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

“Yes, why not?”

He moved closer to her in the stairwell, his shadow falling over her. The glow of a gas lamp silhouetted his head.

“You would no’ call me that,” he said softly, “if you understood the temptation you are to me.”

There it was—the truth laid out before them.

Merritt decided to ignore it.

“Temptation can be resisted,” she said reasonably. “One makes a decision and sticks to it. I’m sure I’ll be able to rely on your honor, as well as my own. Let’s enjoy each other’s company—discreetly, of course—without complications. Dinner will be at eight o’clock. My house is not far from here, number 3 Carnation Lane. Red brick, with white trim, and ivy on the—”

She broke off as her helpful directions were extinguished by the sweet, hot shock of his mouth on hers.

It was not the kiss a friend would give. It was heat and demand, fused in a raw sensuality that demolished her balance. Her gloved hands slid up to grip his broad shoulders. The kiss went on and on, exploring deliciously, wringing sensation from her mouth. One of his hands wandered over her back, stroking her spine into a pleasured arch. Her breasts felt full and tender, and she longed for him to touch them … kiss them … oh, God, she’d lost her mind.

She felt how hard he was all around her, every muscle taut. His breath rode roughshod on every powerful rise and fall of his chest. Reaching down, he gripped her hips to pull them high against an unmistakably rigid, swollen shape. She thought of how it would feel to lie spread beneath him, with all that hardness inside her, and a faint moan slipped from her throat.

MacRae licked at the sound as if he could taste it, and broke the kiss to rest his forehead against hers. Their panting breaths mingled.

It was hard to speak with him still clasping her hips against his. Every part of her was throbbing. “I suppose you think that proved a point,” she managed to say.

“Aye,” he said gruffly. “Dinna tempt me to prove it again.” But he ducked his head to steal another kiss … and another … nuzzling and biting gently at her lips as if he couldn’t help himself. He let out a shaken sigh and held her tightly, and said something in Gaelic that sounded like a curse.

Slowly, almost painfully, he eased their bodies apart and went to brace his hands against the wall of the stairwell. Lowering his head, he took several long, deliberate breaths.

Realizing he was willing his arousal to subside—and not finding it easy—Merritt felt a responsive quiver deep in her belly.

Eventually he pushed away from the wall and reached for the door, and held it open for her.

The cold night air drew a tremor from her as MacRae escorted her out to the carriage.

Upon seeing their approach, the footman hastened to open the carriage door and pull down the folding step.

Before entering the vehicle, Merritt paused to say one last thing to MacRae. She was pleased by how casual and ordinary she was able to sound, with all her thoughts in chaos. “I’ll expect you at my house the day after tomorrow.”

His eyes narrowed. “I dinna say I would come, you wee bully.”

“Don’t forget the whisky,” she said, and hastily entered the carriage before he could reply.





Chapter 5


AFTER A SMALL FORTUNE in whisky had been stamped and delivered safely into the bonded warehouse, it had taken every last spark of Keir’s remaining energy to climb the stairs to his flat. He’d slept all through the afternoon and night, and had awakened feeling refreshed and ready to take on the world.

The day’s meetings had required the purchase of a new coat, since the one he’d brought needed to be laundered and was so old it probably wouldn’t survive the washing. First, he’d gone to the penny pie shop, where he’d eaten his fill of pies for breakfast and asked where he might find some ready-made clothing.

For the first time in his life, Keir bought a garment stitched by machine. The black wool peacoat, styled after the ones worn by sailors and longshoremen, was double-breasted and cut short enough to allow the legs freedom of movement. It fit well enough, although the sleeves were too short and the middle too loose. He proceeded to a public house for a meeting with the manager, who intended to place a large order after his lawyer reviewed the details of the independent bottling contract.

His next meeting was on the west side, in the St. James area. At the suggestion of one of Islay’s well-to-do residents, an elderly lawyer named Gordan Catach, Keir had decided to approach a prominent gentlemen’s club with the intention of selling a special lot of forty-year-old single malt.

“The most famous clubs are White’s, Brooks’s, and Boodle’s,” Catach had told him. “Any of those would have the means to pay a steep asking price. But if I were you, lad, I’d first try Jenner’s. It doesnae have so high a pedigree as the others, but ’tis the one everyone wants to belong to. Some gentlemen—higher-ups, mind ye—spend as long as ten years on the waiting list.”

“How’s that?”

“Jenner’s offers the most luxury, the finest food and liquor … there’s even a smoking room where they’ll hand-roll a fresh cigar to suit your taste. The club was started lang ago by a professional boxer. His daughter married the Duke of Kingston, who owns the place now.”