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

“I think you knew exactly where to look,” Phoebe said, her light gray eyes sparkling with amusement. “Is he handsome?”

“A stunner. Tall and big-chested, with blue eyes and hair the color of summer wheat. And his accent …”

“Irresistible?”

“Oh, yes. There’s something about a Scottish burr that makes it seem as if a man is either about to recite poetry or toss you over his shoulder and carry you away.”

“Maybe both at the same time,” Phoebe said dreamily, sipping her tea.

Merritt grinned and resumed the story, leaving nothing out. It was an incredible relief to confide in Phoebe, who would understand anything. But the torrent of words slowed when it came to telling her friend about the night she’d spent with Keir.

“… and then …” Merritt said, her gaze carefully averted, “… I asked him to stay the night. With me. In my bedroom.”

“Of course you did,” Phoebe said reasonably.

“You’re not shocked?”

“Why would I be? You’ve occupied a solitary bed for a long time, and you were in the company of a ruggedly handsome bachelor with a Scottish accent. I’d be shocked if you hadn’t asked him to stay.” Phoebe paused. “My goodness, I hope you didn’t think West and I were as chaste as unsunned snow during our courtship.”

“No, but it’s not quite the same. At least you knew West beforehand, and your families were acquainted.”

Phoebe chewed lightly on her lower lip as she considered that. “I didn’t know him all that well,” she pointed out. “But I learned a great deal about him in a very short time. As you know, West is not what anyone would call shy and retiring.”

Merritt smiled. “I adore men who talk. The taciturn ones are no fun at all.”

Phoebe gave Merritt an expectant glance. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Tell me about the night you spent together. How was it?”

Merritt felt color rise in her face as she pondered how to describe those intimate hours. Hesitantly she said, “I wouldn’t want to compare him to my husband.”

“No, one mustn’t. It’s different, that’s all.”

“Yes.” Merritt paused. “It was astonishing. He was so assured … masterful … but very gentle. I was so lost in him and what he was doing, I stopped thinking at all. Phoebe … do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone in only a week?”

“Who am I to say?” Phoebe parried, taking the empty cup from her and going to replenish it.

“Oh, don’t be waffly, tell me your opinion.”

Phoebe glanced over her shoulder with lifted brows. “Aren’t you the one who’s always said opinions are tiresome?”

“Yes, when I had the luxury. But now I’m a business-woman.” Merritt’s mouth pressed into a glum hyphen. “My interior life used to be flowers, party decorations, and quartet music. Now it’s all purchase orders and typewriter ribbons and dusty office furniture.”

“Surely not dusty, dear.” Phoebe brought her a fresh cup of tea. “Very well, here’s what I think: It’s possible to have strong feelings for someone in only a week, but as for full-blown, deep, true love … no. There’s been no courtship. You haven’t spent enough time together. You haven’t talked. Love happens through words.”

“Drat.” Recognizing the truth of that, Merritt scowled and drank her tea.

“Furthermore, the sleeping together is a complication. Once you’ve done it, it’s almost impossible to talk without the interference of sensuality.”

“What if he doesn’t remember?” Merritt asked.

Phoebe gave her a baffled glance. “What?”

“If a tree falls in the forest and no one sees or hears, did it really fall?”

“Was the tree drinking?”

“No, it was a concussion.” Merritt told Phoebe about the explosion on the docks, and finding Keir unconscious and injured, and Dr. Gibson’s diagnosis. “He’s lost at least a week of memory,” she finished, “and there’s no guarantee he’ll recover it. Now after talking with you, I’m beginning to think that may be for the best.”

“You’re not going to tell him you slept together?”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be helpful at all. Just the opposite: He might think of it as a trap.”

“Merritt, you’re the catch of London. With your looks, wealth, and connections, there are countless men who would love to be caught in any trap you cared to set.”

“Keir’s different. He’s not fond of town, to put it mildly. He’s not impressed by luxury or appearances. He loves his simple life on the island, and doing things out in nature.”

“And you dislike nature,” Phoebe said sympathetically.

“‘Dislike’ is too strong a word. Nature and I have an understanding—we try not to interfere with each other. It’s a peaceful coexistence.”

Phoebe looked skeptical. “Dear, no matter how attractive this man is, I can’t envision you existing happily on a remote Scottish island.”

“It’s possible,” Merritt argued. “I’m a woman of many facets.”