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

In a few minutes he made his way to one of the windows. Morning had come with frost on its back, turning the edges of the glass panes white and crystalline. The house was set on high ground above the Challon family’s private cove, with grassy dunes belting the pale crescent of a sand beach, and a fetch of calm blue water. Far outside the estate at Heron’s Point, the busy world of smokestacks and railway terminals went about its business, but here within the boundaries of Kingston’s domain, time moved at a different pace. It was a world—

That smell in the air was definitely bacon.

—a world where people had the luxury to read, think, and discuss high-minded subjects.

He needed to go home to Islay and fill his lungs with cold salt breezes off the sea, and sleep in the house where he’d been raised. Even if he couldn’t manage to cook for himself yet, he had scores of friends and—

Salty, chewy bacon with crisp edges. God, he was starving.

—friends and neighbors who would welcome him to their tables. He would go back where he belonged, among his people, where everything was familiar. Not that anyone could rightly complain about recuperating in a duke’s mansion. But a cage was no less of a cage for having been gilded.

Someone tapped at the door.

“Come in,” Keir said.

A housemaid entered, carrying a tray fitted with little legs. “Will you take breakfast in bed, sir?”

“Aye, thank you.” Realizing he was standing before her in nothing but a nightshirt, he hastened back to the bed. He drew in a sharp breath as he tried to climb in too quickly.

The maid, a dark-haired girl with a pleasant and capable air, set the tray on a table. “Try to roll into the bed with your back all stifflike,” she suggested. “Me brother once cracked a rib after comin’ back too beery from the tavern. Fell down the stairs. After that, if he forgot and twisted or turned, he said it was like Satan stabbin’ him with a flamin’ pitchfork.”

“That’s the feel of it,” Keir agreed wryly. Following her advice, he half sat, half rolled onto the mattress, taking care to keep his torso and hips aligned, and pulled up the covers. His mouth watered in anticipation as she brought the tray to him and set it carefully over his lap.

The food had been prettily arranged on blue and white china and a lace-edged cloth. There was even a wee crystal bud vase with a single yellow chrysanthemum blossom. But the artful presentation of the breakfast didn’t compensate for its stinginess. There was only a small plain custard, a few tidbits of fruit, and a slice of dry toasted bread.

“Where’s the bacon?” Keir asked in bewilderment.

The maid looked perturbed. “Bacon?”

Maybe there was only a limited amount? Maybe it was intended for a special dish?

“Is there some for having?” Keir asked cautiously.

“There is, but … Lady Merritt wrote out a special menu for you, and there was nothin’ on it about bacon.”

“A man can’t mend without meat,” he said in outrage.

“If it pleases, sir, I’ll ask for Lady Merritt’s permission.”

Permission?

“I’ll have bacon and be damned to her,” he said indignantly.

The maid took one glance at his face and fled.

In a few minutes, there came another tap at the door, and Lady Merritt ducked her head into the room. “Good morning,” she said cheerily. “May I come in?”

Keir replied with a grunt of assent, sitting with his arms folded.

It was hard to keep scowling when he saw how pretty she was in a bright blue dress with white frills trimming the bodice and sleeves. And the way she smiled … he could literally feel the warmth of it, as if he were stepping from a shadow into sunlight. As she came to the bedside, her light fragrance brushed over his senses as softly as a veil made of tiny flower petals. Her skin looked so smooth, with a bit of a gleam, like textureless gauze. He wondered if it was like that all over, and felt an unruly stirring in his groin.

“Is there a problem with your breakfast?” she asked sympathetically, looking down at his untouched plate.

“’Tis no’ a breakfast,” he informed her curtly. “No meat, no eggs, no porridge? ’Tis a snack.”

“Dr. Kent recommended only plain food for the next few days. He said rich fare might be difficult for you to manage.”

Keir snorted at the thought. “Difficult for an Englishman, maybe. But I’m after having for a full Scottish breakfast.”

Her dark eyes twinkled. “What does that consist of?”

Unfolding his arms, he settled back against the pillows with a nostalgic sigh. “Bacon, sausage patties, ham, fried eggs, beans, potatoes, scones … and maybe a bit of sweet, like clootie dumpling.”

Her brows lifted. “All that on one plate?”

“You have to build a mountain of the meat,” he explained, “and arrange the rest around it.”

“I see.” She regarded him speculatively. “If you’re very sure you can keep it down, I suppose you could try one or two strips of bacon.”

“I want a full rasher,” he countered.

“Three strips, and that’s my final offer.” Before he could argue, she added, “I’ll even throw in a coddled egg.”

“What’s coddled?”

“Steamed in a little cup.”