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

That drew a grin from her. “How surprising. Pretend you’re blowing out a candle, then.” She held up the stopwatch, thumb poised over the crown stopper. “Are you ready?”

“I’d rather be sitting up.”

“According to the book, lying flat helps to focus on the expansion and contraction of the abdomen while increasing the vertical capacity of the chest.” A decisive click of the watch. “Start.”

Dutifully Keir inhaled and exhaled at her count.

Click. Merritt assessed him like a drillmaster determined to train a raw recruit. “Your ribs moved.”

“They dinna!” he protested.

Ignoring him, she clicked the watch. “Again.”

Keir obeyed. Deep breath in, slow breath out.

Click. Lady Merritt stood over him, shaking her head. “You’re not even trying.”

Exasperated, Keir muttered, “I am trying, you wee bully.”

Instantly her face changed, her eyes widening.

Keir was startled by the feeling of having already experienced this exact moment, as if he’d just fallen through a trapdoor connecting the present and the past.

“I’ve called you that before,” he said huskily.

“Yes.” Merritt sounded breathless. “Do you remember anything else?”

“No, only saying those words to you, and …”

His heart had begun to thud, the force of it ricocheting everywhere inside and gathering at his groin. Alarm seized him as he realized he was turning hard, his cock stiffening in a series of swift jumps. He sat up with a muffled curse, pain searing through his ribs.

“What is it?” he heard Merritt ask in concern. “Do be careful—you’ll hurt yourself—here, let me—”

Her hands were on him, one at his shoulder, the other at his back. The pressure of her palms, gentle but firm, flooded him with lust. Another door seemed to open in his brain, and for a moment all he could think of was being in bed with her, the rush of her breath against his ear, the clasp of female flesh, amazingly silky, supple, powerful pulses working his shaft as he pushed deep and felt her squirm—

“Dinna touch me,” he said, more roughly than he’d intended.

Her hands snatched back.

Keir leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. She was standing too close, her delicately perfumed scent feeding the hard ache of arousal. He was light-headed, suffocating from lack of oxygen. Grimly he focused on the pain of his ribs, letting it tamp down the flare of lust.

No … he had never been in bed with her. She’d never have let him do such a thing, and God knew he’d never have tried.

As he fought to bring the unruly desire under control, he became aware of a reedy squalling that grew more and more insistent. A baby’s cry. Lifting his head, he looked at the doorway, where Lady Phoebe Ravenel stood with a fussy infant in her arms.

Bugger me, he thought grimly.

The long, involved conversation he’d had with Merritt after breakfast had been full of revelations about the duke’s long-ago affair with Cordelia, Lady Ormonde, and its consequences—one of which was very likely Keir himself. Which meant the red-haired woman at the threshold could very well be his half sister, and the wailing imp in her arms his niece.

Having been raised by elderly parents, Keir had never expected a sibling. His rowdy pack of friends were his brothers, and the men at the distillery were his extended family. It was strange to think of having a sister. It shocked him, in fact, to realize that for the first time in his life, here was someone … a woman … with whom he might have a blood tie. And not just any woman, but an aristocratic lady. There was nothing for them to talk about, no experiences they had in common.

But as he stared at Lady Phoebe, she seemed like any ordinary young mother on Islay, who hadn’t had quite enough sleep and couldn’t always tell what her baby wanted. There was a smart, bright look about her—canty, a Scot would say, a word that suggested the dancing flicker of a candle flame.

“I’m so sorry,” Phoebe said, with a comical grimace, trying to soothe the fretting baby. “I thought we might stop by for a brief visit, but my daughter seems to have made other plans. Perhaps we’ll try again later.”

She was nervous, Keir thought. Just as he was. His gaze moved to the infant, squirming unhappily amid a bundle of white ruffles, her plump stockinged legs churning like a windmill. One of her little white shoes was missing. He couldn’t help smiling at the large pink bow on her head, which had been fastened around a wild tuft of carroty-red hair in a valiant attempt to tame it.

“Dinna rush off yet,” he said, and rose to his feet.

ANXIOUS TO HELP, Merritt hurried to Phoebe and the baby. “Is she hungry?” she asked.

Phoebe gave a frustrated shake of her head. “No, I fed her recently. Sometimes she has these spells, and there’s nothing to be done about it.” Looking rueful, she added, “Apparently I was the same.”

“Let me take her,” Merritt suggested. “I’ll walk her up and down the hallway while you and Mr. MacRae chat.”

“I think we’ll all be better off if I cart her off to the nursery.” Phoebe cast a regretful glance at Keir as he joined them. “I do beg your pardon, Mr. MacRae. The baby’s out of sorts and I can’t—”

“What’s her name?” he asked.