The Admiral's Heart

THE ADMIRAL’S
HEART

By

Danelle
Harmon

SMASHWORDS
EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED
BY:

Danelle
Harmon

THE ADMIRAL’S
HEART

Copyright © 201
3 by Danelle Harmon

License
Notes

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~~~~

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 her 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.