Pride Of Honor
Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1
Andrea K. Stein
What if two people determined to marry anyone but each other end up falling in love?
* * *
A hatpin-wielding, parasol-armed poet with a maddening Royal Navy officer in tow races against time to attract the marital attentions of the perfect “gentleman of the ton.”
* * *
Sophia Brancellli, the orphaned, illegitimate child of a duke’s daughter and an Italian poet, is on a mission. She must ensure her marriage to a “suitable gentleman of the ton” before her twenty-first birthday or she’ll be destitute, per the terms of her ducal grandmother’s will. Close to having her own poems published, Sophia has her hopes dashed each time by someone revealing her secrets. That same someone so desperately wants her to fail the terms of the will, they’re willing to commit violent acts to ruin her reputation.
* * *
Captain Arnaud Bellingham has ascended the ranks of the Royal Navy in spite of his half-French heritage by proving himself at the Battle of Algiers and with the West African Squadron. He seeks a simple marriage of convenience to a mature woman, a widow who has been his sometime mistress the last several years. The very thing he does not want, an exotic Italian innocent, literally falls into his life when he rescues her from kidnappers, although she disputes she needed saving. And now, honor and duty dictate he has to waste the rest of his leave guarding her through the mad whirl of the Season.
Contents
Thank You!
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Afterword
A Little Something Extra
Coming Soon!
Other Books By Andrea K. Stein
Excerpt: PRIDE OF DUTY
Chapter One
Pride of Honor
Copyright© 2020 by Andrea K. Stein
Published by Muirgen™ Publishing, LLC
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferrable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented without the express written permission of the copyright owner.
Cover Design & Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.
Thank you so much for choosing to read “Pride of Honor,” first in the Men of the Squadron series. As special treat, I have something extra for you at the end of this story. Enjoy!
For all the men who sailed, fought, and died with the
Royal Navy’s West African Preventative
Squadron in the 19th century.
Acknowledgments
The author wishes to thank her editors, Louisa Cornell and Judy Brunswick, as well the indispensable Mr. Stein who makes sure she eats and takes her heart for a walk every day. Louisa and Judy make sure she does not make a complete fool of herself. Louisa is an expert on life in England during the Regency. Judy is the protector and Knight Templar of all things in English usage. However, the “typo gremlins” do occasionally sneak into every work of prose. In the rare case (one hopes) of a glaring error, the mistake is entirely my own.
* * *
Thanks also from the bottom of my heart to my Canon City writing group for listening to endless plot ideas, readings, rants, etc., without getting up and leaving me at the table. Special thanks to Judy, Marla, Mary Ellen, Sherry, Sondra, Stephanie, and Susan.
Prologue
4°22’59.99”N, 7°05’60”E
HMS Cormorant, West African Squadron
Mouth of Bonny River, Bight of Biafra
December 1819
Commander Arnaud Bellingham stood on the deck of his ship in the darkness of the mouth of the Bonny River estuary. He waited in agony while the sounds of gunfire drifted back from several miles up the river’s mouth. A series of bursts of light meant his men were engaged in combat with the slavers.
They’d heard reports from spies along the coast that captives were being loaded onto an open boat that night. Before morning, the natives would be rowed out to the heavy Portuguese slaver with a deep draft. That ship was anchored as close to shore as the captain dared.
Arnaud could not take the smaller Cormorant any closer. As it was, he’d already taken a hundred risks by edging his ship over the sand bar at the entrance to the river. His men had rowed a shore boat and towed their twenty-eight-gun frigate through the shallow waters.
They were now anchored near the sandy beach at the side of the river. That maneuver before darkness had fallen had made it easier for his Royal Marines to load their weapons and attach a light carronade onto the bow of the shore boat. They’d slipped off into the black curtain of the jungle river just before sunset. Getting back out would be another matter for the main ship and would require high tide the next morning.
He prayed for good news soon from his distant fighting crew led by Marine Captain George Neville. If Arnaud and his remaining men were attacked by a large contingent from the Portuguese slave ship anchored several miles out from the shore before the marines returned, they would fight for their lives, but it wouldn’t be easy. And there would be no one to come to their aid.
Chapter One
51º30'35.5140"N, 0º7'5.1312"W
London, England
April 1820
Miss Sophia Brancelli fidgeted and shifted from one foot to the other. She was as fond of ribbons as the next young woman, but her friend, Lydia, was a slave to the silken trim.
Other shoppers crowded around them in the tiny milliner’s shop on old Bond Street. “Why can your friend not choose?” one woman demanded with an angry hiss into her ear. Sophie ignored the complaint.
This was their third trip to the milliner, and Lydia seemed no closer to a decision than on their first visit. A pale rainbow of rolls lined the wooden counter, their curled tails cascading over the edge.
After sneaking a stealthy look at her friend, Sophie slipped a much-folded piece of foolscap from her reticule. She worried her bottom lip and wondered whether she should change cloudy to stormy.
Just as Sophie pulled out a worn pencil stub, Lydia finally sighed and chose another shade of green. A green so similar to the one she'd chosen the day before, Sophie would be hard put to tell the difference unless both lengths were side by side. The cost of Lydia's ribbons would pay the butcher for a month of the cheap cuts Sophie
had made do with in her father’s topsy-turvy household.
As soon as Lydia paid the shopkeeper, Sophie strode toward the doorway and sunlight outside. The minute her boots touched the pavement, she was lifted from her feet. For a moment, it seemed as if the world had inexplicably shifted on its axis.
Time slowed, and she viewed what was happening as if through a fog. A strange man grasped her arm in a grip so tight, she could almost feel the fatal squeeze of the coil of one of the jungle snakes in her grandmother's novels. The smudged slip of paper and pencil slipped from her hands to the pavement.
Abruptly, Sophie remembered the parasol Lydia's grandmother had insisted she carry to shield her from the sun. She’d looped the handle’s ribbon onto her wrist while reworking her lines. She grabbed the parasol with her free arm and swung hard. A satisfying thump and scream sounded as the weapon connected with her attacker's lower limbs.
As quick as he loosened his grip, she pulled a hatpin from her bonnet and jabbed in the vicinity of his eyes. Another scream, but this time her aim landed far off the mark and only slashed his chin.
With a bellow of pain, he pulled back a fist, rage darkening his face. In spite of the threat, Sophie refused to back down. Lydia’s screams echoed down the quiet street. Just as the stranger’s knuckles neared her face, he and his accomplice dropped from her line of view.
For one addled moment, she wondered if the ghost of her dead grandmother had risen to her defense. She thrust again hard with her hatpin toward where the attack had begun.
Sophie lost her balance and sat down with a thump at the edge of the street. Shaking, she sank her elbows to her knees and rested her head in her hands. Her parasol had rolled to the edge of the walkway. At a sharp cramp in her hand, she realized she still clutched her trusty hatpin. After a restorative breath, she looked up into the deeply tanned face of a Royal Navy officer in full uniform.
He knelt in front of her, asking question after question. “Are you hurt? Who did this to you? Are you with a chaperone?”
Blood dribbled from his wrist, staining his white glove. Zeus! The hatpin. She knew she should provide him with some answers, but couldn't. She could barely breathe properly, so shaken was she by the encounter with the unknown men who’d tried to drag her toward a waiting hack carriage.
He grasped her by the shoulders. The warmth of his touch seeped through the thin muslin of her dress, and his solid competence fortified her courage. The runaway terrors slowed, allowing her to breathe normally again.
The first thought to pop into her head once she’d settled a bit was: Respectable women of the ton did not find themselves in situations like this. This was the sort of turmoil that might befall the actresses who had kept company with her late father.
"Are you hurt?" The naval officer shed his gloves and ran his hands down her arms as if seeking injuries. “Holy St. George! Is this your weapon?” The hatpin rolled into his hand from her slackened grasp, and he tucked it safely within a pocket. His frown softened a bit, he shook his head, and gave a low chuckle.
He clasped her hands as if he feared she might break and smoothed his thumbs over the soft pads beneath her thumbs. If the stranger continued his exploration for injuries, Sophie feared she might expire from pleasure. If only he knew the ink-stained fingers her white gloves hid.
Lydia for once had nothing to say, but watched over them, her eyes wide. Sophie thanked the gods Lydia’s lady’s maid had not been able to accompany them on the latest ribbon expedition. She would have been horrified and sent the gentleman packing. The thought of the uncompromising older woman spurred her to action. Damn the pleasure.
"No." Sophie snatched back her hands. Only then did she notice his eyes. They were an extraordinary shade of blue, the sort of blue that didn’t belong in such a stern, dark face.
That pleasant discovery, however, did not stop her shout of frustration. "Why did you help me? I was getting the better of those scoundrels when you showed up, and, and now—" She refused to cry, but moisture leaked from the corners of her eyes which she imagined were a reddened fright by now. "Not only is my sleeve torn, but my reputation is probably ruined as well, and I've lost the final lines of my—"
She stopped short of finishing her wailed lament. Her predicament was none of this young officer’s fault. He could not help she had been born a bastard, and he had nothing to do with the ton’s attitude toward a young woman who’d spent time in a gypsy-like home with her profligate poet father.
Bereft of its handy hatpin, Sophie's tippy, over-embellished bonnet leaned precariously to the side before toppling to the pavement. Her long, dark curls tumbled free.
"What have you lost?" the stranger asked and pulled her to her feet, guiding her toward a nearby tea room. Lydia scooped up Sophie’s lost bonnet and followed.
"My last two lines," Sophie said, and batted at his hands. “Please, leave us.”
“You’ve no reason to fear me,” he insisted. “I’m Captain Arnaud Bellingham. My mother lives near here, on Hanover Square. Now please tell me where your carriage waits.”
Lydia moved closer. "Thomas said they would keep rounding the park until we were finished. The carriage is all black, with a team of grays.” She leaned even closer. “I fear this is not completely proper, but under the circumstances you should at least know our names. I’m Lady Lydia Howick, and this is my friend, Miss Sophia Brancelli."
Captain Bellingham made a small nod of acknowledgement. “I regret the circumstances, but I am pleased to make your acquaintances, and to be of service.”
Although Lydia gave him a silly, flirtatious smile, Sophie could not meet his gaze. She knew she should show her appreciation for his brave intervention, but all she could do was pretend to study her boots. She’d been unsettled at his unexpected kindness and valor. Sophie was not used to being the center of attention. She’d learned to take care of herself out of necessity and was uncomfortable with the acceptance of assistance of any sort.
The owner of the millinery shop, roused from the commotion at her front door, hurried to Captain Bellingham’s side. “What has happened?”
“The ladies were accosted outside your shop by ruffians who tried to spirit Miss Brancelli away in a hired carriage.”
“Please let me help,” the small woman pleaded. She shook her head so hard, her tight curls bounced. “I have never had anything so terrible occur at my doorstep. I will arrange for a tea tray at my neighbor’s shop.”
Once Lydia and the captain helped her to a chair in the small shop, Sophie began to shake and was grateful to be able to sit in a comfortable, cushioned chair and have others cosset her with a steaming cup of tea and sweet tart provided by the milliner who had returned to her shop. Thankfully, there were only one or two customers at a table near the front of the shop.
Captain Bellingham bent low over their table and spoke to Lydia. "She appears to be in shock. Wait here. I will find your carriage and have your man, Thomas, come for you.” He headed toward the door, but turned at the last minute. "What did she lose? What does it look like? I'll try to find her lost 'lines' if I can."
"Her poetry," Lydia said. "She's been trying to finish her latest poem. It was on a worn piece of foolscap she must have been holding when they tried to grab her."
He nodded thanks to Lydia before heading out into the street.
Captain Arnaud Bellingham returned to his friend, Dr. Cullen MacCloud, who still paced up and down Bond Street outside the tea shop, making sure the men who tried to abduct Miss Brancelli did not return. "Thank God we happened by when we did," Arnaud said, and let out a whoosh of breath. "Those footpads meant that poor woman harm."
“Harm?” Cullen said with a sputter. “They wanted more than just her reticule. Those bullies meant to rip her from the very street.”
Arnaud shook his head. He’d acted out of instinct and could only imagine how terrified Miss Brancelli had been. Hell, he was still shaking and almost light-headed at the memory of the terror in her dark eyes. He checked
himself at the forbidden line his mind had taken. He was back in London for only a month or so until his ship was refurbished for his next assignment off the coast of Africa, his first posting under his own command. He could not afford an entanglement with a young woman like Miss Brancelli. He’d already made up his mind on his life’s path.
As if reading his thoughts, his ship’s surgeon added, “And such a fine lass. I can tell she turned your head.”
"No," Arnaud said with emphasis. "This is not what you think. She's an innocent. I did what you or any of us would have done." He did a quick, surreptitious look at the walkers along the street to make sure no one could overhear their conversation.
"Yes, of course," Cullen said, with a quirk of a smile. "Was she injured?" he asked, his teasing tone gone. "Should I see to her?"
"No," Arnaud said, his voice hard. "She's just badly shaken. Could you walk to my mother's townhouse and get that beast, Achamé, out of the mews? Since the young woman seems uncomfortable in my presence, I'll ride behind the carriage to see them safely home."
Pride Of Honor: Men of the Squadron Series, Book 1 Page 1