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

He shook his head and lowered his chin to his forearm, staring at nothing.

After Garrett had finished the sutures and applied a bandage of adhesive plaster, she began to pack her supplies in the leather bag.

“Will you have a whisky before you leave?” Merritt asked.

The doctor looked wistful, but shook her head with a smile. “Thank you, but I can’t. I’m in ‘a hopeful way,’ as Ethan puts it.”

“Are you? How wonderful,” Merritt exclaimed. “Congratulations, my dear!” Somewhere inside, she was relieved to discover that the private jab of heartache she’d always felt in the past upon hearing such news from friends and relations was now only a faint twinge. With a show of delighted interest, she asked when the baby was expected to arrive, and how Garrett was feeling.

Keir sat up and drew a blanket loosely around himself, listening to the conversation without comment. Glancing at him briefly, Merritt found his thoughtful gaze on her, taking in every nuance of her reaction. A flush of warm feeling spread over her as she realized he was concerned that Garrett’s news might have been difficult for her.

After seeing Garrett out, Merritt returned to the parlor and began to gather Keir’s discarded clothes. “I’ll ask my maid to put these in to soak,” she said, “and mend the slit in your coat. She’s very skilled with a needle.”

“I can’t go home with no shirt to my back,” he pointed out.

“Don’t even think of putting those soiled clothes back over your nice clean wound,” Merritt said, appalled. “We’ll find something else for you to wear.” She reached for his coat. “As for this, I’ll clear out the pockets and give it to Jenny.”

“Merritt,” Keir said uneasily, rustling and stirring on the couch. “I’d rather—”

“It’s no trouble at all,” she said, emptying the inside pocket of the coat and setting the personal items on the table: a penknife, a few coins, the key to the flat, a map, a handkerchief, and a worn leather folding wallet with an outer pocket for tickets or notes. A folded slip of paper fell from the wallet, and she began to tuck it back in. “We’ll keep all your things right here, and …” Her voice faded as she saw the imprint of typed letters on the parchment.

It was a carefully torn strip of the page she had typed at the office.

Mr. Keir MacRae  Lady Merritt Sterling



“Oh,” Merritt heard herself whisper, while her heartbeats went scattering like pearls from a broken necklace. It was only a scrap of paper and ink … but she understood what it meant.

Keir’s face was partially averted, his color high. As the silence lengthened, he brought himself to meet her gaze with a faint, bleak smile.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he said.

Merritt knew he was right.

Common sense told her this couldn’t be real—it couldn’t be trusted. It was happening too fast. It wouldn’t lead to anything that would be good for either of them.

Don’t think, don’t touch, talk, smell, or taste. Go into a dark room, lock the door, close the shutters against the sun.

But it was too late for any of that.

How long would it take, how many years, before she felt this way about someone again? Maybe five … maybe twenty.

Maybe never.

Fortunately, a woman of common sense always knew when to throw caution to the wind.

She went to Keir in a few strides, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his.





Chapter 8


THE MOMENT MERRITT HAD discovered the slip of paper from his wallet, Keir had expected her to react with outrage, or even worse, pity. Anything but this. Bewildered, he absorbed the feel of her, the tender mouth, the feminine warmth. The full, sweet curves of her body were covered in blue velvet trimmed with soft lace that tickled his bare skin.

His senses were filled with her. He had to have more of her weight on him, more closeness. Ignoring the pull of the cut on his back, he lifted one of his legs to the couch and settled her between his thighs. The pressure felt so good, there where he was hot and rigid, he couldn’t hold back a low groan.

Mistaking the sound for pain, Merritt broke the kiss and tried to pull away, but he clamped a hand over her bottom to keep her there.

“Wait,” she said breathlessly, “be careful—your back—you’ll hurt yourself—” She reached down to adjust the folded linen compress, and the way she fussed with the placement of it, that attentive interest, aroused him even more. He pulled her higher against his body and locked his mouth to hers again. She began to breathe in rhythmic gasps, the way she would if he were inside her. The tip of her tongue ventured inside his mouth, a flick of sensation that went straight to his groin. He’d never been so hard in his life.

Somewhere in the molten cauldron that had formerly been his brain, Keir realized one of them had to put a stop to this, now. Since Merritt didn’t seem inclined to do that any time soon, he would have to be the responsible one. It took a Herculean effort to pull his mouth from hers, but then she followed the movement, trying to maintain the kiss. Amused and steaming, Keir dove his face into the shadowed alcove created by her neck and jaw, and breathed in the fragrance of blood-heated perfume. He felt her quiver at the brush of his beard against her tender skin. God. He wanted to spend hours kissing every inch of her. Instead he lay still beneath her delicious female weight, fighting for control.