Devil in Disguise (The Ravenels #7) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,66

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.

“Are you going to talk to Father?” Phoebe persisted, bringing his thoughts back to the present.

“He hasn’t asked me to,” Keir muttered.

“He’s waiting for you to ask.”

“I dinna know what he wants. He has enough sons. There’s nothing I could give him he doesn’t already have, and nothing I need from him.”

“Must it be a transaction? Can’t you simply accept the relationship, and enjoy whatever it turns out to be?”

“Oh, aye,” he said sarcastically, “I’ll enjoy it like a trout being guddled.”

“Guddled?”

“’Tis when you stand in a stream, near a boulder or steep bank, and ease your bare hand into the water beneath the trout. After a while, you start to tickle his belly and chin with your fingertips. When you’ve won his trust, and he relaxes to your hand, you shove your fingers into the gills, haul him out,