The Admiral's Heart

by Danelle Harmon

  THE ADMIRAL’S HEART

  By

  Danelle Harmon

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Danelle Harmon

  THE ADMIRAL’S HEART

  Copyright © 2013 by Danelle Harmon

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people or uploaded to any websites. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Discover other titles by Danelle Harmon at smashwords.com

  ~~~~

  TABLE OF CONTENTS:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  About the Author

  More From Danelle Harmon

  A short excerpt from THE WILD ONE (Book 1 of the de Montforte Brothers Series)

  This story is dedicated with great affection to Milanka …

  and my beloved ReaderFriends on my Facebook “fan page” who have been so supportive and encouraging as I’ve made my return to the writing world.

  I hope you all know how much I appreciate and treasure each and every one of you.

  The Admiral's heart is gold, and I might coin it.

  — Richard Cumberland (1732-1811)

  Berkshire, England

  February, 1774

  Chapter 1

  She knew she was in trouble the minute she stepped into the hot, crowded ballroom of Blackheath Castle and saw the small knot of naval uniforms dominating the space near the refreshment table.

  She had been in love with a naval officer once.

  A long time ago.

  Before he had become an admiral.

  Before she had married.

  Before he had become famous.

  Before she had become widowed.

  A long time ago . . .

  Even so, the sight of the uniforms and gold lace caused her heart to skip a beat and a sudden flush to warm her skin, and her instinct was to melt back into the crowd and lose herself in the protective swirl of dancers, gossipers, revelers, and well-wishers, all of whom had come to help send off the Duke of Blackheath’s heir-presumptive, Lord Charles de Montforte, in grand style. Lord Charles had bought a captain’s commission in the King’s Own Fourth Regiment of Foot, and he and the regiment were headed off next week to the American colonies to help quell discontent in the rebellious port of Boston. Anyone who was anyone was here to say farewell.

  Lady Philippa Jane Ponsonby Hatfield was also headed to America—not to fight the rebels, but to look over a large parcel of land that her late husband had left to her in a town somewhere out in the western part of Massachusetts. She supposed she’d better accustom herself to seeing naval officers, because, though it certainly wasn’t customary for civilians to be traveling aboard naval ships, when one counted a mighty and influential duke as one’s cousin—as she did Blackheath—“customary” wasn’t always the done thing.

  Lucien pulled strings.

  People danced to his tune.

  It had always been thus.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, my dear?”

  So tight were her nerves, so desperate was she to put space between herself and the group of glittering blue and gold uniforms that Philippa gave a start and nearly spilled her glass of punch.

  Speak of the devil.

  Literally.

  “Lucien,” she chastised her cousin, “You have an uncanny habit of sneaking up on a person and scaring the living daylights out of them.”

  The Duke of Blackheath was tall, commanding, and resplendent in powder, satin and lace, but no less dangerous than an underfed wolf, and his black eyes missed nothing.

  “Sneaking up? My dear, there was nothing clandestine about my approach. I daresay that your attention was so focused on a certain group of naval officers that I could have borrowed one of their cannon and fired it, and still, you would not have noticed me.”

  “I was not looking at them, I was . . . I was pondering my growling stomach, and . . . and thinking of fetching a plate for myself.”

  Blackheath only gave a knowing little smile.

  And Pippa had a feeling—no, she had more than a feeling, she knew—that her omniscient cousin knew exactly what she was thinking, and feeling, and, yes, fearing, the moment she spotted the group of naval officers laughing, talking, and idly studying the pretty young women in the crowd and out on the dance floor.

  He was like that, Lucien was.

  “Really, my dear, there is no need for anyone to starve at a Blackheath ball. And as for that group over there that you’ve been eying with such a faraway look in your eye, ‘tis only your brother Seth and his friends. Two of those captains will be escorting my brother’s regiment to America . . . it would have been a shame, not to invite them. Come, let us see to your poor hungry stomach.”

  Offering his elbow, the duke guided her back to the refreshment table, and with every step, Pippa’s eyes grew a little larger, not in fear, but because, without her spectacles—which she had placed in her reticule thanks to what small bit of vanity she did possess—it meant that faces were a bit blurry and she was trying her best to see. But perhaps seeing wasn’t such a good idea.

  Certain things needed no reminders . . .

  A pond, with the sunshine warm upon the sparkling waves, at her family’s seat in Hampshire. A gentle wind through the grasses, and he, her brother Seth’s friend, a young captain in the navy, resplendent in his blue and white uniform as he’d stood at the edge of the pond, skipping pebbles over the surface for his dog Albion to chase. How unreal it had all been . . . a dream . . . To think that he had been courting her, Pippa, when he could have had his pick of any of the pretty young girls who were all vying for his attention . . .

  She tried to block the memory. To think of something else. But the sight of those handsome officers, now turning to regard her as Lucien brought her closer and closer to the refreshment table, brought it all crashing back . . .

  He, laughing, as the dog, barking in excitement, jumped into the pond in pursuit of pebbles he could never catch. Such a sweet dog, and one that he loved deeply.

  Albion.

  Poor Albion.

  It hadn’t been his fault.

  She, her eyes itching, her nose running like a spring stream whenever she got near the dog, or even him, after he’d been playing with the animal . . . he looking at her in confusion, handing her a handkerchief and asking why her cold had not yet cleared up after all this time.

  Oh, the humiliation, that he had noticed her ugly running nose. Her cheeks had gone red, and she, flushed with shame and mortified in the way that only a young girl could be, who had no control over her body’s doings while in the presence of the man she loved, had reached out a shaking hand to take the handkerchief—

  “Ah, Pippa! There you are, I was wondering where the devil you’d gone off to,” Seth said jovially. He detached himself from the small group with whom he’d been conversing, bowed over his sister’s hand, and faced the others. “Gentlemen, I would like to present you to my sister, Lady Philippa. Pippa, my friends—Captain Brendan Merrick, frigate captain, designer of warships and all-around clever rogue . . . Lieutenant Oliver Heathmore . . . my admiral, Sir Geoffrey Lloyd . . . and Captain Christian Lord.”

  Lord.

  Was the latter related? To him?

  “I am honored to make your acquaintances,” Pippa murmured, hearing herself as from a great distance away as each man took he
r gloved hand, murmured words of flattery and appreciation, and made an elegant bow over it.

  Tall, lanky Captain Merrick with rich chestnut curls, warm, laughing eyes and an Irish brogue; Lieutenant Heathmore, young, very young, and blushing a bit as he made his bow; the elderly Sir Geoffrey, stooped and bleary eyed, but still able to smile a bit wolfishly as his rheumy gaze appraised her, and Captain Lord.

  The family resemblance was unmistakable.

  Oh, God help her.

  “Are you quite all right, my dear?” Lucien was saying, raising one dark brow. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I . . . I just find myself a bit faint . . . perhaps some fresh air . . .”

  “Allow me,” Captain Merrick said quickly, insinuating his elbow beneath her hand.

  Pippa was still looking at Captain Lord. He, in turn, was returning her regard her with no small degree of bemusement, as though vaporous females were beyond his realm of knowledge, experience, and everyday encounters. She felt Captain Merrick’s hard, wiry arm beneath her own, and she had taken two steps, then three, toward the door and the cool, bracing air of the winter night outside, when she realized that if she allowed him to lead her away from this group of men, she would never know just who Captain Lord was, or why Lucien had that conniving gleam in his eye, or why the tall Captain Lord with the gold epaulets on his shoulders looked oh, God help her, so dreadfully, shockingly, heartbreakingly familiar.

  She had to ask.

  “A moment, Captain,” she said to her well-meaning escort, before turning to the other sea officer, “but do you happen to be related to . . .”

  No, maybe she’d be better off letting Captain Merrick take her outside, after all.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Never mind, Captain, it’s just the hot air getting to me, I must have mistaken you for someone else.”

  The duke of Blackheath selected a bit of cheese from a passing tray and slowly put it into his mouth, watching Pippa—who was beginning to feel hot and a bit panicky beneath the constraints of stays and fitted bodice—from over the top of his fingers. “Nonsense, Pippa,” he murmured. “Captain Lord comes from an illustrious naval family. His father was master of HMS Ryegate. Captain Lord is, himself, commander of one of the two frigates that will be escorting Charles’s regiment across the sea when they leave here next week.” The duke smiled, his black-nightshade eyes never leaving Pippa’s. “And his brother is a famous admiral.”

  His brother is a famous admiral.

  Pippa gulped down the lump in her throat.

  “In fact, he is here now, and approaching as we speak. Sir Elliott? I do believe you are acquainted with my cousin, Lady Philippa?”

  No. Oh, God, no.

  Pippa’s gloved hand tightened like a claw on Captain Merrick’s perfect blue sleeve, and every bit of blood in her body immediately stopped flowing. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t move. And she certainly couldn’t think as she slowly turned and, her ears buzzing and her knees going strangely boneless, looked up, up, up, into a pair of gray eyes the color of slate.

  A pair of gray eyes she had not seen for nearly ten years.

  A pair of gray eyes she had never forgotten.

  The great, glittering chandelier was suddenly too bright above Admiral Sir Elliott Lord’s handsome blond head, the music from the orchestra, the laughter of the revelers and dancers too loud, and she felt as though a horse had landed a solid and punishing kick to her stomach.

  With a hastily murmured apology, she turned on her heel and fled.

  Chapter 2

  “I must say, Admiral, you have quite an interesting effect on women,” the duke of Blackheath mused, nonchalantly finishing his bit of cheese.

  But Elliott was already heading out of the ballroom, determined not to let his quarry escape so easily.

  He saw a flash of blue ahead as she rounded a corner, and broke into a run. He would not lose her. Even if he had to chase her from here to London.

  And he’d be damned to hell and back if he’d allow Sir Geoffrey, or any of his subordinates to know that he felt dismasted, in irons, as stricken as a brig that had just been smashed beneath a salvo of chain shot, and he damn well didn’t need the young Captain Merrick, whose arm had been so conveniently placed beneath Pippa’s hand when he’d come upon the little group, trying to make himself useful. Elliott was on the distant side of thirty. The far distant side. He had enough aches and pains when he got up in the morning these days, and though his sandy blond hair was still thick and rich and showed no sign of either thinning or gray, the lines that bracketed the corners of his eyes, carved there by sun and salt and the passing of years, were an all too blatant reminder that he was no dashing young buck like the handsome Captain Merrick or even that pink-cheeked pup, Oliver Heathmore.

  Pippa. Of all people to encounter here. Of all people to run up against when it had taken him ten years to forget her.

  Of all people.

  There, ahead, a door, ajar. He pushed it open.

  Nothing.

  He kept going, moving faster now.

  Another door. Closed.

  He shoved it open and there she was, standing by a window with one hand anchoring herself on its sill. A candle in a glass globe stood on a small table nearby, striking gold into her beautiful face.

  “Elliott,” she said weakly.

  He stopped in his tracks, one hand still on the door, just looking at her.

  She was beautiful. Heartbreakingly so. Certainly, the years had treated her kinder than they had him. But then, the one doing the jilting wasn’t usually the one who did the suffering. And by the looks of her, she hadn’t suffered one bit. Skin that was still clear and smooth. Full, pink lips, now parted in surprise or shock, making him ache to kiss them, and a mouth that used to be able to quirk up just a fraction on one side, as though she found life perpetually amusing and expected others to, as well. Kind, gentle, blue eyes, heavily lashed and slightly down-turned at the corners like those of her de Montforte cousins, and a tiny, nipped waist that just begged him to span it with his hands. She wore a beautiful gown of shimmering cobalt silk, the skirts overlaid with white lace and the fitted bodice embroidered with gold thread that caught the light of the candle.

  Blue and white and gold.

  Naval colors.

  Surely it was a coincidence.

  Somewhere off over his shoulder, and coming down the hall toward them, he heard voices. Without a second thought, Elliott kicked the door shut behind him with one foot. The abrupt sound it made as it slammed was immensely satisfying.

  He leaned back against the wall, glad that she could not hear the pounding of his own heart, a heart that had never stopped beating for her, and her alone.

  He stared at her.

  She stared back, a thousand emotions flitting across her lovely face.

  Then she went to the chair in the corner, and sat down on its edge. Beneath the hem of her gown, her slippered feet peeked out. They were as tiny and delicate as he remembered. He longed to cup them in his hand, to admire their grace and beauty.

  They had made love once. Just once. But it had been enough to whet his appetite for more, to set about pursuing her with as much zeal as he’d ever given chase to an enemy frigate, to dream of having her by his side as his wife for the rest of his life.

  One night of magical, all-consuming passion.

  And then she had left him without explanation.

  “So, the years have treated you well, then,” he said, at length.

  “Well enough, thank you.”

  He gazed at her, thinking she was even more beautiful than she had been as the girl he had fallen in love with all those years ago.

  She looked back, then, with a sad little smile, stared down at the hands she kept so tightly folded in her lap. She was fidgeting with a fan, her discomfort almost painful.

  “It’s been a while, Pippa,” he said, at last.

  She didn’t look up. “Ten years.”

 
; “And five months and fourteen days.”

  “Thirteen days, actually.”

  It was an awkward moment. Her head remained bent, and she traced the design on her fan with one finger as it lay in her lap.

  “Blackheath throws a great party,” she said.

  “Indeed, he does.”

  “Had I known there would have been so many naval officers here, perhaps I would not have come.”

  “And why not?”

  She just looked at him, flatly. Hopelessly. “Do I really need to explain?”

  “You might try. Though there are other things that I’d rather have an explanation for, Pippa.”

  She winced as if he’d struck her, and despite himself, he felt bad. He was not in the business of hurting people. Well, not unless their ship flew an enemy flag and had no business being, or doing, something he had the authority and ability to put a stop to. But that was different. They were the enemy. But this . . . this was Pippa. His Pippa.

  No enemy.

  But why did just seeing her again after all these years hurt so much?

  Have him completely in irons?

  “They say time heals all wounds,” she murmured, her eyes suddenly sad. “I guess we needed more of it.”

  “There are some wounds that never heal, no matter how much time they are given.”

  “Forgive me, Elliott. You deserved better than me. I was young, foolish. Insecure. Dreadfully insecure.”

  Outside, from beyond the closed door, came the distant sounds of music and laughter. Moments passed. The candle in its glass globe burned on. Elliott was acutely aware of everything about her—her dark brows beneath her powdered, upswept hair, and the fact she needed no white lead paint to enhance her milky-smooth complexion. The scent of her; something floral. Lilacs, perhaps. The way the soft glow from the candlelight brought out the depths in her eyes, the valley between her breasts, and played upon the delicate hollows at her throat.