Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) by Lisa Kleypas

“What do you mean, ‘Is that all?’” Merritt asked with a laugh. “Isn’t it enough?”

“Well, yes, but … there was no need to tell me in person at this hour. You could have sent a note, or let it wait until morning.”

“I thought you’d want to know right away. And I wanted to see for myself how you were doing.”

“I’m so touched by your concern,” Luke said. “Especially since you’ve never taken such trouble over me before.”

“What twaddle,” Merritt exclaimed good-naturedly. “Two weeks ago, I brought soup and tea to you—here in this very warehouse—when you had the sniffles!”

Setting his hands on his hips in a relaxed posture, Luke said in a dry undertone, “Let’s not pretend this visit has anything to do with me. You came here hoping for a glimpse of a certain bearded Scotsman.”

She lowered her voice as she asked, “Did he say anything to you?”

“About what?”

“About me.”

“Why yes, we stopped in the middle of work to gossip over tea. Then we made plans to visit the milliner and try on bonnets together—”

“Oh, hush,” Merritt whispered sharply, both amused and annoyed.

Luke regarded her with a slow shake of his head. “Be careful, sis.”

Her smile faded. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m referring to the mistake you’ve apparently already decided to make.” Taking in her offended expression, Luke added, “Don’t misunderstand me—MacRae seems as good-natured and steady as they come. A brick. But there’s no part of your future that would naturally align with any part of his. On top of that, after the way you’ve flouted convention in recent years, London society is dying to catch you in a scandal. Don’t provide them with one.”

To receive a lecture on conduct from a younger sibling—who was no saint himself—was bad enough. But it was even worse to see the concern in Luke’s gaze, as if he suspected something had happened at the warehouse flat. Was it that obvious? She felt as if she were walking around with a large scarlet letter stitched across her bodice.

She kept her tone light even though her chest was tight with anger. “Why in heaven’s name am I being lectured for something I haven’t done?”

“It’s not a lecture. Just a reminder. The devil never tries to make people do the wrong thing by scaring them. He tempts them.”

Merritt’s forced laugh came out as brittle as overcooked toffee. “Dear, are you claiming Mr. MacRae is the devil in disguise?”

“If he were,” Luke replied quietly, “I’d say the disguise has been pretty damned successful so far.”

She flushed deeply, and strove to keep her voice calm, even though she was seething. “If this is all the thanks I’ll receive for my efforts with Mr. Gruinard, I’ll take my leave now.”

Turning on her heel, she began to make a smart exit, heading to the stairs instead of waiting for someone to operate the lift. The effect was ruined, however, as she crossed in front of a ramp leading to an upper row of barrel racks, and heard a muffled shout.

Pausing in confusion, Merritt glanced toward the noise and saw a heavy barrel rolling toward her.





Chapter 4


BEFORE ANOTHER SECOND HAD passed, Merritt felt herself snatched up and hauled out of the barrel’s path. Momentum spun her in a half circle until she was brought abruptly against a tough, unyielding surface.

Dazedly she realized someone was holding her. Her senses gathered pleasurable impressions … the deep warmth of a masculine body … a sturdy arm around her back … a low murmur close to her ear.

“Easy, lass. I have you.”

A lock of her hair had slipped free of its pins. The little hat that had been attached to the top of her head with a comb had been knocked askew. Slightly disoriented, she looked up into Keir MacRae’s smiling blue eyes.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I should have paid more attention to where I was going. How—how did you—”

“I’d just finished stocking a rack, and was coming to say good evening.” Gently MacRae stroked back the loose curl over her eyes, and caught the hat just as it began to slide off her head. He regarded it quizzically. “What’s this?”

“My hat.” It was little more than a knot of feathers and a puff of gauze affixed to a velvet base. Merritt took it from him and fumbled to fasten it back in place.

His lips twitched. “A hat is for shielding you from sun or rain. That wee thing is no’ a hat.”

Her toes curled deliciously at the soft teasing. “I’ll have you know it’s the latest fashion.”

“It reminds me of a lapwing.”

“A what?”

“A bonnie wee bird with a spray of feathers at the back of her head.” His arm was still behind her back, holding her securely. It felt too good, being this close to him. She realized the reason she’d been so cross with Luke was because he’d been right: She was heading for trouble. Running headlong toward it, in fact.

Luke had caught the stray barrel and was in the process of rolling it back up the ramp, while a foreman spoke sternly to a young warehouseman. The scarlet-faced young man, still in his teens, cast a distraught glance at Merritt. “I’m so very sorry, milady, I—I beg your pardon—”