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

A little slip of paper fell from the side pocket of the wallet, fluttering to the carriage floor like the slender leaf of a rowan tree. With effort, Keir clasped one hand to his ribs and bent to retrieve it. He sat up and regarded it curiously.

Mr. Keir MacRae Lady Merritt Sterling



The names had been typed … but why? … what for? …

Bits and pieces of memory whirled in his head … thoughts wheeling just beyond reach. As he struggled blindly to catch hold of something, make sense of the tumult, he heard Merritt’s voice … stay for one night just one … and there was the smell of rain and the cool darkness of night, and the warmth of a bed … the tender plump curves of a woman’s breasts, and the hot clasp of her body pulling at him, squeezing in voluptuous pulsation, and the sweet, wracking culmination as she cried out his name. And there was the sight of her in candlelight, flames dancing in guttering pools of wax, catching glimmers from her eyes, hair, skin … and the glorious freedom of yielding everything, telling her everything, while inexhaustible delight welled around them. And the despair of leaving, the physical pain of putting distance between them, the sensation of being pulled below the surface of the sea, looking up from airless depths to an unreachable sky. Tap. He saw Lady Merritt’s fingertip pressing a typewriter key. Tap. Tap. Tiny metal rods flicked at a spool of inked ribbon, and letters emerged.

Keir was panting now, clutching the slip of paper, while his brain sorted and spun, and pin tumblers aligned, a key turned, and something unlocked.

“Merry,” he said aloud, his voice unsteady. “My God … Merry.”

Phoebe was looking at him with concern, asking something, but he couldn’t hear over the wild drum of his heartbeat.

Turning too quickly in his seat, Keir ignored the stab of discomfort in his ribs as he hammered the side of his fist on the panel of the driver’s box. As soon as the carriage stopped on the drive, he told Phoebe brusquely, “Go on without me.”

Before she could reply, he climbed out of the carriage and headed back to the house at a full-bore run.





Chapter 25


AFTER PHOEBE AND KEIR had departed for the railway station, Sebastian went back into the house, intending to finish reading reports from his estate managers. But he hesitated at the threshold of his study, reluctant to return to his desk. Frustration gnawed at him. It had gone against every instinct to let his son leave the sphere of his protection while still recovering from his wounds. Keir was a target, and if there wasn’t someone hunting for him now, there would be soon. Lord Ormonde would make certain of that.

Thinking of the selfish hatchet-faced bastard, and the hell he must have made Cordelia’s life, and most of all how he’d almost succeeded in killing Keir, Sebastian was filled with a cold white flame of fury. It was an unholy temptation to go find Ormonde and personally beat him to a pulp. However, murdering Ormonde, while highly satisfying, would result in consequences Sebastian wasn’t particularly fond of.

Why was Ethan Ransom taking so bloody long to report to him? Why hadn’t the hired assassin been caught and interrogated by now? He couldn’t have disappeared into thin air.

Brooding, Sebastian flexed the tense muscles of his shoulders and reached up to rub his tight neck.

Damn it, he thought wearily, I miss Evie.

When she was away, which thankfully was seldom, the world stopped spinning, the sun went dark, and life devolved to a grim exercise in endurance until she returned.

At the outset of their marriage, Sebastian had never dreamed a shy, awkward wallflower, who’d spoken with a stammer since childhood, would turn out to have such fearsome power over him. But Evie had immediately gained the upper hand by making it clear he would have nothing from her—not her affection, her body, or even her thoughts—unless he’d earned it. No woman had ever challenged him to be worthy of her. That had fascinated and excited him. It had made him love her.

Now he was left counting the remaining nights—four, to be precise—of waking in the middle of the night blindly searching the empty space beside him. And the hours—ninety-six, approximately—until Evie was in his arms again.

Christ, it was undignified to pine over one’s own wife.

He was the one who’d encouraged Evie to accept the invitation from their friends Sir George and Lady Sylvia Stevenson, the newly appointed British ambassador and his wife. The Stevensons and their children had recently settled in the magnificent embassy on the rue de Fauborg Saint-Honoré, only a few doors down from the Élysée Palace. You must bring Seraphina and Ivo as well, Lady Sylvia had written. My children will be so happy to have familiar friends visit their new home, and Paris in autumn is beautiful beyond compare.

Although a stream of cheerful postcards and letters had arrived from Evie for the past three weeks, they were a poor substitute for the sound of her voice, and her good morning kisses, and the quirks only a husband would know about. The adorable way her toes would wiggle in her sleep whenever he touched her foot. And the way she would bounce a little on her heels when she was especially happy or excited about something.

God, he needed her back in his bed. He needed it soon. Meanwhile, he would try to exhaust himself into not thinking about Evie.

He decided to go for a swim.

AFTER THE CARRIAGES had departed, Merritt retreated to the privacy of her room and sat in a cozy corner chair, having what her mother had always referred to as a “two-hanky wallow.” She wept, and mopped at her welling eyes, and blew her nose gustily. In a few minutes, the worst of it had passed, and she relaxed back in the chair as a sense of dull peacefulness settled over her.