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

Which wasn’t really an answer.

“I’m going to lower you now,” Kingston said. “Don’t strain yourself—let me do the work.” Carefully he settled Keir among the pillows and weighted him with blankets. He laid a hand over Keir’s forehead. “Culpepper,” he asked quietly, “when is the doctor scheduled to stop by?”

“This afternoon, Your Grace,” the valet replied.

“I want him here within the hour.”

“I believe he’s on his rounds, sir—”

“His other patients can wait. Send a footman out to find him.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

In a moment, Keir felt a cold compress on his forehead. “I dinna give a damn about the doctor,” he muttered. “I want her … Merritt. Dinna have long.”

“Nonsense,” Kingston said with such cool conviction that Keir almost believed him. “I’ve survived fever worse than this. You’ll pull through it.”

But the next time Keir struggled up from the depths of sleep, he knew he was worse. The fever was raging, ruckling every breath and making him weaker than he’d ever been in his life. He was lying amid sharp angles of pain with no soft place to rest.

He became aware of the woman beside him, her pretty dark eyes filled with concern, her face tense and pale. He reached out, trying to pull her to him.

She hushed him gently and sat on the mattress, and stroked his hair with cool hands. The doctor was there, she said, to drain the wound and change the bandages, and Keir must stay still. He felt himself being turned to his front, carefully, but it sent a jolt of agony through his rib cage. The bandage on his back was removed, and he felt something prying at the searing, tender wound. A billow of pain provoked a rude churn of his stomach and a dry heave, and he growled wretchedly.

Merritt moved to cradle his head in her lap. “There, now,” she soothed, while the jabbing and pressing continued. “Not much longer. Hold on to me. Let the doctor do his work, and then you’ll be better. Almost finished … almost …”

Keir gritted his teeth, willing to tolerate anything for her. Shaking from the lancing pain, he focused on the feel of her soft fingers at the back of his neck.

There was a sting and burn on the right side of his arse, and then every sensation joined into one dull mass. He went numb in every limb, his mind floating. As the woman began to move away, he used the last of his strength to reach around her hips and keep her right there, his head in her lap. He was drifting aimlessly, cast loose in some uneasy current, and she was all that kept him from drowning. To his relief, she stayed, her fingers threading lightly through his hair.

Fearing she’d leave when he fell asleep, he told her he needed her to stay with him. Or at least, that was what he wanted to say. Words and their meanings were running together like paint on wet paper. But she seemed to understand. She murmured something, soft as the coo of a night bird, and he settled more heavily against her, letting the current carry him to some dark, silent place.





Chapter 17


“GO TO BED, CHILD,” came Kingston’s quiet voice as he entered the sickroom. “I’ll look after him now.”

Merritt, who was sitting beside the bed with her head and arms resting on the mattress, glanced up at him blearily. After Dr. Kent’s visit, she’d stayed with Keir for the rest of the day and long into the night.

“What time is it?” she asked huskily.

“Three in the morning.”

She groaned and rubbed her sore, scratchy eyes. “I can’t leave him. He’s at the crisis. His temperature hasn’t gone below one hundred and four degrees.”

“When was the last time you checked?”

“An hour ago, I think.”

Kingston came to the bedside and leaned over Keir’s still form. The light from a single lamp gilded both men’s profiles, making it impossible to ignore their likeness, even with the thick beard covering the lower half of Keir’s face. The long, straight noses, the high-planed cheekbones, the way their hairlines were shaped in a very slight widow’s peak. Even the hand Kingston laid across Keir’s forehead, the fingers long and blunt-tipped … that was familiar too.

The duke’s face was inscrutable as he picked up a glass thermometer from the night table, deftly shook down the mercury, and tucked it beneath Keir’s arm. Keir didn’t even stir.

After lifting one of the ice bags, Kingston felt the slosh of water and proceeded to empty it in a basin. He refilled it with fresh ice from a lidded silver pail and settled it back in place.

“Does Aunt Evie know?” Merritt asked, too tired to guard her tongue.

“Know what?” Kingston asked, fishing a pocket watch from his waistcoat.

“That you have a natural-born son.”

The duke’s gaze remained on Keir. After a charged silence, he said evenly, “I have no secrets from my wife.”

“Were you and she married when—” Merritt broke off as Kingston shot her an incredulous glance, his eyes flashing like sunlight striking off silver.

“Good God, Merritt. That you could even ask—”

“Forgive me,” she said hastily. “I was only trying to guess his age.”

“He’s thirty-three. I would never betray Evie.” Kingston took in a long breath and let it out slowly, working to bring his temper under control. “I should hope I’d never be so tedious. Adultery is only running away from one problem to create a new one.” He flipped open the watch and reached down to press two fingers against the side of Keir’s throat. “Why the beard?” he asked irritably. “Can’t he bother to shave?”