Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,57
thinking at all. Phoebe … do you think it’s possible to fall in love with someone in only a week?”
“Who am I to say?” Phoebe parried, taking the empty cup from her and going to replenish it.
“Oh, don’t be waffly, tell me your opinion.”
Phoebe glanced over her shoulder with lifted brows. “Aren’t you the one who’s always said opinions are tiresome?”
“Yes, when I had the luxury. But now I’m a business-woman.” Merritt’s mouth pressed into a glum hyphen. “My interior life used to be flowers, party decorations, and quartet music. Now it’s all purchase orders and typewriter ribbons and dusty office furniture.”
“Surely not dusty, dear.” Phoebe brought her a fresh cup of tea. “Very well, here’s what I think: It’s possible to have strong feelings for someone in only a week, but as for full-blown, deep, true love … no. There’s been no courtship. You haven’t spent enough time together. You haven’t talked. Love happens through words.”
“Drat.” Recognizing the truth of that, Merritt scowled and drank her tea.
“Furthermore, the sleeping together is a complication. Once you’ve done it, it’s almost impossible to talk without the interference of sensuality.”
“What if he doesn’t remember?” Merritt asked.
Phoebe gave her a baffled glance. “What?”
“If a tree falls in the forest and no one sees or hears, did it really fall?”
“Was the tree drinking?”
“No, it was a concussion.” Merritt told Phoebe about the explosion on the docks, and finding Keir unconscious and injured, and Dr. Gibson’s diagnosis. “He’s lost at least a week of memory,” she finished, “and there’s no guarantee he’ll recover it. Now after talking with you, I’m beginning to think that may be for the best.”
“You’re not going to tell him you slept together?”
She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be helpful at all. Just the opposite: He might think of it as a trap.”
“Merritt, you’re the catch of London. With your looks, wealth, and connections, there are countless men who would love to be caught in any trap you cared to set.”
“Keir’s different. He’s not fond of town, to put it mildly. He’s not impressed by luxury or appearances. He loves his simple life on the island, and doing things out in nature.”
“And you dislike nature,” Phoebe said sympathetically.
“‘Dislike’ is too strong a word. Nature and I have an understanding—we try not to interfere with each other. It’s a peaceful coexistence.”
Phoebe looked skeptical. “Dear, no matter how attractive this man is, I can’t envision you existing happily on a remote Scottish island.”
“It’s possible,” Merritt argued. “I’m a woman of many facets.”
“You don’t have a single facet that wants to live in a hut.”
“I didn’t say he lived in a hut!”
“Five pounds says it has a stone floor and no indoor plumbing.”
“I never take bets,” Merritt said loftily.
“Which means you think I’m right.”
Merritt’s reply was forestalled by the sound of muffled shouting and a thump or two—like something being thrown against a wall. It seemed to be coming from the direction of Keir’s room. Instantly alarmed, she set aside her teacup and saucer and sprang out of bed.
“What in heaven’s name is that?” Phoebe asked.
“I think it’s Mr. MacRae,” Merritt said in alarm.
Chapter 19
AFTER DONNING HER ROBE and slippers, Merritt sprinted along the hallway with Phoebe close behind. As they neared Keir’s room, they saw Kingston approaching from the other direction.
“Father,” Phoebe exclaimed.
“Hello, darling,” the duke said pleasantly. “I didn’t know you’d arrived.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt your meeting with the solicitors.”
“We just finished.” Kingston reached for the door. “What the devil is this all about?”
“I have no idea.” Merritt hurried into the room.
They found Keir sitting up in bed, cursing at Culpepper, the duke’s elderly valet. “You’ll no’ go by me again, you damned doaty auld ball sack!”
Merritt’s heart was wrenched with worry as she heard the wheeze in Keir’s breath. “What’s the matter?” she asked, hastening to the bedside.
“I’ve been skinned like a hare for stewing!” Keir said wrathfully, turning to her.
Merritt was dumbstruck at the sight of his clean-shaven face.
Dear God. He was beyond handsome. The cushioning thick beard was gone, revealing the brooding masculine beauty of a fallen angel. His features were strong but elegantly refined, the cheekbones high, the mouth full and erotic. She could hardly believe she’d slept with this dazzling creature.
“They shaved off my beard while I was drooged,” Keir told her indignantly, reaching out to clamp a hand on her skirts and tug her close.
The duke responded with an innocent look. “You’ll have to forgive my valet,” he said smoothly. “I instructed him to do