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

His long arm curled around her, and he pulled her down into an embrace of heat and hardness and hairy limbs. “How bonnie you are, all tuzzled and soft wi’ sleep.”

“Did you hear anything I just said?”

“I’ve never known such a night,” he murmured, kissing her throat and cupping one of her naked breasts. “You put me to hard use, lass. ’Tis a wonder I survived.”

“You were the one who kept waking me up,” she reminded him, and gasped as she felt the scrape of his unshaven bristle against the tip of her breast.

“Poor flower,” Keir said contritely, and covered the chafed spot with his mouth. The wet velvety tug sent a shot of pleasure down to her toes. “You shouldn’t tempt me so.”

Merritt slid her fingertips lightly across his injured ribs. “Are you sore?”

“A wee bit,” he admitted, pressing light kisses to the curve of her breast. “’Tis only to be expected, after all your wildness.”

“My wildness?”

“I was ridden like a stolen horse,” he claimed, and grinned as she wiggled beneath him.

“Let me out of bed,” she exclaimed, trying not to laugh. “Your version of morning-after talk is appalling.”

Keir pinned her beneath him and settled between her thighs. “Lass, I’m a whisky distiller. If you wanted pretty words, you should have slept with a poet.”

Her eyes widened as she felt the hot, aroused length of him against her belly. “Again?”

“’Tis a persistent ailment,” he told her.

“Apparently incurable.” She slid her arms around him and kissed his shoulder. “Keir … we have to get out of bed. It’s so terribly late.”

He rested his head on the pillow and whispered near her ear. “How could it be late, when you’re the sunrise? There’s no morning sky or lark-song before you appear. No butterfly would dare unfold its wings. The day waits on you, my heart, just as the harvest waits the reaper.”

As Merritt considered revising her opinion of his morning-after talk, he widened the spread of her legs and nudged against her in the suggestion of a thrust. A tingling pleasurable ache began deep inside.

“Give me one more seeing-to,” he coaxed.

“Don’t start that,” she protested. “There’s no time.”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Thinking of his usual leisurely pace, she gave him a skeptical glance. “You need to shave, and wash, and dress …” As she squirmed beneath him, her pulse quickened and her temperature rose. It was impossible to resist the allure of a hot, hard, virile male who happened to be naked in bed with her. “Would it really take only fifteen minutes?” she asked weakly, and saw his quick grin.

“Where’s your stopwatch? You can time me.” He reached down between their bodies, and she felt the smooth head of his shaft stroke up and down between her thighs, parting her dampening flesh, while the silky-coarse hair of his chest teased her breasts, and suddenly nothing in the world mattered except having this feeling go on. She wanted his naked body forever against hers, his scent and weight, the way he flexed and moved.

Holding on to his shoulders, she gave a little satisfied moan as he began to enter her, gently working inside the pliant opening, stretching her slowly. Her senses were so occupied with him and what he was doing, she was slow to register the brisk tap at the door.

The door opened with a startling burst, and Keir reacted swiftly, pulling Merritt farther beneath him and guiding her face to his chest. A hiss of discomfort escaped him at the sudden motion.

“Merritt, darling,” she heard a familiar voice exclaim. “I know this is a surprise but—Oh.”

Blinking in bewilderment, Merritt peeked out from within Keir’s embrace. “Mama?”





Chapter 28


“WHAT THE DEVIL ARE you doing here?” Sebastian asked as Marcus, Lord Westcliff, entered the morning room. He set his newspaper on the breakfast table and sent his old friend a puzzled, irritable glance. “You couldn’t wait to be announced?”

There was hardly any man more feared or respected than Marcus Marsden, Lord Westcliff, who’d inherited one of the oldest peerage titles in England. His earldom was so ancient and venerated, in fact, that Westcliff outranked Sebastian, even though Sebastian was a duke.

Their friendship went all the way back to their days at boarding school, and although it had acquired its dents and scars, it still thrived. No one, not even the two of them, could explain why, when they were so different in character. Westcliff was honorable and reliable, a problem-solver with a strong moral compass. Whereas Sebastian, a former rake, had always lived by a far more flexible code.

Over the years, their families had spent so many holidays and summers together that their children thought of each other as cousins. As a result, there had been no romantic involvements between any of the Marsden or Challon offspring, who all claimed to find the idea somewhat incestuous.

Now it seemed a marital alliance between the Marsdens and Challons might be forged after all. But Westcliff was probably going to be rather less than enthused about the prospect of a union between his cherished daughter and Sebastian’s illegitimate son.

Westcliff came to the table with a scowl. Although the passing years had threaded the once-black hair with steel and deepened the lines bracketing his nose and mouth, the earl was still vigorous and robust. He was not a tall man, only an inch or two above average height, but the bull-like strength of his shoulders and legs, combined with a naturally tenacious disposition, made him an opponent no sane man would take on. Having once been soundly thrashed by Westcliff—deservedly so—Sebastian had no desire ever to repeat the experience.