton of her old nightgowns and day dresses, she had not prepared for the slippery slide of silk against the polished banister, as she all but flew down the staircase and barely managed to stifle a squeal of delight. The ride was exhilarating.

  Until Everett shouted her name. “Sabrina!”

  Startled, she lost her balance and waved her arms in the air in an effort to regain control. “Whoa.”

  #

  The sun shone brilliantly in a clear, azure sky. The orchestra played on the terrace, and music filled the air. Manicured lawns of emerald showcased clusters of geraniums and red-hot poker. Hedges trimmed in precise shapes opened into rose gardens overflowing with blooms in every conceivable color. Stately oaks, nature’s guardsmen, lined the graveled drive, and elegant carriages coursed beneath, conveying well-dressed gentlemen and women.

  The staff had been well prepared and seemed to anticipate every necessity. Overnight guests were shown to their quarters. The food had been served, and refreshing beverages flowed.

  At the end of the receiving line, Everett and Sabrina stood, side-by-side, welcoming their guests.

  Dressed in an impeccable coat of charcoal grey Bath superfine and matching breeches, a crisp white cravat, woven in a meticulous knot, sat at his throat, secured by a twinkling diamond pin. Mirror-shined Hessians completed the ensemble, and she thought him the epitome of an English country nobleman.

  So why had he fought a frown?

  At his right, Sabrina prayed she cut the picture of a refined lady. Dressed in one of her best mourning gowns, her raven hair piled in carefree curls atop her head, she smiled and offered her hand to everyone who came through their door. On occasion, she bit her lip, and for a fleeting moment she doubted not that a pained expression crossed her face.

  Something had troubled her.

  But it had nothing to do with the fête. It had nothing to do with the refreshments, the lawns, the gardens, the staff, or the entertainment. It had nothing to do with her attire.

  It had everything to do with the curious stares and none-too-silent whispers of their invitees.

  Which had nothing to do with the fête. And had nothing to do with the refreshments, the lawns, the gardens, the staff, or the entertainment. And had nothing to do with her attire.

  Perhaps the disquietude stemmed from the dark, hideously black bruise circling her right eye.

  As luck would have it, everyone had been polite enough not to comment on her injury. Everyone, that is, until the marquess and marchioness of Talbot arrived.

  “Good God, what happened to your face?” her mother-in-law squalled, and Sabrina would have loved to give the harpy a matching bruise.

  Biting her lip, Sabrina peered at Everett and wondered if he would notice if she dug a hole in the lawn and buried her head.

  He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “My wife had a minor mishap.”

  “Are you all right, my dear?” the marquess inquired, with wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. He had, no doubt, fought laughter.

  “Oh, indeed,” Sabrina assured him with an enthusiastic nod. “I am fine. Just a tad bruised, nothing more.”

  “There’s a girl.” The marquess winked and patted her cheek, taking care to avoid her wounded eye.

  The marchioness merely frowned as they turned away.

  Sabrina might have been disconcerted had it not been for the next person in line. “Celia!”

  Lady Celia’s smile fell to an open-mouthed stare when she spied her friend. “C-countess?”

  “It is nothing.” In that instant, she wrestled with shame.

  “How--” Celia reached but pulled back just shy of touching Sabrina.

  “An accident.” Aware of her husband’s heated stare, Sabrina ushered her friend along. “We will talk more, later.”

  She would swear--although it was unladylike to swear but the situation merited it, that her ears still rang from the stern lecture she had received as soon as Everett revived her last night.

  Damn fool man.

  It was not her fault she hit the newel post. He should not have hollered at her. In her confusion, she had forgotten about the large knob at the end of the banister. Sabrina was thankful she could not recall the impact. Such ignorance was welcomed bliss as she stood and greeted her callers.

  It was not to be borne.

  But she must. She had to persevere. After all her hard work, and all her careful planning, she had to remain firm beneath her humiliation while she assembled the district as the new, albeit marred, countess of Woverton.

  “Where is my girl?”

  Sabrina blinked. “Papa!” As she had on countless occasions, she flew at her father, arms outstretched to embrace him.

  “What the deuce?” Her sire caught her at length and held fast. Anger mottled his features. “I am going to kill him.”

  “No.” Sabrina clutched her father tight. “It was not his fault. I slid down the banister and hit the newel post.”

  For a pregnant moment, the foyer was quiet. Then, without warning, he burst out laughing. Behind him, her mother rolled her eyes, while Cara covered her mouth and giggled.

  #

  Feeling faint, Everett r
ealized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled just as Admiral Douglas hugged Sabrina and winked at Everett over her head. When the admiral extended his hand, he took it in a firm shake.

  “I suppose you can live, son.” His father-in-law dabbed at his eyes before trembling from another fit of chuckles. “Some things never change.”

  Everett tried, but failed, not to grimace. “Admiral, I am afraid she will one day break her neck.”

  “Nonsense.” The admiral chucked his shoulder. “She is a resilient one, that Sabrina. She can survive anything.”

  “Of that I have little doubt.” Everett dipped his chin. “But can my sanity survive her?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The event passed as quick as it began. The meal had been a singular success, and everyone loved the orchestra. The games kept the children occupied, and there was only one casualty, a scraped knee. Before long, the guests dwindled to those staying the night.

  The Brethren of the Coast were in full attendance, and with the constant complaints of the marchioness, Sabrina was grateful for their support. Rebecca, Dirk’s new wife, had brought her younger brother Lucien, sixth earl of Calvert and a lieutenant in the Royal Navy. Sabrina thought him a perfect match for Celia, but there had been little she could do to further a liaison between the two. In a gross miscarriage of fortune, duty called him to London in the morning, because his ship, the Intrepid, would sail the following evening.

  After a celebratory dinner, the women withdrew to the dining room, leaving the men to take their brandy and cigars.

  “Sabrina, you must speak to the cook. The turbot was tough and the sauce too thin. And this tea is weak. Mind you, servants need a firm hand, or they will put forth only half an effort.” With an imperious expression, the marchioness returned her cup to the trolley. “I seem to have misplaced my handkerchief. Must have left it in the dining room.”

  A tense silence held the room prisoner like an iron shackle, until the harbinger that was her mother-in-law disappeared down the hall. Sabrina gazed at her lifelong friends, her sister, her mother, and Celia. Shame, incompetence, and defeat loomed as a storm cloud. And her embarrassment compounded when she considered how her ineptitude reflected on Everett. “I apologize if the meal was unsavory.”