A Vixen for the Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel (The Hale Sisters Book 2)

Morgan stared at the steam coming off his teacup.

It was yet another pleasant day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and the spring was fully in bloom. This, of course, was marred only by his allergies, and the tension between him and Harriet. She sat beside him, equally enthralled by her teacup.

Oliver and Lady Moore led the discussion. Today’s topic included books that Morgan had not read, philosophies that Morgan did not understand, and hunting plans that Morgan wished to avoid. But really, the monster lurking under the table was what distracted Morgan the most.

He had found himself going back and forth, savouring the memory and yet regretting the consequences. Ever since he had woken up, the evening had repeated in his head no matter what he was doing. Whether he was sitting down for breakfast, speaking with someone, or going over all the work he’d neglected the evening before, he was thinking of that moment. He had wanted to kiss her. He had thought maybe it would be enough to get her off his mind, but it had only fuelled his desire. He wanted her more than he had done before, but now more than ever, it was important that he resisted.

He only regretted the moment he had shared with Harriet because it had upset her. He had pondered the thought a dozen times, but he still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened. She had kissed him first. Although he had wanted to, he wouldn’t have forced the matter for her sake. She couldn’t be upset that he had kissed her back. So, then, what was it?

He turned his head and looked at her. She looked back at him, her cheeks reddening and her eyes dropping to his lips for a moment before she looked back at her teacup. “We need to talk at some point,” he said quietly. His words were barely audible over the discussion at the table.

Harriet sucked in her breath. “Hmm,” she said. “Do we?”

Morgan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Shouldn’t we?”

Harriet sat up a little taller. “Must we?”

“Actually,” he began, “keep vexing me like this and I can assure you it will not happen again.”

“Wonderful.” Harriet lifted the teacup to her lips and took a dainty sip.

Morgan turned back to the table. It would have been big enough for the group if Daphne hadn’t decided last minute that she would like to join them. This was preferable, because then, at least he could keep an eye on her. The seating was a little tight, and Lucy accidentally brushed against his shoulder. Doing the gentlemanly thing, he shifted a bit to make room for her.

“Are you scooting closer to me?” Harriet whispered sharply.

“Apologies, Miss Harriet, for not wishing to invade your sister’s space,” he said. His temper was usually even, only now he was getting a bit frustrated.

“Better hers than mine,” she muttered.

“Can you be civil, please?”

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Daphne asked.

Morgan turned his head to look at his cousin. “Nothing,” he said brusquely.

Daphne slumped in her seat, her cheeks filling with air. “Must be something.”

“We are having a lighthearted argument about—”

“Tea,” Harriet interrupted him. He looked at her, hoping that she might elaborate further, as he did not think that deeply about tea at all to have an opinion. “I like honey in mine,” she said, looking at Morgan expectantly.

“And I like… lemon,” he said.

“I like sugar.” Daphne reached out to grab the sugar bowl, but Morgan intercepted her.

“No, no. We much prefer calm and relaxed Daphne,” he said. “Calm. Relaxed.” He emphasised the words in the hopes that the little girl might take that as an order.

“Can we do something fun?” Daphne whined. “Please?”

“Charades!” Lucy squealed.

“I am so sick of charades, Lucy. You always want to play and you always beat me at it.” Harriet stared into her teacup.

Morgan had missed the Harriet that had visited him in his study the other day. She had been funny and spirited. He had suddenly felt like being around her was so easy, when connecting with others just wasn’t. He wasn’t entirely sure what he felt. The springtime was confusing in that way. Maybe watching the world grow and blossom around oneself made the heart feel romantic. He had to remember that the only thing that had happened between them had been a momentary lapse in judgement and not a display of any genuine affection.

But that didn’t mean that he wasn’t getting into his own head. It had been a long time since he had any kind of attachment. This had felt different. It had felt consuming, when he had moved on from others so easily. He would be a liar if he said that he hadn’t spent more time than he’d liked thinking about her and who he knew she could become if she got out of her head.

But it wasn’t his responsibility to fix her.

“Aunt Bridget!” Harriet shouted, pulling Morgan out of his thoughts and interrupting her aunt’s discussion with Oliver.

Morgan sighed. There she went again, vowing to do her best to destroy their romance. Maybe he might have seen her efforts as a threat to his uncle’s happiness, but she was not a formidable opponent. She was merely just buzzing in her aunt’s ear like an annoying gnat. Perhaps one day, Lady Moore would simply swat her out of the sky without a second thought.

“Yes, dear?”

“Do you have any games we can play? I would hate for Lady Daphne to be bored by all of this intellectual thought,” Harriet said.

“You don’t want Daphne to be bored?” Lucy mumbled. “Or you don’t want to be bored?”

Harriet frowned at her sister. Lucy shot a nasty look right back at her, her eyes wide, her nose wrinkled, and her tongue poking out from between her lips.

Oliver found the little exchange funny enough that he sounded off with a belly laugh. “Reminds me of my brother and me!” Then, he clapped his hands together. “Okay, how about a game of…” He grinned and reached into the bag that Bridget had packed for their garden party. “Spillikins!”

Morgan frowned. “Again?”

“My favourite!” Daphne shouted, reaching her hands out.

Oliver offered Morgan a knowing nod as he handed the box to Daphne. “Yes, again.”

“You see, I have gotten rather sharp with this game,” Bridget said.

She had spent quite a bit of time with Daphne. It seemed that even after all of that, Daphne still regarded her as the odd lady who lived next door. Granted, she was not wrong, but Morgan could only imagine the hellfire that might rain when she was finally told that that very odd lady might very well become her stepmother.

“The rules of the game are simple!” Daphne said, tossing the painted sticks onto the table and shuffling them until they were all mixed up and tangled together.

“I think we all know how to—”

Morgan interrupted Lucy by leaning towards her. “Humour her. She loves this.”

Lucy scowled. “This is exactly why she is so spoiled!” Her whisper was as fierce as a bite.

“The rules are so simple,” Daphne repeated. “When it is your turn, you chose a stick and try to pick it up, but if you move any other sticks in the process, your turn is over. The player with the most sticks wins.”

“And what should the winner get in return?” Morgan asked. He always liked to make things a little more interesting with a wager.

“They can choose the next game,” Daphne replied. “Based on how good I am at this game, we may be playing Spillikins for the rest of the evening.”

She took her turn first, reaching into the pile and carefully removing a stick, her tongue poking out the side of her mouth as she focused on the task at hand. Applause followed her successful removal of the sticks. Next was Oliver. He didn’t have a very steady hand. In fact, Morgan had become so accustomed to the sound of the morning newspaper rattling in his uncle’s shaky hands while he worked that it was difficult to focus without the sound. Oliver was terrible at Spillikins, but often, whatever angst bothered Daphne seemed to take a hiatus when the two played a game. It must have been a momentary relief for things to feel normal again. And just as always, he fumbled, shifting the sticks.

Lady Moore was next, picking a stick elegantly and deftly off the top of the pile before she poked Oliver in the arm with it to gloat. They had a quiet laugh. This seemed to bother Harriet, which would make for an interesting turn.

“Any strategies?” Oliver asked her as she studied the pile.

Harriet glanced up at him dismissively. “My goodness, isn’t this a mess,” she said softly. “Everyone—thing… all the sticks, all tangled up and messed up. That is not how they’re meant to be.”

Morgan scoffed, and everyone rubbernecked to look at him. He cleared his throat. It must have only been apparent to him that Harriet wasn’t talking about the sticks at all. Funny.

“Just pick one up,” he said.

“I would be happy to,” Harriet returned. “However, I must be gentle so as not to make more of a mess than is already here. Maybe if they could just keep to themselves, then we wouldn’t be forced to clean up.” And with that, she reached in skillfully and retrieved a stick without disturbing the pile. “Your turn,” she intoned, pointing the tip of the stick at him.

The Duke stared at the pile. “Actually,” he said, “I will forfeit my turn.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Daphne whined.

Morgan grimaced. “I just think that maybe these sticks are happy. Why must I interfere with these very… happy… sticks?”

“Stop humanising the sticks, dear,” Lady Moore cooed. She rarely addressed him properly anymore. She had long felt a part of the family, although never did he imagine she would actually become part of the family.

Morgan smiled at her. “Fine. These two, right here,” he said. “I think they have spent entirely too much time together.” He reached into the pile, picking out one stick successfully. As Lucy began her turn, he turned to Harriet quietly and held the blue stick up to her. “This one is the same colour as your dress. What a coincidence.”

“I think it is best that you removed that one from the pile,” Harriet stated. “It appears that green stick there was causing it undue stress.”

Morgan huffed, defeatedly dropping the stick in front of himself. Another turn passed. Lucy and Daphne succeeded, followed by a loss from both Oliver and Bridget. Once again, Harriet was up. She was surprisingly agile. With one fluid motion, she picked up the green stick—the one that had apparently caused undue stress—and set it before her.

The turn went around, reaching Lady Moore, who was successful yet again. Then, it was Harriet’s turn again. “Look at this. We’ve barely made a scrape in this mess,” she said. “But I am steadfast. I will not stop until order is restored.”

“Can you just move on?” Morgan shot back.

“Why?” she asked. “I am not being rueful for the sake of it.”

With another point on Harriet’s board, Morgan found himself staring down at the pile. He didn’t care about winning the game as much as he cared about winning the covert argument he was in the middle of. He reached out and grabbed a stick clumsily, purposefully moving several of the pieces. “Oh my, looks like I made your next turn that much harder.”

He glared at Harriet, and she met his gaze with intensity. It was strange that only a few days prior they had kissed each other so gently, savouring the moment, and now they were at war over a game of Spillikins. Maybe it was better this way. Or maybe that rosy blush of frustration made him want to kiss her even more.

“My… My turn,” Lucy said, breaking the feud momentarily.

While the other players took their turns, Harriet leaned over to whisper into Morgan’s ear, “We are coming off as overly competitive.”

“Aren’t you?”

She paused, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips before she took a resigned breath. “It may be true that I am among the sorest of losers.”

“Mhm, I got the very sense,” he whispered back.

“Can we call it a truce, just for now?”

“We aren’t done here?”

She shook her head. He hadn’t fully said his peace yet, so it was just as well. He reached out his hand under the table. Tentatively, she reached out. Her fingers brushed against his palm, and his breath caught in his throat. It reminded him of how she had touched his cheek when she had kissed him. He wondered if it had kept her awake the night before just as it had for him. Had it? Or had she already forgotten? Together, they shook hands in a truce under the cover of the table. When she pulled away, it felt like a fire was burning a hole in his palm.

The game continued around in circles, and Morgan played the game as best as he could. However, his hands were big and clumsy. Harriet and Daphne were tied until the final rounds when Daphne’s hubris made her fumble, and Harriet rounded out the game with a winning number.

Daphne groaned. “Can we play again?”

“Ah, ah.” Oliver wagged his finger. “To the victor goes the responsibility of keeping us entertained!”

Harriet smiled at him for perhaps the first time since she’d learned of his affection for her aunt. That made Morgan feel better. Maybe she had been so busy arguing with him that she was too busy to argue with her aunt’s romance. If that was what Morgan had to endure for his uncle’s sake, then so be it.

“I hate to sound boorish, but I feel like hitting something,” Harriet said. “Pall-mall?”

Lady Moore laughed. “I would love to hit something!”

Oliver feigned a leap away, and together, the pair laughed more. As much as the romance had shocked Morgan, he now could see very clearly just how much joy the two brought to each other. That sentiment did a lot to calm his mind. He was attracted to Harriet, and he certainly had enjoyed the times they’d spent together. However, he wasn’t sure he was willing to settle for anything less than a true friendship.

“Uhm.” Morgan cleared his throat when he realised his uncle was looking at him expectantly. “Pall-mall, of course. I will need some help setting up.”

“Miss Harriet, would you mind?” Oliver asked, a glint in his eyes.

Morgan frowned, suddenly struck by the thought that maybe his uncle knew a bit more than he’d let on.

“Oh, poor Harriet!” Bridget exclaimed. “I had her out cleaning that chicken coop all morning. Our poor city girl has done enough hard labour.”

Harriet looked surprised by her aunt’s insistence that she stay at the table. There was a brief pause before she stood up. “It is okay, Aunt Bridget, I think I ought to make peace with His Grace over my competitive bent.”

The Dowager Viscountess offered a single nod. “Suit yourself, dear.”

“The game is just over there in the shed,” Morgan said.

Together, they walked across the vibrant green grass.

Once they were out of earshot, he looked over his shoulder at Harriet. “You are planning to apologise, are you?”

“Oh, of course not.”

“Ah,” he replied quietly. “So, you agreed to walk over to the storage with me for… what exactly?”

“A momentary truce.” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “I believe you would agree that our relationship thus far is perilous?”

“Interesting word choice,” he murmured.

“My words are perfectly natural.”

He hummed incredulously. “Sounds more like the way I might describe plans to, I don’t know, swim across the English Channel. Maybe not the word I would use to describe one ill-advised kiss.”

“Don’t bring that up!”

He glanced at her, smiling lightly at the embarrassment painted across the apples of her cheeks. “Right. Like it never happened.”

“It happened once, and that is exactly why it will never happen again.”

“I regret to inform you, Harriet, that lighting can, in fact, hit the same place twice.”

He reached out, pushing the rusty latch on the door up. The door squeaked open, revealing all manner of winter storage. The weather had just begun cooperating enough for him to have the servants bring out some of the furniture and fixtures outside. It would be nice to see the bird fountain running and the porch swing back outside.

“You ought to… wait here,” he said.

Perhaps she was correct that they would never make the same mistake twice. Even if he did wish for a second proverbial lighting strike, now was specifically a terrible time to test the limits of their self-control, and he did not wish to give his uncle any more reason to suspect an attachment.

Morgan carefully entered the shed and pushed past some boxes until he found the bag of pall-mall equipment. He tugged at the bag, but it was stuck under a stack of other boxes. He grunted, and the boxes shifted, causing some of the mallets in the bag to clatter together.

“Do you need help?”

He grunted again, tugging at the bag. “No.” He winced as one of the boxes from the top of the pile fell.

“You are dropping everything!” she shouted.

She hurried in behind him, her hand reaching out and steadying one of the boxes before it fell off the stack. Morgan turned his head, his eyes widening when he realised how close she was. His eyes flickered down, looking at her soft, berry-red lips before he caught himself. She didn’t move away like she had seemed so certain she did. It seemed to him like she hadn’t easily forgotten the first passionate kiss she’d ever received in her life.

They jumped as one of the boxes shifted and slid off the pile. “Oh!” Harriet reached out to prevent it from falling, her side brushing against his as she held the boxes steady enough for him to pull the bag out.

As soon as the bag of equipment was free, she stepped out of the shed, leaving him standing there wondering if he’d imagined the whole thing. When he came back out, Harriet was further out, sizing up the perfect real estate for the game.

For a minute, he stopped to admire how beautiful she looked in her dress, which was in the same freeing shade of blue as the sky. The sunshine glanced off her curly hair, casting a glow over her. Those white satin gloves made him wonder what it would feel like if her bare hands cupped his cheek while she kissed him just one more time.

But Morgan had already assured himself that Harriet was nothing more than a mutual attraction. These feelings would come to pass eventually, and he would be grateful that he didn’t push things any further than they had already gone.

“What do you think?” she asked, gesturing towards a large area of the lawn that was relatively flat.

He chucked the bag and dropped to a crouch. He pulled the hoops out and got to work, pushing them into the ground with his foot. “By all means, make yourself comfortable,” he muttered.

“What is it now?”

“No, no.” He sighed teasingly. “I am just delighted that you are so comfortable giving me orders regarding my lawn.”

“I am merely taking initiative,” she said. “You wonder why our efforts at being…” She sucked her teeth. “Cousins is contentious and then tease me so mercilessly. I find it tiring.”

He pushed one of the hoops into the lawn and then paused, bringing his foot back to the grass. She was right, of course. For as many frustrating things she had done, he had as well. Even if Morgan was right about leaving his uncle and Bridget to their own devices, he wasn’t perfect.

He took a deep breath. “May I extend a gesture of goodwill?”

“Why?”

“Harriet, come now.” He sighed. “Just think of it as an apology for our disagreements and about, uhm, the lightning strike.”

She shook her head, holding her hands up to him. “That can easily be forgotten. There is no need.”

He pushed another hoop into the grass. “I need to take Daphne to the modiste tomorrow, as she has grown a bit too tall for her dresses,” he said. “Would you like to join us? I was earnest about replacing the dress that she destroyed.”

Harriet’s head tilted ever so slightly, and her pink lips curled up into a smile. “That is very generous. I would love to join you both.”