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

“Dinna fash yourself, lad,” MacRae said easily, making certain Merritt was steady before letting go of her. “Her ladyship suffered no harm.”

“It was my fault,” Merritt said. “I should have been more alert.”

“No one’s alert at this hour,” Luke said, rolling the barrel back up the ramp and righting it with a grunt of effort. “Try rolling the barrel on the brim instead of the side,” he advised the young warehouseman. “It’s slower but easier to control. I’ll show you, but first—” He glanced at Merritt over his shoulder, the crease of a frown appearing between his dark brows. Reluctantly he asked, “MacRae, would you be willing to escort my sister out to her carriage?”

“Aye, of course,” MacRae said promptly.

Merritt smiled and reached out to take MacRae’s arm. “I’d rather take the stairs than the lift.”

As they proceeded down the long, enclosed staircase, Merritt told him about her meeting with the excise officer. MacRae was gratifyingly impressed by her negotiating skills, and thanked her for buying the extra time. They would need it, he said, as progress had been steady but slower than he would have liked.

“You must be exhausted,” Merritt said in concern.

“’Tis weary work,” he admitted, “but there’ll be an end of it tomorrow, and I’ll have a good sound sleep.”

“And after that?”

“Sales meetings the rest of the week, with businesses who are after buying whisky for independent bottling.”

“They would put their own labels on it?”

MacRae nodded, looking rueful. “It’s no’ something I’d prefer,” he admitted, “but it’s profitable, and there are many improvements needing to be made to the distillery.”

They stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, and Merritt turned to look up into his shadowed face.

Time for good-bye, she thought, and the forlorn feeling came over her again.

“It sounds as if your days are occupied,” she said, trying to sound casual, “but what about the evenings? Have you made plans? I could give a small, informal dinner at my house, and introduce you to some lovely people. I promise you would enjoy yourself—”

“No,” MacRae said hastily. “Thank you, but I’ll have been keeping company with new folk all day.”

“I understand.” Merritt hesitated. “Perhaps it should be just the two of us. I have an excellent cook. She’ll make something simple. Not tomorrow night, of course—you’ll want to rest. But the next night, you must come to my house for dinner. We’ll have a quiet, relaxing evening.”

MacRae stayed unnervingly silent. He stared at her steadily, his eyes a flicker of starlight in the shadows.

He was going to refuse. How could she persuade him?

“You did say we would have a whisky someday,” she reminded him. “This will be the perfect opportunity.”

“Merritt—”

“Which reminds me—I wanted to ask about the name stamped on your whisky casks. The very long one that starts with P.”

“Priobairneach.”

“Yes, what does it mean?”

After a moment, MacRae said, “In English it means something like ‘sudden excitement.’”

She smiled at that. “Will you bring some for me to try?”

But there was no answering smile. “Merritt,” he said quietly, “you know why I cannot come.”

As she pondered how to reply, she thought of a conversation she’d once had with her father, the most sensible man who’d ever existed. They’d been talking about various problems she’d faced after taking the reins at Sterling Enterprises, and she’d asked how he knew whether a risk was worth taking.

Her father had said, “Before taking a risk, begin by asking yourself what’s important to you.”

Time, Merritt thought. Life is full of wasted time.

She hadn’t realized it until now, but her awareness of squandered time had been growing during the past year, eroding her usual patience. So many rules had been invented to keep people apart and wall off every natural instinct. She was tired of them. She had started to resent all the invisible barriers between herself and what she wanted.

It occurred to her this must be how her mother often felt. As a strong-willed young heiress, Mama had come to England with her younger sister, Aunt Daisy, when no gentlemen in New York had been willing to offer for either of them. Wallflowers, both of them, chafing at the limitations of polite behavior. Even now, Mama spoke and acted a little too freely at times, but Papa seemed to enjoy it.

“Mr. MacRae,” Merritt said, “for the past three years, I’ve managed a shipping firm, attended hundreds of business meetings, and filled out paperwork for days on end. Other than my younger brother, my closest companion has been the company accountant. This evening, I met with a government excise supervisor for nearly two hours. As you might guess, none of this was the stuff of my childhood dreams. I’m not complaining, only pointing out that far too much of life is filled with responsibilities we haven’t necessarily asked for. Which is why I feel perfectly justified in having dinner with a friend.”

“Friend,” MacRae repeated, now looking sardonic. “Is that what I am?”