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

Morgan could not recall a time in which he felt more ill than he did at that particular moment. He had changed his shoes at least four times as if Harriet would notice a detail so miniscule. He wasn’t entirely sure what he felt, but the prospect of her arriving at his house in mere minutes had his heart beating as erratically as rain on a tin roof.

“Nephew,” Oliver called out from his seat on the couch. “You are going to light the rug on fire with all of your pacing.”

“I am restless,” Morgan said.

“Why?” Oliver sipped his tea, looking his nephew up and down from over the rim of the teacup.

“Because.” Morgan huffed. “I have been cooped up in my office all day.”

“Mhm… Would you like me to aid you in lying to yourself, or shall I call you out?”

“What do you mean?”

“If you would rather pretend that you need some fresh air, I am happy to add to your delusions, but we both know the reason you are pacing this way. You have found yourself so taken by Miss Hale.”

“I am not taken by Miss Harriet.”

Oliver laughed, his hand pressed over his round stomach. “A man who was not taken might have asked which Miss Hale, but it seems you already know.”

Morgan scrunched up his face in frustration and collapsed onto the seat beside his uncle, his body slumped forward and his head in his hands.

Oliver placed one reassuring hand on his back and laughed once more. “Why do you hesitate?” he asked.

Morgan took a deep breath. He couldn’t fully explain all of his reasons to his uncle. One great reason was that Harriet and he had already kissed, and as much as she had wanted it, it had still confused her. He did not wish to make her feel that way. That was never his intention. He had just allowed himself to be moved by forces that were beyond logic. He didn’t even know how he had felt about her back then. All he knew was that he had wanted her.

Things hadn’t changed that much. He still wanted her. In fact, he could scarcely think of an evening that he wasn’t lying in bed, tossing in his sheets thinking about her. After all this time, he was feeling something alien to himself, and he could only worry that it was love.

Perhaps, finally, in his twenty-seventh year, it was happening to him too. He wanted her to smile at him, to waste hours talking to him, and to laugh about everything with him. He wanted her head on his shoulder, her fingertips tracing the lines on his palm and melting into the space between his fingers. And most overwhelming of all, he wanted her mouth, and he wanted her hips, and he wanted her pressed against him until there was nothing keeping them apart.

But wasn’t that her precise problem? She had already been hurt by a man who could not control his own lust. Jeremy had destroyed her entire reputation merely because he could not control his desires. Morgan didn’t think of himself as that kind of man, but he had already taken more liberties than he should have with her.

And besides that, she was against the engagement between his uncle and Lady Moore, a detail that he would never tell his uncle for fear of crushing him. Harriet seemed to fully believe—or at least she’d said as much—that remaining unwed was preferable.

For Morgan, the entire situation was cut and dried. He was wrong for Harriet Hale, even if right now she felt like she was made for him. This whole situation was bound to hurt him in the end.

“It is merely a passing fancy, but it distresses me nonetheless.” Morgan hated to lie to his uncle, but for him to admit that it was love was for him to turn an already real pain into something much more real. It was best to hold it this close to his heart until it dissipated.

“Do you really believe that it will pass?” Oliver asked.

“I do,” Morgan affirmed. It had to. There was no other option. “This is merely a suggestion of the springtime, and perhaps seeing you so happy is making me want such things for myself. It is all momentary.”

“Please refrain from being angry at your favourite uncle,” Oliver said sheepishly.

“What have you done?”

“I simply asked Lady Moore, just between us, whether Miss Harriet may return your affections.”

“Ah.” Morgan sat still, realising that no matter what his uncle said next would only complicate the situation further.

“She is under the impression that Miss Harriet is far too fragile.” Oliver frowned. “I can understand her concerns, but I just have a feeling. Can you believe it? I am even more crushed than you are.”

Morgan wasn’t sure if that was true, but he agreed, nonetheless. “You needn’t worry about me falling in love. You must worry about falling in love with the idea of a grandniece or nephew.”

Oliver sighed. “This house is getting quiet, and everyone is getting older. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a little Morgan running around?”

“Two of me?” Morgan asked. “You cannot handle two of me.”

“I think I can.” Oliver smiled. “We will just have to wait.”

Just then, a knock on the door sent the two men into action.

Lucy had told Harriet at the modiste that coral was a terrible colour for a dress, as it was far too close to orange or yellow, which were, in her words, migrainous. But Harriet had stuck with her choice. She had worn soft, muted, delicate colours her entire life, and it hadn’t gotten her anywhere. Now that she didn’t have to worry about what men would think, she was free to wear whatever she pleased.

And sure, she didn’t care what men thought, but the way Morgan looked at her as she entered his house had made her feel like she was the only woman on earth. He drew in a sharp breath. It was quiet, and perhaps she might not have noticed it if she wasn’t so hyper-focused on everything he did. Bridget and Oliver were laughing and speaking with Daphne and Lucy while Harriet was experiencing exactly what she assumed it would feel like to be struck by lightning, only a little less painful.

When the rest of the guests began making their way to the dining room, Harriet stalled just a moment, and Morgan fell into step beside her. “You look so becoming,” he whispered, his breath hot and tickling her sensitive neck.

A shiver raced down her spine as his hand lightly brushed the small of her back. Before she could respond, he left her side and joined the rest of the guests.

“I will be right back.” He smiled. “I have a special bottle of wine for the occasion.”

Harriet took her seat at the dinner table, with Daphne on her left. On her right, the seat remained empty, as if everyone, without even consciously realising it, had known that Morgan would be sitting beside her. She shifted in her chair, waiting for him to return. She could hardly stand the ache in her chest when she thought of him.

All she could think about lately was kissing him again, but longer this time, until his hands were grabbing at her waist and lifting her in the air so she could wrap her legs around him. She’d never had such racy thoughts before. Something about it felt absolutely wicked, while another part of her figured there was no harm in it. She had already been painted as impure in light of the scandal. She had merely exchanged a peck on the lips once or twice with Jeremy, and it had felt as lifeless as kissing a cold stone wall. If the world thought that she was ruined, then she might as well indulge herself in the fantasy of Morgan, because she would never kiss his lips again.

“Miss Harriet?”

Harriet jumped, looking beside her at Daphne. “Apologies, I must have been lost in thought,” she said.

Daphne frowned. “I only wondered if you were going to eat the rest of your roll.”

“Oh my…” Harriet looked down at the half-eaten roll in front of her. She was hungry, but her appetite for Morgan had robbed her of the chance to have a proper go at her food.

“Can I have it?” Daphne asked. “I’m so hungry!”

“Please, be my guest.”

Harriet pushed her plate aside. She did want that roll, but she remembered just how hungry the transition from a girl to a woman had made her. And although she couldn’t be certain that that was what Daphne was experiencing, she was, at the very least, getting taller and moodier. She was very skinny as well. An extra roll would not hurt.

“What were you thinking of?” Daphne asked.

“Just… uhm, how my day will shape up tomorrow. I feel that it’s going to rain soon.”

“You are bad at lying,” Daphne said before taking a bite into the roll and happily chewing on it.

“And you are too intelligent for your own good.” Harriet smiled lightly, shifting when Morgan sat down beside her. She did not make the mistake of looking at him, or her face would get all red and Daphne would make a big deal out of it.

“You are probably thinking about how you will never get married,” Daphne stated matter-of-factly, setting the remaining quarter of the roll onto her plate, looking rather self-assured.

That had, in fact, rattled Harriet’s cage, but instead, she took a deep breath and smiled. “Life is full of great moments and terrible moments. I have had my fair share of happiness. Some dissatisfaction is completely normal. All I can do is respond in stride.”

Daphne had been so confident only moments ago, but now her eyebrows were turned up, and her lip was quivering slightly. “Is that really true?”

Harriet shrugged. “I like to believe it is,” she said. “Even in our lowest moments, we are entitled to great hope.”

“That is what my cousin said as well.” Daphne used her fork to listlessly push her food around her plate.

“You should heed his advice. He is a very smart man.” Harriet smiled. “What are you hopeful for?”

Daphne didn’t respond. She merely shook her head.

“Come now, there must be something,” Harriet prompted.

This conversation was already requiring her to dig a little deeper than she’d intended. She felt a little like a fraud. Here she was telling a child that the sun would rise again when she herself wasn’t convinced that was true. She must have hoped for something herself. She, at the very least, deserved that much. Hoping for a moment alone with Morgan was one thing, but she was still rather pessimistic about her own future.

“I, for one,” she began, “am hopeful for… oh gosh, the summertime. I love the summertime. I am hopeful that tomorrow I will know myself just a little better. I hope for a thunderstorm and flowers bursting from the dirt, and a small, cosy house that I can call my own.” And after that, she felt a pang of longing in her chest. She hadn’t thought about the future seriously since Jeremy had left her. He shouldn’t have been able to rob her of hope. Everything she had listed was still very likely to happen.

“I hope for… a dog. I would like a dog. And a rabbit maybe. And maybe a bird,” Daphne said.

“You like animals.” Harriet smiled.

“How could someone not?”

“Well, most animals are lovely, but I have a rather precarious relationship with the chickens at the moment. They seem to enjoy my misfortunes.”

Daphne laughed in response. She paused, eating more of her food. The table roared with laughter at what was presumably a very cheeky response from Lucy. That was yet another thing that Lucy was effortlessly good at. She could make anything sound funny if only for it being surprising or well-timed. Perhaps Harriet had made Daphne laugh for once, but that was simply because the little girl loved the idea of the chickens collectively agreeing to terrorise Harriet.

“Do you think you will grow any taller?” Daphne asked quietly as if she hadn’t wished for anyone else to hear their conversation.

The question was so innocent and so vulnerable that Harriet couldn’t help but smile at the thought. “Likely not,” she responded. “I am twenty years already. Growing taller is something that happens earlier. Now, the only way I can grow is to work on myself and what I want.” The words had been a shock to even her. It was as if she had all this great advice that she refused to take heed of herself. She felt like a fraud.

Daphne nodded. “That is…” She paused, picking up her roll. “It comforts me to know that.”

Harriet started, feeling a hand brush lightly against her elbow. It was so brief and gentle that it sent her back up to the moon once more like the hopeless fool she was. She looked to her other side. Morgan offered only a short-lived glance and a tight-lipped smile.

“Incredible,” Morgan said.

Harriet settled back against the couch and looked up at him. He was leaning on the arm of the chair, looking at her over his shoulder.

Then, he turned back, focusing on Lucy and Daphne, who were still sitting at the dining room table engaging in a conversation about something historical. He got up and sat on the couch beside Harriet.

In the corner of the room, Bridget and Oliver were laughing and reciting classic poetry to each other in goofy voices. It was all Harriet could do to avoid retching. Without thinking much, she stood up, only stopping when her wrist was seized.

She looked back, frowning at Morgan’s hand. “Can you let me go?”

“Why?”

“What do you—” She huffed a low, breathy snort and looked back at her aunt.

She stilled for a moment. She hadn’t even realised what she was doing until Morgan stopped her. She had been trying to protect her aunt for so long that she hardly even realised why she was doing it anymore.

Morgan’s hand slipped off her wrist and fell, his fingers grazing across her palm so gently. Harriet’s heart lurched, and her eyes widened. He tilted his head and gave her a sympathetic smile. “Just one night,” he said. “One night where we are peaceful. After all, how must Daphne believe all the mature things you said if you and I are fighting like children?”

“One night?”

He nodded. “Just one.”

“And then?”

“And then.” He sighed, relaxing into the seat and yawning. “And then, I shall try my hardest to bicker at length with you. I can add in a well-timed stomp, perhaps a door slam if you will. Whatever makes it believable for you.”

Harriet sat down on the couch again. “I do not believe I want to fight with you any longer. I suppose we’ve become rather good friends.”

He nodded. “Then maybe it is time to stop, hmm?”

She rested her cheek on her palm in thought. After a moment, she shook her head. “Your uncle is the kindest man I’ve ever met,” she admitted. “He is so polite and funny. He laughs all the time. He is like a champagne bottle, poised to explode at any moment. Bubbly and happy and…” She scowled, watching Lord Murrey all smiles and laughs, trying his best to hold his laughter in long enough to finish the poem.

“He is… He is perfect. Where is the problem, then?”

Harriet looked over her shoulder swiftly. “Do you know who else was like that?”

After a moment, Morgan mouthed an Oh in realisation. He sighed again. “May I ask you a question, Harriet?”

“Perhaps.”

“Just between us, just here,” he said. “I promise not to bring it up once we leave this couch.”

Gingerly, Harriet nodded.

“Did he break your heart?”

“What?” Her eyebrows narrowed, and her nose twitched. What kind of question was that? “He left me at the altar.”

“But I am asking if you loved him or if you married him out of obligation.”

Harriet stared at Morgan. His eyes were dark. Sometimes, they felt so warm, and other times, they felt like they were concealing all of his intentions. Sometimes, she thought that he had feelings for her, but it was hard to tell when they both wanted to tear each other’s clothes off so badly. He had suggested feeling more than that when they had been in town the other day, but now, here he was asking her about a different man.

“I feel that life has orchestrated itself to give me a rather powerful kick in the face, sometimes,” she said. “I thought I wanted to marry him, but I think I just wanted to be married. I wanted kids and a home and maybe a cat. A little cat. A grey cat, you know?”

He smiled lightly. “Yes, I know.” He paused, reflecting on what she’d said for a moment. “You did not love him. He clearly did not love you—”

“Excuse me!”

“Apologies, Harriet, I am only telling you what you already know. My intention is not to be hurtful. The man is a hound. Any love of his is an insult at best.”

Harriet opened her mouth to respond but stopped herself. He was right. “Go on,” she muttered.

“I just mean to say that you were betrayed by someone you didn’t care for. Look at Lady Moore and my uncle. Is it not painfully obvious that the two of them look like fools in each other’s company?”

Harriet looked at them. Her aunt Bridget was red in the face, holding back her laughter and looking in a great deal of discomfort because of it. Meanwhile, Lord Murrey was now up and out of his seat, his knee bent and his foot planted on the chair. He had one arm extended, holding an apple. Apparently, they had moved past poetry to Hamlet.

“That is a love of the purest kind, Harriet,” Morgan added softly.

Harriet’s eyes stung. She squinted, pushing the tears away. She wasn’t sure what had made her cry. Part of her thought she was jealous, and yet another part of her thought she was just as equally moved.

Her head ached dully with confusion. “Do you…” She cleared her throat. “Do you have some sort of game? Anything?”

“Don’t say that too loudly, or Daphne will suggest…” He leaned in and said with a stage whisper, “Spillikins.”

“I do not mind so much.” Harriet shrugged. “But seeing as your hands are…” She looked down at his hands. They were far too large for a proper chance at winning Spillikins, but good heavens if she wasn’t suddenly out of breath at the thought of them. She thought of them on her cheeks. On her waist. On her—

“We are all friends here,” he said. “You may call them oafish.”

Harriet looked back up at him. Hopefully, he couldn’t see just how red her cheeks felt. “Positively.”

“Well, you had the advantage in the last game, so I think it is only fair that I suggest we play billiards.” He pointed to the adjoining room, which housed a billiard table.

Harriet scrunched her face and scoffed. “I have never,” she said. “That is a men’s game.”

“And?” he asked, standing up. “Feeding chickens is for servants, and nurturing children is for mothers. But that has never stopped you, has it?”

If only it did. Harriet still didn’t like those chickens one bit. Daphne, however, was welcome anytime. She got up, and Morgan led her across the room. He set up the table, arranging the balls in the centre. While they were still in sight of the others, they were far enough from Daphne and Lucy at this point that any conversation they had would not be overheard by the two of them.

Morgan laughed lightly. “You know exactly what to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“With Daphne,” he said. “It’s like you understand exactly how she is feeling.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace,” Harriet began, accepting a cue stick from him. “I have not always been twenty.”

He scoffed. “Of course. I only mean that anytime I try to think of the right thing to say, I feel it applies more to who I am now, than who I was then.”

“Have you changed that much?” Harriet asked. “I just feel that the struggle of coming of age is something that stays with us for the rest of our lives. I am looking at the next chapter of my life, and yet, I still wonder if I know exactly who I am and what exactly it is that I want. ”

“You would be such a great—” He stopped himself.

Harriet frowned because she knew exactly what he was about to say. It was good that he hadn’t said it, but she expected that it hurt just as much to hear it as it did to be left with the suggestion.

“Let’s just move on,” she said softly. “How do I play?” She looked at the table, studying the coloured balls and the six pockets around the table.

Morgan cleared his throat, seeming a little awkward after he had nearly said something upsetting. “I can explain along the way. It is quite simple. Mostly a game to play amongst conversation.”

Harriet studied the table. It looked complicated, and she didn’t have the strongest arm. “Are you going to start?”

“I think it is fair if you do the break shot. Let me show you how to hold the cue stick.” He leaned over the table beside her and rested the stick on his hand. Harriet did the same and looked back at him. “Almost.” He smiled, reaching out for her hand. “You just want to—Perfect. That’s it.”

Harriet knew that this couldn’t be healthy for her. All this time spent together with him was a recipe for a broken heart—something that could only feel worse than what had already happened to her—but she couldn’t help herself. Every little smile and simple touch made her heart race. It was as addicting as sugar. Each little taste was enough to get her coming back for more until she overindulged and made herself sick.

Harriet concentrated on the task at hand, poking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. She lined the stick up with the cue ball and hit it.

Plack!

The balls dispersed all around the table, and she drew back. “Did I do that right?”

“Great! We’ll make it simple. Just try your best to hit one of the balls into the pockets.”

Harriet studied the balls on the table. She wasn’t sure where to start. She sighed, leaning over the table and setting her sights on an angle that might work. If she hit one of the balls with just enough force, she might be able to sink one that was closer to the edge. She lined up, focused her cue and hit the ball.

The cue ball connected with the first ball. It rolled across the table, hitting the second ball hard before it rolled to the side. The second ball rolled into the pocket. Harriet’s eyes went wide.

“Oh my gosh! Did I do it?”

Morgan blinked. He turned, looking between the table and Harriet. “You liar!”

“What?”

“You expect me to believe you have never played billiards before?”

“I did it right?”

He crossed his arms, and with a flourish, picked up the cue stick and bent over the table. “Or you just have a knack for physics.”

Harriet must have gotten lucky. She hadn’t a knack for anything. Maybe Spillikins, but that was likely because of all the players, she was one of three with dainty hands. Of those three, she had one thing Daphne did not, patience, and one thing Lucy did not, enthusiasm.

Morgan hit the ball, and the pair watched it roll across the table, knocking one of the other balls in easily. “And we are tied,” he said. “Order is restored.”

Harriet glared at him before bending over the table. If he wanted to get competitive, she was happy to oblige. She made her shot, and to her surprise, she pocketed yet another ball. At this, Morgan was confused.

She stepped away. “It must be difficult to be trounced by a novice.”

“You are hardly trouncing me. We’re tied.” He made his shot, but to no avail.

“Not… anymore.” Harriet faked a pout.

“Then tell me, Miss Harriet Hale. How does one properly play billiards?”

Harriet hit the ball and watched it roll across the table. It pushed another into a pocket. She looked over her shoulder. “I imagine you are overthinking it. I did not arrive with any preconceived notions that I may win or impress anyone.”

Morgan scoffed. “You think I am trying to impress you?”

Harriet leaned back against the table. “You’re just the type of person.”

“Just the type?” he asked. “Don’t you care what others think of you?”

“Oh, I most certainly do,” she replied. “Whether that makes us narcissists or human beings is a matter of debate. But the fact of the matter is that I hold no personal stake in being good at the game.”

“Because?”

“Because I am not a man.”

“I see,” he said. “So, you believe I suffer because of my masculine ego. Interesting.”

Harriet looked up at him. He was closer to her now, looking down at her with the same half-lidded eyes that she had seen after he had kissed her. And maybe if she were anywhere else, she might have tempted fate a little longer, but her aunt was in the next room within eyesight.

“Your turn!” she said, sliding out from their confinement.

Morgan looked surprised as if he was even more lost in the moment than she was. When he resumed his turn, Harriet looked out, but Bridget was too entranced by Lord Murrey to notice.

She breathed a sigh of relief until her eyes fixed on Lucy, who was sitting at the dining room table, offering nothing but the most off-putting scowl. For a younger sister, she had a way of looking at Harriet like she was disappointed yet not at all surprised. All Harriet could offer back was a toothy grimace. She turned back. Morgan had sunk another ball, and their game continued well into the night until every last ball had been sunk.

As they finished, he walked back across the room and looked at his uncle. “What do you say to another bottle of wine? It’s still rather early.”

As Lord Murrey opened his mouth to respond, Bridget raised her empty glass in the air. “I should love more!”

Morgan chuckled. “Then I will be back in just a moment.”

He turned to look at Harriet. She swore he looked completely different when he wanted her. Almost like something had taken over him. His eyes were a little darker as if even giving him the smallest bit of attention was like playing with fire. Their first kiss had been so gentle. If she followed him now, would it be the same?

“Your Grace,” Harriet asked, “may you direct me to the washroom?”

He bowed lightly. “I would be happy to,” he said. “Right down this hall.”

Harriet followed him, her breath quickening. No one was paying attention. They were all too busy with their own conversations to pay any mind to what, on the surface, seemed an innocent request. As they turned the corner, Morgan reached out and opened the washroom door, before closing it loudly, as if to complete the ruse. Then, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the library across the hall.

The walls were lined with bookcases, and in the centre of the room, a fireplace roared. Harriet spun around to face him. She threw her arms up, one hand grabbing the collar of his shirt and the other tugging at his hair. She pulled him close.

She gasped sharply when his lips landed on hers. It had felt like so long since they had first kissed. And almost every day since then, Harriet had hoped for it to happen again. She had imagined him pulling her into his arms and kissing her until she was dizzy and could hardly breathe. Maybe she could have forgotten about it and convinced herself that he didn’t feel the same way, but that had faded when he had told her that he still wanted her the day prior.

He pushed her back, her shoulders lightly hitting a bookshelf. She reached a hand back and gripped the shelves to steady herself. His teeth tugged at her bottom lip, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her as close as he possibly could. Yet, all their efforts were in vain, because no matter how much they tugged at each other or bunched up the shoulder seams of each other’s garments, Harriet still couldn’t get any closer to satisfying her desire.

Morgan pulled away and pressed his lips against her neck. Without meaning to, she moaned, and immediately, she opened her eyes to see his palm covering her mouth.

“I am glad that we are not truly alone,” he whispered, his breath ragged. “Because then, there would be nothing stopping me from taking you right here, pressed against the bookshelf.” He bit her neck lightly, and she moaned softly into his hand.

She felt hot, her legs weak, and her hips burning at the thought of him making good on his words. She had nearly been a married woman. She knew exactly what he meant.

He pulled away and pressed one last passionate kiss to her lips. Then, he smiled and walked across the room, reaching for a bottle of wine in the cabinet. And just like nothing had happened, Harriet walked back to join her family. A few moments later, he rejoined them, refilling everyone’s glasses.

He was perhaps even better than she was at pretending nothing had transpired between them. But something had, and Harriet wasn’t sure how much longer she could control herself around The Duke of Stanton.