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

Harriet blinked, staring at Violet’s hair. She was a very smart child indeed, but she could not keep herself tidy for the life of her. At seven years old, she had the same wild, curly hair as her mother, and she had inherited a rather dangerous charm from her father.

“It got messy, Mama,” Violet confidently explained.

Harriet undid the pins holding her daughter’s hair back and got to work with only her hands and pure determination. Their guests were arriving any minute now, and she was determined for her children to look their best.

“Papa!” Harriet looked up from her daughter’s mess of hair as her son, Eric, only four years old, stood in the centre of the foyer, beckoning Morgan towards him.

“Yes?”

“Hot air balloon ride!” Eric shouted.

Morgan laughed. Obliging his son, he crouched down, allowing Eric to climb onto his shoulders, then ever-so-slowly stood up, as if he was filling with hot air. He locked eyes with Harriet during his ascent. Harriet choked on a laugh. This was a daily occurrence and usually required a pre-bedtime back massage to ease the effects it was having on Morgan’s back.

Nine years hadn’t changed the two that much, but Harriet did enjoy teasing her husband over his aches and pains, as it meant he was getting older. And that was all right because Morgan enjoyed dishing it back to her.

Harriet grimaced at a rather difficult tangle in her daughter’s hair.

“How did you even manage?” Morgan asked, both impressed and disgusted by just how steadfast the knot was.

“Didn’t you meet Papa while covered in chicken poo?” Violet asked.

“She did!” Morgan was quick to interject. “And yet, she is still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“Just because I was muddy then does not mean that you have a free pass for getting your hair all knotted up like a bird’s nest, Violet,” Harriet grunted as she tried to detangle the knot.

“Mother!”

Harriet looked at the top of the staircase, where her eldest son, Simon, stood with his hands behind his back. “I have seen to it that the guests’ lodgings are in order.”

She smiled, stifling a laugh. “Thank you, dear. You are very efficient. A duke in the making, I am sure.”

“Yes, well, he will have to get through me first,” Morgan reminded her, standing tall and proud until Eric lunged at his calf, causing him to double over. “Oof!”

Harriet put the last pin in Violet’s hair and patted her back, sending her off once more. She reached out an arm to Simon at the top of the stairs, beckoning him down to stand at her side. He looked very dapper, as he always did. He took his role as the eldest boy very seriously, but at six years old, he still had much to learn.

Simon looked at Harriet’s stomach, carefully studying her bump. “How long?” he asked.

“Six months,” Harriet replied.

She had a good feeling her and Morgan’s fourth child would be a girl, but all of her sisters had insisted otherwise. Nonetheless, she would be thrilled with either outcome. She and Morgan had long dreamed of a house full of children, even if that meant having them constantly running around.

The doors opened, causing the family to stand in their places, eager to greet their guests.

“Rabbit!” Bridget shouted.

Bridget walked into the foyer, leaning her weight on her walking stick. Lord Murrey stood at her side, as jolly as always. When he saw Morgan, he laughed, clutching a hand over his round belly. When Harriet pulled away from her aunt’s hug, her eyes focused on the last person to enter the house.

Harriet hadn’t seen Daphne in a year, and she was stunned by her beauty. Daphne had outgrown all the awkwardness of her eleven-year-old self. Now, she was twenty years old, tall and long-legged. She looked as perfect as a statue. Her hair was long and golden, and her features were narrow and dainty. She beamed.

“Daphne!” Harriet rushed forward and wrapped the girl in a hug. “You look beautiful!”

“As do you!” Daphne smiled. “After three children and another on the way, I should only be so fortunate.”

Harriet rolled her eyes. “Compliment me all you want, but if this is another ruse for you to bring that dog of yours, then—”

“Your Grace.” The footman appeared at the door, interrupting her. Her jaw dropped as he set the grey and white English sheepdog down.

“Puppy!” Eric shouted. He waddled over and wrapped his arms around the dog’s neck.

Daphne faked a pout. “You wouldn’t dare cast Machiavelli out now, would you?”

Morgan’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. “You named him—”

“You mustn’t be so surprised, dear.” Bridget laughed, tapping on Morgan’s jaw in an effort to close it. “This one is only so interested in history because of you.” She hobbled in through the entryway, making her way to the drawing room. It seemed she was eager to sit.

Daphne curtsied to her cousin snidely. “But he really only responds if you refer to him as The Prince.”

“Oh God,” Morgan breathed, locking eyes with the dog.

The creature looked very polite, but he didn’t wish to push him. If his name had been earned, he wished not to learn how.

Harriet turned her attention to Lord Murrey, who was currently being smothered by all three of her children. He was belting out that same jolly belly laugh he’d always had, his cheeks red with joy, and the three kids jumped all over his lap and asked him questions in tandem.

Daphne offered a tight-lipped smile and sat on the couch beside her father, very ladylike. Morgan narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you hiding?”

She offered nothing but a shrug. “Hiding something? Me?”

Although not the troublemaker she used to be, Daphne had grown into quite the brassy young lady. She still enjoyed some mischief, but it was always in jest. She had usually come to visit bearing some secret. As if the introduction of her new companion wasn’t surprise enough, it seemed there was something else on her mind.

Machiavelli plopped down on the floor at her feet, panting and glancing up at her.

“Daphne, do not torture our Morgan,” Lord Murrey chided.

“I am not torturing him,” she said. “Only challenging him.”

“Have you picked up a new hobby?” Morgan guessed, leaning back on the sofa and contemplating her appearance as if it might offer any more clues.

Eric climbed up on the sofa and plopped down on his father’s lap, squirming with boundless energy.

Daphne shook her head. “I am as dull as ever.”

Her secret seemed quite plain to Harriet. Daphne was courting someone. Her hair had been done extra nice, and her dresses fit her figure just a little tighter. Harriet knew exactly what it was like. She too had been twenty once.

Morgan raised his palms in the air, defeated. “You have a horse?”

“Oh!” Daphne smiled. “That is not the news, but I do, now.”

Morgan frowned. “Please tell me you didn’t name him—”

“Bonaparte.” Daphne smiled, her hands clasped in her lap.

“Daphne, my dear,” Bridget mumbled, focusing on a cross-stitch she had just pulled from her travel bag, “it is a wonder you haven’t scared that handsome suitor of yours off with your fascination with warmongers.”

“Indeed,” Daphne said, fixing her eyes on Morgan. She had an impish little grin as if she took all the pleasure in the world from the look of shock on his face.

Harriet placed a hand on her husband’s back. “You cannot be too surprised,” she said. “Lady Daphne is beautiful and intelligent.”

“But…” Morgan paused, staring at his younger cousin. “You’re only seventeen.”

“Twenty!” Harriet and Daphne corrected him in unison.

The group laughed, and Morgan brought a palm to his face. “Fair enough,” he said. “I find it hard to remember that you’re not the same little girl who put ants in my bed.” He paused. “Who is he?”

Daphne smiled again, tight-lipped. “You know your dearest friend, the Viscount of Hartley?”

Morgan’s lips drew back in momentary horror. “Daphne, no.”

She choked on a giggle. “Not him! His youngest brother!”

The group laughed again. At the time, it was terrible, but now that so much time had passed, they had all been able to laugh about all the events of the past. After all, if not for Daphne’s growing pain, Harriet sometimes wondered how differently her stay with Bridget may have turned out.

Later in the day, the group retired to the garden. Daphne guided the children in a game of Spillikins. It was funny that so many years ago, Harriet had taken such an interest in her, and now Daphne loved every chance she got to interact with their children.

Lord Murrey smiled, sipping at his glass of white wine. He was seated beside Bridget at the table. He looked out over what had once been his home for many years. It hadn’t changed that much over the years, and Harriet liked that. Every time she walked by the shed or rode her horse down to the orchard, she would remember the spring when her life had changed for the better. She was lucky that things were the way they were. She couldn’t be any happier.

“You two have the loveliest family,” Oliver whispered, shaking his head with admiration.

“And you as well.” Morgan smiled. He reached under the table beside him and intertwined his fingers with Harriet’s. “Who knew, Uncle, that all those years ago you and I would both find love just next door?”

Harriet blushed. Even after three children, Morgan was still a hopeless romantic. She was very lucky indeed.

Bridget chuckled softly. She held her head up high and winked mischievously at Harriet. The sun highlighted that little sparkle in her eyes. “I did.”

The End