Sea Scoundrel

SEA SCOUNDREL, (
Lady Patience
, the uncut version.), Knave of Hearts, One of Four

Lady Patience Kendal crossed the sea to marry, but her intended died before she arrived. Only one way to get home: charge four hapless American Colonials to find them titled husbands in London. At the ship, she realized their mothers expected each to wed the Marquess of Andover, so she’d have to seek an introduction. How hard could it be? Meanwhile Captain Grant St. Benedict was anything but friendly, just because her girls set fire to the rigging?

Grant had never met a woman more irritating, or more desirable, than the Lady Patience Kendal . But however dangerous his interest, he couldn’t resist teaching the delicious distraction that independence was nothing to passion.

CAPTIVE SCOUNDREL, (Formerly
Lady Faith
.), Knave of Hearts, Book Two

PROPER SCOUNDREL (Formerly
Scoundrel in
Disguise
), Knave of Hearts, Book Three HOLY SCOUNDREL, Knave of Hearts, Book Four Review Quotes for SEA SCOUNDREL:

“The love story between the Captain and his lady is simply marvelous. The dialogue is witty and the girls’ shipboard antics wil have you laughing out loud. Don’t miss this one.” Suzanne Coleburn, The Bel es & Beaux of Romance

“This lighthearted romance interlaced with humorous, zany, shipboard antics, charming repartee, matchmaking, and sensual love scenes, wil delight any lover of historical romance.” Sofia, Calico Trails Review

“Ms. Blair's writing is as smooth as a fine Kentucky bourbon. Sexy ... fun ... top notch entertainment. ” Debbie, Romance Reader at Heart

Knave of Hearts, One

SEA SCOUNDREL

by

Annette Blair

http://www.annetteblair.com

http://www.facebook.com/annetteblairfans http://twitter.com/annetteblair

Copyright:

First published in paperback by Kensington Publishing Copyright 1999, 2012 by Annette Blair

Published by Annette Blair, May 11, 2012

E-book Cover Copyright 2012 Calista Taylor, www.calistataylor.com

Photoshop Brushes: Dark Garden Photography Al rights reserved.

This is a historical work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and establishments is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means, including those not yet invented, without the permission of the copyright owner, is il egal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

Table of Contents

A Note to Readers

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Excerpt: Captive Scoundrel (Knave of Hearts, Book Two) Awards

Annette Blair, Bio

Annette Blair, Booklist

Note to Reader

Surprisingly, there seems to be several schools of thought as to the length of the Regency Period. Purists say it lasted from 1811 to 1820, at the time George IV ruled as Regent during the wel known “madness” of his father. Others say that the Prince Regent’s influence lasted beyond 1820, and not until Wil iam IV came to the throne, in 1830, did the Regency period final y come to an end. And stil others place the Regency at 1811 to 1837, when Queen Victoria succeeded Wil iam IV. For this series, I have chosen the broadest Regency timeframe.

With a hundred Nana kisses

And a world of love,

To Kelsey Elizabeth Mul ens,

The best Thanksgiving gift ever
.

Al ruffles and lace, a sweet smiling face, Lover of fairies and fashions, shoes with class, But earrings or socks must never be matched.

She’s a dancer, a gymnast, a beautiful lass.

A veterinarian, she’l be, or an actress with sass.

Emotions she’l express—no words need be said, As an artist and leader, she silently shines.

A whirlwind so bright, she blows our minds.

Watching her grow is a wonderful time.

SEA SCOUNDREL

Knave of Hearts, Book One

by

Annette Blair

The Zebulon Fishkil Academy for Unruly Boys, 1795

“Blighted knave!” said Old Fishface as he tossed another boy, by the scruff of his neck, into the heating stewpot of rotting hay, sweaty animals, and ripe manure that comprised the décor of the Academy’s stable. “Muck out a stal , and find yourself a place to sleep, like
these
scoundrels did,” the schoolmaster told the latest discard.

“You keep the animals clean, groomed, and fed, you might fare half as wel .”

He regarded the three who’d come first, spines straight, proud despite their punishments. “This one depends on a Lady’s charity for tuition,” Fishface said. “An aristocrat who does not want the vicar’s son sniffing around her girl. Wel , Lord or pauper matters not to me. These are your quarters, the four of you. Make the best of it.” Fishface slammed the door and left them to their own devices.

“He about to kick us out of school?” the vicar’s son asked.

Justin Devereux, future duke, chuckled. “’Course not. He wants the money we bring in.”

The new rat in the stable raised his chin and regarded the speaker. “Your brother got you kicked in here with a lie. You know that, right?”

Justin gave a half nod. “The problem usual y is my brother.” The Marquess of Andover stepped toward the vicar’s boy.

“Be ye knave or scoundrel?”

“Bit a’both, I’d say. Knave of hearts, maybe. He’s right about the girl with the title, and I plan to have her.”

“Have? Or have?” Fitzalan asked.

“Yes, to both,” the vicar’s son said, chin high as theirs.

“Guess we’re knaves
and
scoundrels, then,” Andover said.

“Each a knave of hearts, and scoundrels al .”

“Absolutely,” Fitzalan added, slapping the youngest on the back. “But we have to make this count. Form a bond.

Swear an oath.”

“As in ... be there, if we’re needed?” Andover confirmed.

“We show our scoundrel faces to the world but cal on each other in times of trouble, whatever life hands us?”

“I like that,” the vicar’s son said. “I might not be rich, but I’m strong. I can hold up my end. Whatever, as you say.”

“Til the end of our days,” Fitzalan cautioned. “It has to be forever. We’ve already bonded in our rebel ion. We al know that.”

So knaves of hearts and scoundrels al , lord and pauper alike, they sealed a lifetime oath, each raising a tin cup of brackish water.

And a fine deal they made of it.

SEA SCOUNDREL

Annette Blair

Newport, Rhode Island

August 1815

Fists opening and clenching at her sides, looking up one road and down the next, Patience Kendal strode in and out of the shadow of the ship bobbing in the water—the ship that would sail her home to England.

Fil ed with anticipation, even dread, her stride as uneven as the cobbles beneath her feet, one rude sailor burning a hole in her back with his bold interest, Patience stumbled. And the ground rose up to greet her.

Flat on her face, knowing the sailor witnessed her disgrace; Patience wished the waves battering the sea-wal would boil over and claim her. She heard them retreat instead.

Wishing she might vanish, aware she could not, Patience flexed a limb, tested another, surprised to note that nothing hurt. She found the sun-warmed cobbles against her cheek smooth, soothing. Before her eyes, an ant, arms akimbo, stood atop a purple shel fragment examining her ...

probably wondering how in Hades he would scale so large an object.

Patience knew exactly how the little fel ow felt.

Pressing the flat of her hands against the stones, Patience raised her head and looked about.

As Gul s calmed and returned to earth, the sound of a man’s laughter grew.

She could be injured, or even dead,—would that she had been so lucky—so if he were coming to her rescue, he was taking his sweet time about it.

Tangled in her petticoats, Patience struggled awkwardly to her knees as a chuckling sailor stopped before her.

She looked up, way up, the reflection of the sun masking his features.

He offered a strong, bronzed hand.

She ignored it.

Swathed in dignity, she rose unaided ... and caught her heel in her skirt.

Scrambling for a handhold, she grasped the sailor’s shirt—

to the cost of three bone buttons—and stood herself erect, the top of her head nearly reaching his chin.

For a moment, he stared at his shirt, then, brows raised, he regarded her with astonishment. Despite his pirate’s jaw covered with dark stubble, long wind-blown hair, and thick unmatched brows, a look of wry amusement softened his angular features. Was he her bold watcher?

Holding his gaze, Patience attempted a discreet search for her missing slipper with the toes of her unshod foot.

Her rescuer bowed. “Al ow me.” He bent on his haunches to find it.

Patience groaned inwardly, and squeaked when he took her foot in his palm, his touch disconcerting but gentle, his cradling hold nearly a caress.

When he replaced the slipper, her balance wavered and Patience found her hands wrist-deep in the dark silk of his hair. She teetered, and pul ed his head forward with the strength of her grasp, until she smothered him, neck-deep, in two skirts and three petticoats.

At his muffled chuckle, she squealed and released him.

The scoundrel stood, grin broad, hair charmingly mussed.

The heat in her face threatened to ignite, and despite an odd physical reaction to his throaty chuckle—or perhaps because of it—Patience had the remarkable urge to erase his smile with the flat of her hand. “That wasn’t the least amusing,” she said. “I
might
have been injured.”

“What? Did you think I’d bite your leg?”
Her inner thigh, to be exact.
Patience set her jaw, ignoring a new wash of warmth. “I mean that I might have been injured when I
stumbled
.”

“Fel flat on your face, more like.” One side of his sculpted mouth curved up as he combed a hand through his overlong hair, and made her think of a pup in a laundry basket—mussed and adorable.

Adorable?
She must have hit her head.

“You weren’t in danger,” he said. “Not an inch of you took the least little blow. You went down like a gazel e.” He winked, causing an absurd jumble of flutters in her wayward breast. “You trip and fal in a most graceful manner,” said he, “though I’m afraid I cannot say the same for your method of rising again.” The knave’s smile grew, his chuckle swel ing to ful -bodied laughter.

“Go to the devil!” Patience snapped.

His black eyes twinkled and held a promise Patience did not understand, and chose to ignore. “At your service,” he said, sketching a bow worthy of a gal ant in his lady’s chamber.
Lord and what made her think of that?
With a last, mocking grin, the handsome sailor turned on his heel and sauntered toward his ship, whistling a jaunty tune.

Patience searched the ground, itching to grab a stone and aim it in his general direction. How bloodthirsty of her. In the end, she counted to one hundred and twenty three, at which point, the urge to do him harm had nearly passed.

Rude man, acting as if going to the devil would be his pleasure, fawning like some ... mindless dandy, when his wits were every bit as sharp as ... what? She turned, walked a distance, and stopped. Did she care how sharp his wits? Certainly not.

Patience sat on her trunk in the midst of the bustling dock and attempted to turn her mind to her girls’ arrivals.

Despite an attempt to banish her rescuer from her thoughts, she could not. He had confused her so completely; she must appear clumsy and witless.

Patience groaned. Lord, she couldn’t stand on her own feet, how in holy Hannah was she to manage four naive, even spoiled, young ladies?

If Aunt Harriette ever heard that the man she’d sailed from England to wed had died two weeks before her arrival, her aunt would make Patience commit the Old Testament to memory, and al those begats would addle her brain.

Except that she was free of Aunt Harriette. Forever. She’d wanted her independence. And now she had it. By al that was holy, she’d become so independent, she had dependents.

Patience sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Papa always said. She bit her lip. He usual y said that in reference to his gambling and drinking, however. Oh dear.

Perhaps she was more like Papa than she thought. She did suppose that finding titled English husbands for four flighty colonials might be considered a gamble, by some stretch of the imagination.