Page 62 of A Wicked Game

Morgan nodded. “I hear you’re about to take your examination for the rank of lieutenant, in front of the Navy Board?”

“Yes. Next week.”

“You’ll get your commission, I’m sure of it.”

Harriet glanced up and was surprised by the proud, paternal look on Morgan’s face. He clearly held deep affection for the younger man, an affection that was returned tenfold.

Oliver’s cheeks reddened. “Thank you, sir. I was taught by the best.”

Morgan flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Very well, off you go. Stop monopolizing Miss Montgomery’s time and filling her ears with gossip. Go and dance with Miss Connors over there.”

“Aye aye, sir.” Oliver sent him a jaunty salute, then raised Harriet’s hand to his lips for a kiss surely designed just to irritate Morgan. “Miss Montgomery, it has been a pleasure. I hope to dance with you again soon.”

Morgan let out a growl of warning and Oliver retreated with a laugh.

“Cheeky pup,” Morgan muttered. “Dance with me.”

Harriet raised her brows. “Do you mean,Please, Harriet, do me the honor of granting me this waltz?”

Morgan’s eyes met hers and her stomach flipped.

“No,” he murmured, “I mean,Dance with me, Harriet, or I’ll take you somewhere private and show you something better than dancing.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” she gasped, before she realized that was thelastthing a Montgomery should ever say to a Davies.

He raised his brows. “Did you just—?”

“No!” she sputtered. “You’ll cause a scandal!”

“Don’t tempt me.” He caught her right hand and raised it to shoulder level, then slid his left hand around her waist to settle low on the curve of her back. He pulled her in toward him with a brutal little tug.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Harriet’s breath caught.

Waltzing with Morgan was completely different from waltzing with Oliver. De Montfort had held himself at a respectable distance; she’d barely been aware of his body at all. Morgan somehow managed to monopolize every square inch of space. His chest was too close to hers, his thigh insinuated itself between her legs, and his palm burned through the layers of her dress like a brand.

“I like this dress,” he said as they drifted into the first swirl. “It’s the color of the sea near Martinique.”

Harriet tried to catch her breath. “That’s the first time you’ve ever said something complimentary about my clothing. At Trellech you said my dress looked like seaweed.”

“It did. And it’s not that I hate your dresses, per se. It’s just that I’d rather see you out of them.”

She missed a step, but his arms tightened to hide her stumble and keep her upright. His chuckle did something funny to her insides.

“Stop it,” she admonished.

He sent her a mock-innocent look from beneath his lashes. “Stop what?”

“Flirting.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“I don’t knowwhatyou’re doing,” she admitted crossly. “You’re the most confusing creature I ever met. Oliver said you cursed me on a daily basis when you were at sea. You used me as athreat.”

“No,” he corrected softly. “I used you as a way to bring the crew together. You were a shared joke, a rallying cry. A reminder of every female back in Britain we were fighting to protect. You were their sweetheart, their mother, their mistress, their wife—not some perfect goddess, but a real, flawed human being. Someone they could identify with. Someone worth living for.”

Her lips parted in surprise. She’d never heard of herself described in such a way. And yet his words echoed what De Montfort had said. Clearly the tactic had been successful in motivating his men.