by Lisa Kleypas
Dedication
To the marvelous Eloisa James, who got me through 2020. Thank you, my treasured friend!
Love always,
L.K.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Lady Merritt’s Marmalade Cake
About the Author
Also by Lisa Kleypas
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter 1
London, 1880
“MacRae is as angry as a baited bear,” Luke Marsden warned as he entered the office. “If you’ve never been around a Scotsman in a temper, you’d better brace yourself for the language.”
Lady Merritt Sterling looked up from her desk with a faint smile. Her brother was a handsome sight, with his windblown dark hair and his complexion infused with color from the brisk autumn air. Like the rest of the Marsden brood, Luke had inherited their mother’s long, elegant lines. Merritt, on the other hand, was the only one out of the half-dozen siblings who’d ended up short and full-figured.
“I’ve spent nearly three years managing a shipping firm,” she pointed out. “After all the time I’ve spent around longshoremen, nothing could shock me now.”
“Maybe not,” Luke conceded. “But Scotsmen have a special gift for cursing. I had a friend at Cambridge who knew at least a dozen different words for testicles.”
Merritt grinned. One of the things she enjoyed most about Luke, the youngest of her three brothers, was that he never shielded her from vulgarity or treated her like a delicate flower. That, among other reasons, was why she’d asked him to take over the management of her late husband’s shipping company, once she’d taught him the ropes. He’d accepted the offer without hesitation. As the third son of an earl, his options had been limited, and as he’d remarked, a fellow couldn’t earn a living by sitting around looking picturesque.
“Before you show Mr. MacRae in,” Merritt said, “you might tell me why he’s angry.”
“To start with, the ship he chartered was supposed to deliver his cargo directly to our warehouse. But the dock authorities turned it away because all the berths were full. So it was just unloaded four miles inland, at Deptford Buoys.”
“That’s the usual procedure,” Merritt said.
“Yes, but this isn’t the usual cargo.”
She frowned. “It’s not the timber shipment?”
Luke shook his head. “Whisky. Twenty-five thousand gallons of extremely valuable single malt from Islay, still under bond. They’ve started the process of bringing it here in barges, but they say it will take three days for all of it to reach the warehouse.”
Merritt’s frown deepened. “Good Lord, all that bonded whisky can’t sit at Deptford Buoys for three days!”
“To make matters worse,” Luke continued, “there was an accident.”
Her eyes widened. “What kind of accident?”
“A cask of whisky slipped from the hoisting gear, broke on the roof of a transit shed, and poured all over MacRae. He’s ready to murder someone—which is why I brought him up here to you.”
Despite her concern, Merritt let out a snort of laughter. “Luke Marsden, are you planning to hide behind my skirts while I confront the big, mean Scotsman?”
“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “You like them big and mean.”
Her brows lifted. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“You love soothing difficult people. You’re the human equivalent of table syrup.”
Amused, Merritt leaned her chin on her hand. “Show him in, then, and I’ll start pouring.”
It wasn’t that she loved soothing difficult people. But she definitely liked to smooth things over when she could. As the oldest of six children, she’d always been the one to settle quarrels among her brothers and sisters, or come up with indoor games on rainy days. More than once, she’d orchestrated midnight raids on the kitchen pantry or told them stories when they’d sneaked to her room after bedtime.
She sorted through the neat stack of files on her desk and found the one labeled “MacRae Distillery.”
Not long before her husband, Joshua, had died, he’d struck a deal to provide warehousing for MacRae in England. He’d told her about his meeting with the Scotsman, who’d been visiting London for the first time.
“Oh, but you must ask him to dinner,” Merritt had exclaimed, unable to bear the thought of a stranger traveling alone in an unfamiliar place.
“I did,” Joshua had replied in his flat American accent. “He thanked me for the invitation but turned it down.”
“Why?”
“MacRae is somewhat rough-mannered. He was raised on a remote island off the west coast of Scotland. I suspect he finds the prospect of meeting the daughter of an earl overwhelming.”
“He needn’t worry about that,” Merritt had protested. “You know my family is barely civilized!”
But Joshua replied that her definition of “barely civilized” was different from a rural Scotsman’s, and MacRae would be far more comfortable left to his own devices.
Merritt had never dreamed that when she and Keir MacRae finally met, Joshua would be gone, and she would be the one managing Sterling Enterprises.
Her brother came to the doorway and paused at the threshold. “If you’ll come this way,” he said to someone outside the room, “I’ll make introductions and then—”
Keir MacRae burst into the office like a force of nature and strode past Luke, coming to a stop on the other side of Merritt’s desk.
Looking sardonic, Luke went to lean against the doorjamb and folded his arms. “On the other hand,” he said to no one in particular, “why waste time with introductions?”
Merritt stared in bemusement at the big, wrathful Scotsman. He was an extraordinary sight, more than six feet of muscle and brawn dressed in a thin wet shirt and trousers that clung as if they’d been glued to his skin. An irritable shiver, almost certainly from the chill of evaporating alcohol, ran over him. Scowling, he reached up to remove his flat cap, revealing a shaggy mop of hair, several months past a good cut. The thick locks were a beautiful cool shade of amber shot with streaks of light gold.
He was handsome despite his unkempt state. Very handsome. His blue eyes were alert with the devil’s own intelligence, the cheekbones high, the nose straight and strong. A tawny beard obscured the line of his jaw—perhaps concealing a weak chin?—she couldn’t tell. Regardless, he was a stunner.
Merritt wouldn’t have thought there was a man alive who could fluster her like this. She was a confident and worldly woman, after all. But she couldn’t ignore the flush rising from the high-buttoned neck of h
er dress. Or the way her heart had begun to pound like a clumsy burglar trampling the flower bed.
“I want to speak to someone in charge,” he said brusquely.
“That would be me,” Merritt said with a quick smile, coming around the desk. “Lady Merritt Sterling, at your service.” She extended her hand.
MacRae was slow to respond. His fingers closed over hers, cool and slightly rough.
The sensation raised the hairs on the back of her neck, and she felt something uncoil pleasantly at the pit of her stomach.
“My condolences,” he said gruffly, releasing her hand. “Your husband was a good man.”
“Thank you.” She took a steadying breath. “Mr. MacRae, I’m so sorry for the way your delivery has been botched. I’ll submit paperwork to make sure you’re exempted from the landing charges and wharfage rates, and Sterling Enterprises will handle the lighterage fees. And in the future, I’ll make sure a berth is reserved on the day your shipment is due.”
“There’ll be no fookin’ future shipments if I’m to be put out of business,” MacRae said. “The excise agent says every barrel of whisky that hasn’t been delivered to the warehouse by midnight will no longer be under bond, and I’m to be paying duties on it immediately.”
“What?” Merritt shot an outraged glance at her brother, who shrugged and shook his head to indicate he knew nothing about it. This was deadly serious business. The government’s regulations about storing whisky under bond were strictly enforced, and violations would earn terrible penalties. It would be bad for her business, and disastrous for MacRae’s.
“No,” she said firmly, “that will not happen.” She went back behind the desk, took her chair, and sorted rapidly through a pile of authorizations, receipts, and excise forms. “Luke,” she said, “the whisky must be transported here from Deptford Buoys as fast as possible. I’ll persuade the excise officer to give us at least ’til noon tomorrow. Heaven knows he owes us that much, after the favors we’ve done him in the past.”
“Will that be enough time?” Luke asked, looking skeptical.
“It will have to be. We’ll need every barge and lighter vessel we can hire, and every able-bodied man—”
“No’ so fast,” MacRae said, slapping his palms firmly on the desk and leaning over it.
Merritt started at the sound and glanced up into the face so close to hers. His eyes were a piercing shade of ice blue, with faint whisks at the outer corners, etched by laughter and sun and sharp windy days.
“Yes, Mr. MacRae?” she managed to ask.
“Those clodpates of yours just spilled one hundred and nine gallons of whisky over the wharf, and a good portion over me in the bargain. Damned if I’ll be letting them bungle the rest of it.”
“Those weren’t our clodpates,” Luke protested. “They were lightermen from the barge.”
To Merritt, her brother’s voice sounded as if it were coming from another floor of the building. All she could focus on was the big, virile male in front of her.
Do your job, she told herself sternly, ripping her gaze from MacRae with an effort. She spoke to her brother in what she hoped was a professional tone. “Luke, from now on, no lightermen are to set foot on the hoisting crane platform.” She turned back to MacRae. “My employees are experienced at handling valuable cargo,” she assured him. “They’ll be the only ones allowed to load your whisky onto the crane and stock it in the warehouse. No more accidents—you have my word.”
“How can you be sure?” MacRae asked, one brow lifting in a mocking arch. “Will you be managing the operation yourself?”
The way he asked, sarcasm wrapped in silk, elicited an odd little pang of recognition, as if she’d heard him say something in just that tone before. Which made no sense, since they’d never met until this moment.
“No,” she said, “my brother will manage it from start to finish.”
Luke let out a sigh as he realized she’d just committed him to working through the night. “Oh, yes,” he said acidly. “I was just about to suggest that.”
Merritt looked at MacRae. “Does that meet with your approval?”
“Do I have a choice?” the Scotsman countered darkly, pushing back from the desk. He tugged at the damp, stained fabric of his shirt. “Let’s be about it, then.”
He was cold and uncomfortable, Merritt thought, and he reeked of cask-strength single malt. Before he returned to work, he needed the opportunity to tidy himself. “Mr. MacRae,” she asked gently, “where are you staying while you’re in London?”
“I was offered the use of the flat in the warehouse.”
“Of course.” A small, utilitarian set of rooms at their bonded warehouse had been installed for the convenience of vintners and distillers who wished to blend and bottle their products on the premises. “Has your luggage been taken there yet?”
“’Tis still on the docks,” MacRae replied curtly, clearly not wanting to be bothered with trivial issues when there was so much to be done.
“We’ll collect it right away, then, and have someone show you to the flat.”
“Later,” he said.
“But you’ll need to change your clothes,” Merritt said, perturbed.
“Milady, I’m going to work through the night beside longshoremen who won’t give a damn how I look or smell.”
Merritt should have let the matter go. She knew that. But she couldn’t resist saying, “The docks are very cold at night. You’ll need a coat.”
MacRae looked exasperated. “I have only the one, and ’tis drookit.”
Merritt gathered “drookit” meant thoroughly soaked. She told herself that Keir MacRae’s well-being was none of her concern, and there was urgent business requiring her attention. But . . . this man could use a bit of looking after. Having grown up with three brothers, she was well familiar with the surly, hollow-eyed look of a hungry male.
Luke was right, she thought wryly. I do like them big and mean.
“You can’t very well leave your luggage sitting out in public,” she said reasonably. “It will only take a few minutes for me to fetch a key and show you to the flat.” She slid a glance to her brother, who joined in obligingly.
“Besides, MacRae,” Luke added, “there’s nothing you can accomplish until I’ve had a chance to organize the men and hire extra barge crew.”
The Scotsman pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed the corners of his eyes. “You can’t show me to the flat,” he told Merritt firmly. “No’ without a chaperone.”
“Oh, no need to worry about that, I’m a widow. I’m the one who chaperones others.”
MacRae gave Luke an expectant stare.
Luke wore a blank expression. “Are you expecting me to say something?”
“You will no’ forbid your sister to go off alone with a stranger?” MacRae asked him incredulously.
“She’s my older sister,” Luke said, “and she employs me, so . . . no, I’m not going to tell her a damned thing.”
“How do you know I won’t insult her virtue?” the Scotsman demanded in outrage.
Luke lifted his brows, looking mildly interested. “Are you going to?”
“No. But I could!”
Merritt had to gnaw the insides of her lips to restrain a laugh. “Mr. MacRae,” she soothed. “My brother and I are both well aware that I have nothing at all to fear from you. On the contrary, it’s common knowledge that Scots are trustworthy and honest, and . . . and simply the most honorable of men.”
MacRae’s scowl eased slightly. After a moment, he said, “’Tis true that Scots have more honor per man than other lands. We carry the honor of Scotland with us wherever we go.”
“Exactly,” Merritt said. “No one would doubt my safety in your company. In fact, who would dare utter one offensive word, or threaten any harm to me, if you were there?”
MacRae seemed to warm to the idea. “If someone did,” he said vehemently, “I’d skin the bawfaced bastard like a grape and toss him onto a flaming dung heap.”
Luke shook his head slowly, amusement tugging at the corners of his lips before he mouthed two silent words to her:
Table syrup.
She ignored him. “Come, Mr. MacRae—we’ll have your affairs settled in no time.”
Keir couldn’t help following Lady Merritt. Since the moment he’d been drenched in 80-proof whisky on the docks, he’d been chilled to the marrow of his bones. But this woman, with her quick smile and coffee-dark eyes, was the warmest thing in the world.
They went through a series of handsome rooms lined with wood paneling and paintings of ships. Keir barely noticed the surroundings. His attention was riveted by the shapely figure in front of him, the intricately pinned-up swirls of her hair, the voice dressed in silk and pearls. How good she smelled, like the kind of expensive soap that came wrapped in fancy paper. Keir and everyone he knew used common yellow rosin soap for everything: floors, dishes, hands, and body. But there was no sharpness to this scent. With every movement, hints of perfume seemed to rise from the rustling of her skirts and sleeves, as if she were a flower bouquet being gently shaken.
The carpet underfoot had been woven in a pattern beautiful enough to cover a wall. A crime, it was, to tread on it with his heavy work boots. Keir felt ill at ease in such fine surroundings. He didn’t like having left his men, Owen and Slorach, out on the wharf. They could manage without him for a while, especially Slorach, who’d worked at his father’s distillery for almost four decades. But this entire undertaking was Keir’s responsibility, and the survival of his distillery depended on it. Making sure the bonded whisky was installed safely in the warehouse was too important to let himself be distracted by a woman.
Especially this one. She was educated and well-bred, the daughter of an earl. Not just any earl, but Lord Westcliff, a man whose influence and wealth was known far and wide. And Lady Merritt was a power in her own right, the owner of a shipping business that included a fleet of cargo steamers as well as warehouses.
As the only child of elderly parents, Keir had been given the best of what they’d been able to provide, but there had been little in the way of books or culture. He’d found beauty in seasons and storms, and in long rambles over the island. He loved to fish and walk with his dog, and he loved making whisky, the trade his father had taught him.
