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

“What makes it do that?”

“’Tis pure quartz, and the grains are all the same size. A scientist could explain it. But I’d rather call it magic.”

“Do you believe in magic?”

Keir stood and smiled into her upturned face. “No, but I like the wonderments of life. Like the ghost fire that shines on a ship’s mast at storm’s end, or the way a bird’s instinct leads him to his wintering grounds each year. I enjoy such things better for no’ understanding them.”

“Wonderments,” Merritt repeated, seeming to relish the word.

As they walked idly along the shore, while sandpipers darted and pecked at the tide wash, Keir was filled with an ease he hadn’t known since boyhood. A holiday feeling. He’d never gone this long without working in his adult life. But he knew the sense of well-being came mostly from the woman beside him.

Talking with Merritt was like slipping into one of those silk-lined borrowed coats from the Challons. Comfortable, luxurious. She was whip-smart, understanding the details, the unsaid words. She had a way of wrapping people in empathy that extended to everyone from the duke down to the young assistant groundskeeper. It was the kind of charm that made people feel wittier, more attractive, more interesting, in her reflected glow. Keir was doing his level best to resist her lure.

But he was so drawn to her, so damned besotted.

He adored her fancy words … “prevarication” … “resplendent” … her easy smiles … her perfumed wrists and throat. She was like a beautiful gift that begged to be unwrapped. Just being near her made the blood sing in his veins. Last night, the mere thought of her naked, along with just a few strokes of his own hand, had been enough to bring him to a shuddering, bone-jarring climax—an experiment he’d regretted when his ribs had instantly burned as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to them. And yet he still craved her, worse now than yesterday.

To protect himself, he tried to keep barriers between them. He did his best not to confide in her, nor did he invite confidences. He was friendly but polite, surrounding his heart with steel-plate armor and hoping that would be enough to keep it safe. If not … he’d end up ruined for any other woman.

He had to leave soon, or it would be too late. It might already be.

IN THE AFTERNOON, Keir spent time with Phoebe in the family parlor. She played with the baby on a quilt spread across the floor, while Keir occupied a comfortable chair nearby. He’d taken an immediate liking to Phoebe, who was friendly and straightforward, with a sharp edge of humor. She shared the running of an Essex estate with her husband and could talk so easily about ordinary subjects, like farming and husbandry, that Keir could almost forget she was the daughter of a duke.

“I thought you might want to see this,” Phoebe said, nudging a weighty leather-bound book across the low table in front of him.

“What is it? A scrapbook?”

“A photograph album of my family.” She paused before correcting herself. “Our family.”

Keir shook his head, refusing to touch the album. “I dinna see the need.”

Her brows lifted. “You’re not the least bit curious about your own relations? You have no questions? You don’t even want to look at them?”

“We may not be kin. No one can put it to hard proof.”

“Hogwash.” Phoebe gave him a sardonic glance. “A preponderance of circumstantial evidence meets the legal standard of proof, and in your case, there’s more than enough to erase all reasonable doubt.” She paused before adding gently, “As you’d already know, if you would just talk with Father.”

Keir frowned and reached out to a lamp on a table beside his chair, playing with the beaded fringe trim on the shade. He’d had little interaction with Kingston so far, and never just the two of them, for which he was thankful. He wasn’t ready for the uncomfortable and inevitable conversation that awaited them.

Fortunately, the duke hadn’t been inclined to press the issue, probably because his days were too damned busy as it was. Every morning he read a mountain of reports and correspondence, dictated to a private secretary, and dispatched a footman to post letters and telegrams. In the afternoons, there were meetings with tenants, tradesmen, or estate managers, and sometimes with people who’d come from London or beyond.

At the end of the day, however, all business was set aside, and it was time for relaxation. They would all gather for dinner at a table weighted with silver and crystal and lit with abundant candles. White-gloved footmen would bring out marvelous dishes … platters heaped with succulent red-and-white shrimp, called pandles by locals, still smoking-hot from the gridiron … tureens of bisque sprinkled with tender shreds of Chi-chester lobster … Amberley trout spangled with toasted almond slices, served directly from the pan onto the plates. There were endless varieties of fresh vegetables, and salads chopped as fine as confetti, and bread served with newly churned butter, and platters of local cheese and hothouse fruit for dessert. Keir had never eaten so well in his life.

The invalid menu, of course, had been swiftly discarded. Keir had filled his plate with defiantly generous portions, his gaze daring Merritt to object, and she had only smiled wryly, letting him have his way. Ah, he liked her so damned much. She might be a wee bully when it came to certain matters, but she was never a nag.