My Saving Grace

by Harmon, Danelle

  Kieran shrugged, his warm amber eyes twinkling. “You could.”

  Sir Graham just made a noise that sounded like a cross between a snarl, a growl and a curse and slammed out of the room.

  Del relaxed, finally, and poured himself a glass of the lemonade. “And you shouldn’t,” he muttered, toasting his American cousin with his glass as he pulled out a chair and sat down, taking care to keep the fine gold lace of his uniform sleeve out of the condensation that was forming a puddle beneath the pitcher. “Sir Graham has enough on his mind these days... knowing you’re not causing trouble back here would do much to alleviate at least one of those concerns.”

  Kieran pulled out the chair across from him and sat, tilting his head back to enjoy the breeze coming through the open windows. “I suppose it probably is time for me to end my visit here,” he reflected, using his thumb to draw circles in the condensation of his glass. “Unlike my brother Connor, I don’t take pleasure in raiding British ships right out from under Sir Graham’s nose. I need better hunting grounds than these.”

  “Spoken like a gentleman and not the pirate you are.”

  “Privateer.”

  Del just shook his head, knowing the argument was pointless.

  “Besides,” Kieran said levelly, “I’m always a gentleman.”

  “You should go home to Newburyport, Kieran. Take care of your own family matters. You can’t hide from things forever.”

  His cousin’s eyes darkened with pain and he looked away. “Aye, I should.”

  The recent tragedy loomed in both their minds, unspoken. In the other room, the admiral wasn’t happy. Both men, sipping their lemonade, could hear Sir Graham ranting to someone about the letter, probably his wife.

  “And what will you do, Del?”

  “I go where Sir Graham goes, of course. He’s my admiral. Orion carries his flag. Unless he chooses to return on that fast-sailing packet, he’s going to want Orion which means, of course, that he’ll need her captain.”

  “Which means you.”

  “Delmore!”

  “Which means me,” Del said hopelessly, as the admiral’s roar preceded the man himself.

  Sir Graham strode back into the room, his oldest son Ned running happily in his wake. “Uncle Kieran! Captain Lord! We’re going to England!”

  Sir Graham went straight to the table, bypassing the lemonade and seizing the bottle of Bajan rum instead. “No sense delaying the damned inevitable,” he snapped, pouring a hefty measure of it into a glass. “Go ready Orion for a transatlantic crossing. We’re going home to England.”

  2

  Ruscombe Hall, Surrey, England, five weeks later

  I’m going to grow up and marry him.

  It had been her fourteenth summer and Sir Peter Danvers, whom Mama had married two years after consumption had claimed the earl who had been Lady Grace Fairchild’s father, had organized a foxhunt. Her stepfather had been popular in the circles in which he’d traveled, most of which had been naval, for he’d been knighted for bravery at sea and his friends were many. They had come from far and wide to the hunt, and that had been the first time Grace had set eyes on the golden Adonis who had been Midshipman Sheldon Ponsonby.

  He’d been attached to Sir Peter’s ship, so it was quite natural that he was there at the hunt. Grace’s fascination was piqued at first sight of him in his handsome blue uniform, stoked when he’d come over to hold the reins for her as she’d prepared to mount her horse, firmly anchored in her impressionable young heart when he’d turned a blinding smile on her, cupped his hands for her to step into, and lightly boosted her up into the saddle.

  Right then and there, she’d fallen in love.

  Off they’d all gone on the hunt, and off he’d gone with Sir Peter when her new stepfather had returned to sea, and off to sea he’d stayed after Sir Peter’s leg had been carried off by a French cannonball and her stepfather succumbed to his injuries a week later. Once again, her mother had been a widow, once again, there were black mourning clothes and no Seasons for her two lovely daughters. Several years and several Seasons had come and gone since then as well as a third husband who had run off with a baronet’s daughter, leaving the dark-haired beauty who’d been born Ariannah Falconer no choice but the shame and scandal of divorce. And all during that time, Grace had held out for Sheldon Ponsonby, following his career as he made lieutenant, and then post-captain, his achievements noted in the newspapers they took from London.

  She vowed that she’d be luckier in love than her beautiful mother had been.

  Captain Sheldon Ponsonby would never die and leave her a widow. He would never forsake her for another, younger woman. He would be the perfect match and Mama, having just pledged her vows to Husband Number Four, was inclined to agree.

  Wasn’t that, after all, the reason he’d been invited to this wedding, since he was home on an exceedingly rare leave from the sea?

  Invited, with the hopes of making a match?

  Now, with the ceremony an hour behind them, Grace sat on a blanket spread on the cropped grass of Ruscombe Hall— her new home, she figured, since it was owned by her newest stepfather— watching the breeze ruffle the lake that provided a focal point for the estate.

  A focal point for the benefit of anyone but herself.

  Her focal point happened to be the couple strolling hand-in-hand at the water’s edge, the young woman’s blonde tresses carefully arranged beneath her bonnet to frame her heart-shaped face, the man on whose arm she clung, tall and handsome in his naval uniform. He bent down to hear something she said, smiling as though she was the center of his existence, and Grace’s heart burned with jealousy.

  That man was Royal Navy Captain Sheldon Ponsonby.

  And despite her and Mama’s hopes, he had altogether failed to notice her.

  “Really, Grace. You should not be so transparent about your feelings. It’s unbecoming.”

  Grace tightened her mouth and forced a smile.

  “That’s a grimace and it’s even worse.”

  “Well, look at them, Hannah! He’s about ready to lay a rose at her feet!” Grace all but cried in her frustration. “Why doesn’t he look at me like that?”

  “Jealousy does not become you either, my dear sister.”

  “Oh, I would give anything to be her, right now!”

  “She’s his cousin. I doubt his interest in her is anything more than familial.”

  Grace tore her gaze away from the couple. Anything so that she wouldn’t have to look at the two of them. She shut her eyes and fantasized about him doting on her the way he was the Honourable Miss Cecily de Montforte. Fantasized kisses in darkened gardens and sidelong glances and what her name would sound like on his lips. Fantasized about his warship, and a special tour of it with her hand tucked into his arm. Lud, she’d fantasized about him even noticing her. She was twenty-one years old now, no longer the awkward girl he’d solicitously helped into the saddle that long ago day. She had dreamed about him. Waited for him all this time, even while in mourning for Sir Peter, even while hiding out from the gossips after the horrid scandal with Lord Anthony, the one-time husband whose name both she and Mama had promised never again to speak. Why didn’t he even seem to know she existed?

  “He’s smitten with her,” she continued wistfully, as her gaze slid back to the beautiful couple walking some distance away. “It’s so unfair.”

  “Well, she is quite beautiful.”

  Grace tightened her lips and said nothing.

  “And from a very powerful family,” Hannah went on.

  “Well, so are we.”

  “Indeed, and Uncle Graham has certainly given us fame and prominence with his heroism at sea, but we are not a ducal family like the de Montfortes, Grace. It makes a difference when it comes to the marriage mart and you know it as well as I do.”

  “You just said they are cousins.”

  “Distant cousins, I believe.”

  “And it’s not as if I can make my feelings just... go away.”


  “No, but you’re wasting your energy, and possibly even your best years, waiting for him. And for what?” Hannah plucked at a blade of grass. “Plenty of other fish in the sea.”

  “You don’t understand.” Grace gnawed at her bottom lip. “I can’t think of anyone but him. I don’t want anyone but him. I’ve waited for him all this time and he doesn’t even notice me!”

  “Well then, maybe you need to do something to make him notice you.”

  “Do something?”

  “Well, yes, why not? He’s a mariner. A decorated naval officer. You need to develop an interest in the sea and ships so that you can converse with him on such matters, and hold an intelligent discourse.”

  “And you think Cecily de Montforte knows anything about ships?”

  Both women knew that the young blonde upon whom the gallant Captain Ponsonby was lavishing attention didn’t need to know anything about ships. She was one of those rare creatures whose beauty was such that it would stun the most hardened male and make the shining sun wonder if it had light enough to surpass her.

  “You’re staring, Grace.”

  Grace jerked her gaze away for a second time. More people were arriving from the chapel, now. Ladies in elegant silks, men in well-cut frock coats, a family with children, all headed down to the lake, taking seats upon the sloping grass to enjoy this fine summer day and the food sitting in covered dishes on long tables whose bright linen cloths fluttered in the breeze. Someone was setting up a game of bowls. A terrier, barking, ran between people finding spots on the grass, eliciting a shriek from a young woman whose chicken drumstick it stole from her plate.

  Despite herself, Grace laughed.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “You said I need to develop an interest in the sea and ships so that I can hold a conversation with Captain Ponsonby. I know little about either, but it’s never too late to learn, is it?”

  Hannah frowned.

  Especially when she noticed where her sister’s gaze was now directed.

  “Don’t even think about it, Grace. You know nothing about boats.”

  But Grace was already on her feet. “Nonsense. I’ve read stories about boats, I daresay I know how to work one. Besides, it’s in the blood. Our Uncle Gray is a famous admiral. It’ll come naturally to me. You stay here. I’m going to go and make sure Captain Ponsonby notices my existence.”

  Prophetic words.

  He would soon notice her, alright.

  Except, not quite in the manner that Grace intended.

  3

  There were worse places to spend a summer afternoon than in comparatively-cool England, enjoying the pleasantries of good food, genteel company, a lazy day and a sun that knew how to be kind, when it felt inclined to appear at all, instead of brutal.

  Which was more than could be said for Barbados.

  Sir Graham might’ve been grumbling like a thunderstorm for the entire crossing, but Del, whose Irish blood inherited from his mother tended to make him sensitive to the heat, was quite happy to be away from the scorching sun of the tropics. Nice to be here where not a soul knew him, where no one except his coxswain Jimmy Thorne— whom he’d brought with him as a manservant— deferred to him as the second most senior man in the fleet, nice not to have to solve problems or disputes and nice, quite nice, really, to just be out of uniform and dressed in civilian clothes without a care in the world.

  He felt quite invisible in this crowd, really.

  Not a bad thing. Especially for a man who didn’t really know how to abandon the stiff requirements of protocol, of expected dress and behavior and comportment, and to just be... anonymous.

  Sir Graham, though, was more relaxed than he’d been in some time and for that, Del was grateful. Happy admirals were good things. They made one’s life a hell of a lot easier, even when the nearest ship to be found was many miles away and one was, for all intents and purposes, off duty.

  He told Thorne to go enjoy himself and wandered to the refreshment tables that had been set up on the lawn. There, he took a plate, selected some chicken, rolls and fruit salad, and headed for the grassy slope overlooking the lake, quite alone, content to just absorb the sun and warmth and clean wind and to do pretty much nothing.

  The wedding had been earlier, the royal guests come and gone, the festivities now more casual following their departure. Sir Graham’s eldest sister, with fawning husband number four in tow, made the rounds of the guests, her dark hair swept up in an elegant coil atop her head, her blue eyes alight. She was ravishing, and the love-struck man at her side who puffed out his chest and made it clear that she was his by every language his body possessed, could barely take his eyes off her. Sir Graham, at least, had put his irritation at being summoned for what he’d decried as complete foolishness destined to end in yet another death or disaster, behind him, and now sat in a chair beside his lovely wife. Lady Falconer, laughing at something he said, grabbed one of her runaway children headed straight for the lake, and giving their yawning infant a kiss, handed her up to her nanny.

  “Time for your nap, sweets,” she murmured, watching fondly as the woman carried the baby off to the house.

  Del caught her eye and smiled. Lady Falconer, he thought loyally, outshone her sister-in-law in beauty and vivaciousness.

  And she didn’t even have to try.

  A servant made the rounds with a tray, and Del selected a glass of punch. He sipped at it as he walked, idly wondering how he would fill his time here in England. He didn’t know anyone here save for the Falconers and Alannah, one of Sir Graham’s many sisters. She had made the crossing from Barbados with them in her own return to England, and would be departing soon for her townhouse in London. What to do? Perhaps a visit to nearby Hampshire to see his parents. Certainly, a trip up to Norfolk to visit his brother Colin and his wife, and meet the little nephews he’d heard so much about but, given how long he’d been attached to the West Indies squadron, never even laid eyes on.

  In the meantime, he had this rather dull party to get through.

  Leaving Sir Graham to his family, Del strode toward the small lake and lowered himself to the grass, avoiding a cluster of sheep droppings lurking on the ground nearby. It was a breezy day, with gusts that threatened to snatch the fine beaver hat from his head and send it flying out over the water. He eyed the lake, little more than a pond, really, its surface ruffled by breeze and sparkling in the sun. A small dingy and a sprit-rigged skiff were pulled up on the shore and as he gazed idly at the two boats, he saw a young woman walking toward the skiff with confident authority.

  She was pretty, with a slender, pleasing figure and dark hair showing from beneath her bonnet, and soon enough her back was to him as she bent down and pushed the skiff out into the water. Del watched with a mild detachment, allowing his thoughts to go no further. His luck with women was abysmal, and he doubted very much that it would be any better on this side of the Atlantic than it had been back in Barbados.

  He sensed a presence beside him and looked up.

  “Ahoy, Ned,” he said to the boy. Smiling, he patted the ground beside him. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Not at all, Captain Lord.”

  Del raised a brow. “Too many aunties?”

  “Six of them. Alannah, Ariannah, Annalisa, Anastasia, Arabella, Anaconda—”

  Your grandmother named one of them for a snake?

  “Damnation, I don’t remember her name, I hardly know any of them except for Alannah.”

  “Do not swear, young man.”

  “Why not? Mama does. Papa does. Everyone does, and if I want to grow up to be an admiral some day then I should probably get started on the swearing, spitting and shouting bit while I’m in my formative years.”

  “You don’t see your father spitting.”

  “No, but he does swear and shout, and I doubt he’s enjoying himself as much as he’s pretending. I know my mother would rather be anywhere else. I wish we could’ve stayed in Barbados. There�
�s nothing to do here. We’ve not been in England for three days and I’m already bored out of my mind.”

  Del smiled, his attention wandering back to the young woman and the boat.

  “Aren’t you bored, Captain Lord?”

  Del bit into a chicken drumstick and chewed thoughtfully. “Give me time. For now, it’s nice to just sit here and enjoy a few moments without giving orders, tending to a ship, keeping your father happy or solving a problem.”

  “I wish Uncle Connor were here. I miss him.”

  Del, who had found Kieran’s older brother Connor yet more proof that he was terminally unlucky when it came to competing for the opposite sex, only smiled a bit wistfully. Deadly Dull-more, Connor had called him. And he was, really. Dull. Quite dull. Still, he’d have preferred something a little more flattering... perhaps Dutiful Del. Was he really so dull? How Connor had tried to get him to “live a little,” as his American cousin had liked to say. But thinking of Connor Merrick made him remember the beautiful Welshwoman, Rhiannon. Rhiannon, who had fallen head-over-heels with the impetuous, insanely reckless Connor and for whom he, Del, might not have even existed.

  Yes, he was quite invisible when it came to the fair sex— and he was resigned to it.

  He wiped his fingers on a napkin and chased the chicken with another sip of punch. Set the glass on the ground beside him, leaned back on his elbows, tilted his head back and let the gentle English sun warm his face. He closed his eyes, enjoying the idleness, the utter freedom of having absolutely nothing to do, nowhere to go, nothing to plan for, but to just exist. His limbs felt suddenly heavy, his eyelids weighted. He yawned.

  “Captain Lord?”

  “Aye, Ned?”

  “That’s one of my cousins over there in that skiff. D’you think she knows what she’s doing?”

  Del cracked open an eye. The young woman sat alone in the boat, clutching a paddle as she rowed her way farther out into the lake. She was not only a clumsy rower, but failed to switch the paddle from one side of the boat to the other and the little craft, helpless against the one-sided pulling, was tracking in a circle.