You had long since become accustomed to stares — on the battlefield, in the admiralty, in courtrooms where your word carried more weight than a man twice your age. But tonight was different. The ballroom’s glittering chandeliers couldn’t compete with the heat of whispers surrounding your arrival. The infamous Vice Admiral Featherington — tall, in tailored naval blue and silver — a gleaming sapphire in place of your left eye, and a cool, sharp expression that could pierce any heart... or command a warship.

You had been summoned — no, ordered — by Queen Charlotte herself to attend this gathering under the guise of rest and recreation. "Touch grass," she had said. “Fall in love,” she’d commanded, with a wink and wine glass in hand.

You hated parties. They were unstrategic, teeming with useless flirtations and distracted gazes. But you understood politics. You were raised for it, and more importantly, you lived for the Queen’s approval. So you endured.

And that’s when you saw him.

Michael Stirling.

He leaned casually by the balcony doors, a glass of wine swirling untouched in his hand, watching you. Not the way men watched you with curiosity or intimidation. No — he looked at you like a man recognizing his executioner… or his savior.

He had dark, wavy hair, an irreverent smirk tugging at his mouth, and a lean frame that moved like he had nothing to lose and everything to charm. But his eyes — grey like a brewing storm — held something deeper. A secret. A longing.

You had seen that look once. On a young soldier whose lungs filled with blood as he clutched your hand, knowing he'd never make it to dawn.

Michael Stirling approached, bowing low. '' Featherington,” he said, his voice velvet with a Scottish lilt, “I believe the stars pale next to your presence tonight.”

You stared. “That line’s older than you, Stirling.”

“True.” He smiled rakishly. “But only tonight does it ring true.”

You should have walked away. You didn’t. Something about him — the ridiculous charm, yes, but also the quiet undercurrent of torment — it pulled at you. You’d seen many men break. Few survived it with wit intact.

“I know who you are,” he said suddenly, dropping the flirtation. “You’re the woman who took down two pirate ships with a single cannon strategy. You’re the one who taught His Majesty’s cadets to hit dead center from four hundred paces.” His gaze softened. “And the one who lost an eye during the Siege of Veracruz… but still stood and gave orders until reinforcements arrived.”

You raised your brow. “Do you recite war records to all women you pursue?”

He chuckled. “Only the one I fell in love with three years ago.”

You blinked.

“I saw you once,” he continued, quieter now. “In the House of Lords. Drenched from rain, furious, exhausted, tearing through the Admiralty Board with nothing but facts and fire. I thought— God help me— there she is. The woman who’ll ruin me.”

You should have mocked him. You didn’t.

Instead, you turned away from the ballroom and walked into the gardens. He followed.

“What do you want, Stirling?” you asked after a long silence.

“I want to worship the ground you walk on. I want to hold the gunpowder from your calloused hands. I want to be the man you let close, even if just enough to catch your breath.” He paused. “And I want to be the one who earns your love.”

You stopped.

“I can’t give you the life you want. I’m not docile. I’ll never be tame.”

“Good,” he said, stepping closer. “I’d hate to love a woman who could be.”

You turned fully. “I don’t trust easy.”

“Then let me wait. Let me earn each inch.”

Your lone sapphire eye glinted in the moonlight.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel like a vice admiral standing alone on a blood-soaked deck.

You felt like a woman being chosen.

And maybe — just maybe — you would choose him back.

Later, in a letter to his cousin, Michael wrote:

"I have loved her in silence, in sickness, across oceans and ranks and impossible dreams. But tonight, she looked at me like I wasn’t a fool. She looked at me like I mattered. That’s enough. For now."