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

“Aye, I’ll have some of those.”

“Lovely. After that, the duke’s valet will come around with some clothes, and if you’re feeling up to it, you and I might take a few turns around the upper floor of the house. Later, we’ll make a start on the breathing exercises.”

“What about the duke and Lady Phoebe?” Keir asked. “What will they be doing?”

“They’re going out to have lunch with friends and visit some shops along the local esplanade.” Lady Merritt paused, her gaze seeming to wrap around him like velvet. “I told them I wanted to spend a day with you,” she said. “There are sensitive subjects to discuss … and I thought it might be better coming from me.”

Keir frowned. “If you’re going to tell me all the whisky was destroyed, I already expected that.”

A fortune, literally vanished into thin air. Badly needed profits, all gone. After spending five years paying off the distillery’s debts, he was financially strapped once again.

“Would it help if I said the loss was covered by the warehouse insurance policy?” Lady Merritt asked gently.

“What about the tax due on it?”

“If the government won’t release you from the tax obligation, the insurance company will have to pay it. Sterling Enterprises’ legal department is quite firm that the tax liability counted as an insurable interest. They may want to litigate in court, but we’ll almost certainly win.”

Keir nodded slowly as he thought that over. “Even if I had to pay the tax,” he said, “it wouldn’t be the ruin of the distillery, as long as the rest of it was covered.”

“Good. If you have any difficulties in that regard, I’m sure I can find ways to help.”

Keir stiffened. No matter how well-intended, the offer of help from a wealthy woman rankled. “I dinna want your money.”

Lady Merritt blinked in surprise. “I didn’t mean I was going to hand you a sack of cash. I’m a business-woman, not a fairy godmother.”

The sudden edge to her tone, subtle though it was, was keen enough to lacerate.

Seeing how her radiance had vanished, Keir felt a chill of regret, and his first thought was to apologize.

Instead, he kept his mouth shut. It was better not to grow close to her.

After taking over the distillery upon his father’s death, the first decision Keir had made was to install new safety equipment and procedures. There were too many dangerous elements in a building where drink was made from grain: dust, alcohol vapor, heat, and sparks from static or friction. The only way to avert disaster was to keep those elements as separate and controlled as possible.

All his instincts warned him to do the same in this situation … create a distance between himself and Lady Merritt … before they started an inferno.





Chapter 21


“YOU’RE USING YOUR CHEST,” Merritt said later that day, glancing down at Keir as he reclined on a long, low couch.

“Aye,” he said dryly. “’Tis where I keep my lungs.”

Merritt stood over him, a medical book in one hand and a stopwatch in the other, while Keir lay flat on his back. He felt more than a little foolish, not to mention frustrated. The breathing exercises, which had sounded simple in the beginning, had turned out to be unexpectedly challenging, mostly because Merritt seemed to want him to breathe in a way that was anatomically impossible.

They were in an upstairs family parlor, a wide and spacious room divided into separate areas by groupings of furniture and potted palms. Two sets of French doors opened to an outside balcony that ran almost the full length of the house.

Earlier, Culpepper had brought Keir a selection of spare clothes belonging to the duke’s two grown sons, Lord St. Vincent and Mr. Challon. The garments were finer than anything he’d worn in his life. Not fancy, but incredibly well made. With the valet’s help, Keir had chosen a shirt made of Egyptian cotton with mother-of-pearl buttons, and a silk-lined waistcoat, stitched so the hem was perfectly smooth instead of curling upward. The trousers were fluid and slightly loose, tailored to allow for greater ease of movement.

“You’re supposed to take in air from lower down, in the belly,” Merritt said, consulting The Thorax and Its Viscera: A Manual of Treatment, which Dr. Kent had provided.

“The belly is for filling with food, not air,” Keir said flatly.

“It’s a special technique called diaphragmatic breathing.”

“I already have a technique. ’Tis called in-and-oot.”

She set the book aside and fiddled with the stopwatch. “Let’s try again. Inhale for four seconds, and exhale slowly for eight. As you breathe out, control the air flow by pursing your lips. Like this.” Her mouth cinched into a round, plush shape, the sight throwing his brain into chaos … soft, tender, rose blossoms, cherries, sweet currant wine … he couldn’t help wondering how they would feel on his skin, stroking downward, parting as her sweet tongue flicked out to taste him—

“Now you try,” Merritt said briskly. “Pucker your lips. Pretend you’re pouting about something.”

“I dinna pout,” he informed her. “I’m a man.”

“What do you do when you’re angry but can’t complain?”

“I toss back a dram of whisky.”