Lady Isabella's Scandalous Marriage

Turn the page for a preview of the next historical romance by Jennifer Ashley The Many Sins of Lord Cameron Coming soon from Berkley Sensation! Chapter 1

SCOTLAND, SEPTEMBER 1882

I saw Mrs. Chase slide that letter into Lord Cameron’s pocket, I know I did. She did it almost under my nose. Bloody woman.

Ainsley Douglas sank to her knees in her ball dress and thrust her arms deep into Lord Cameron Mackenzie’s armoire.

Why did it have to be Cameron Mackenzie, of all people? Did Mrs. Chase know? Ainsley’s heart thrummed before she calmed it down. No, Phyllida Chase could not know. No one did. Cameron could not have told her, because it would have come ’round to Ainsley again with breathtaking speed, society gossip being what it was. Therefore, it stood to reason that Cameron had kept the tale to himself.

Ainsley felt only marginally better. The queen’s letter hadn’t been in the pockets of any of the coats in the dressing room. In the armoire, Ainsley found shirts neatly folded, collars stacked in collar boxes, cravats carefully separated with tissue paper. Rich cambric and silk and softest lawn met her fingers, costly fabrics for a rich man.

She pawed hastily through the garments, but nowhere did she find the letter tucked carelessly into a pocket or fallen between the shirts on the shelf. The valet had likely gone through his master’s pockets and taken away any stray paper to return it to Lord Cameron or put it somewhere for safekeeping. Or Cameron had already found it and returned it to Phyllida, or perhaps he’d thought it female silliness and burned it. Ainsley prayed fast and hard that he had simply burned it.

Not that such a thing would completely solve Ainsley’s dilemma. Phyllida, blast the woman, had more of the letters stashed away in her house in Edinburgh. Ainsley’s assignment: Retrieve them at all costs.

The immediate cost was to her dove-gray ball dress, the first new gown she’d had in years that wasn’t mourning black. Not to mention the cost to her knees, her back, and her sanity.

Sanity was further disturbed by the sound of the door opening behind her.

Ainsley froze. She backed out of the wardrobe and turned around, fully expecting Cameron’s rather frightening Romany valet to be glaring down at her. Instead, the door blocked whoever had pushed it open, giving Ainsley a few more seconds to panic.

Hide. Where? The door to the dressing room lay across the length of the chamber, the armoire behind her too full for a young woman in a ball dress. Under the bed? No, she’d never dash across the carpet and wriggle beneath it in time.

The window with its full seat was two steps away. Ainsley dove for it, stuffed her skirts beneath her, and jerked the curtains closed. Just in time. Through the crack in the drapes, she saw Lord Cameron himself back into the room with Phyllida Chase, former maid of honor to the queen, hanging around his neck.

The sudden burn in Ainsley’s heart took her by surprise. She’d known weeks ago that Phyllida had stuck her claws into Cameron Mackenzie—Isabella, his sister-in-law and Ainsley’s great friend, had told her. Why should Ainsley mind if Phyllida pursued him? She was the sort of woman he preferred: lovely, experienced, uninterested in her husband. Likewise Cameron was the sort Phyllida liked: rich, handsome, not looking for a deep attachment. They suited each other well. What business was it of Ainsley’s?

A lump formed in her throat as Lord Cameron shut the door with one hand and slid the other to the small of Phyllida’s back. He scooped her to him, leaned down, and took her mouth in a leisurely kiss.

The lump in Ainsley’s throat tightened. There was desire in that kiss, unashamed, unmistakable desire. Once, Ainsley had felt it. She remembered rippling heat softening her body, the point of fire of his kiss. It had been so long ago, but she remembered the imprint of his mouth on her lips, her skin, his hands so skilled. With effort, she banished the memories. She’d successfully managed to for six years; she could do it now.

Phyllida melted into Cameron with a hungry noise, and Ainsley rolled her eyes. She knew full well that Mr. Chase was still in the garden, following Isabella as she led the house party on a ramble through the gardens, the paths lit by paper lanterns under the midnight sky. Ainsley knew this because she’d slipped away from the party as they moved from ballroom to gardens, so that she could search Cameron’s room.

They couldn’t have let her search in peace, could they? No, the bothersome Phyllida could not stay away from her Mackenzie male and had dragged him up here for a liaison. Selfish cow.

Cameron’s coat slid to the floor. His waistcoat and shirt outlined the hard muscles of a man used to riding and training horses. He moved with ease for such a big man, comfortable with his large and strong body. He rode with the same kind of grace, and the horses under him responded to his slightest touch. The deep scar on his cheekbone made some ladies say his handsomeness was ruined, but Ainsley disagreed. The scar had never unnerved her, but his tallness had taken Ainsley’s breath away when Isabella had introduced her six years ago, as had the way his gloved hand swallowed her smaller one. Cameron hadn’t looked much interested in an old school friend of his sister-inlaw’s, but later . . . Oh, that later.

At the moment, his golden gaze was reserved for the slim, dark-haired beauty of Phyllida Chase. Ainsley happened to know that Phyllida kept her hair black with the help of a little dye, but she’d never say so. She would never be that petty. If she and Isabella had a good giggle over it, what harm was there in that?

Cameron’s waistcoat came off, followed by his cravat and collar, giving Ainsley a fine view of his bare, damp throat.

She looked away, an ache in her chest. She wondered how long she would have to wait before attempting to slip away—surely once they were on the bed they’d be too engrossed in each other to notice her crawling for the door. She drew a breath, becoming more unhappy by the minute.

When she summoned the nerve to peek back through the drape, Phyllida’s bodice was open, revealing a pretty corset over plump curves. Lord Cameron bent to kiss the bosom that welled over the corset cover, and Phyllida groaned in pleasure.

The vision came to Ainsley of Lord Cameron pressing his lips to her bosom. Hot breath burned her skin, hands traveled down her back to her buttocks. And then a kiss. A deep, hard kiss that awoke every single desire Ainsley had strived to suppress. She remembered the exact pressure of the kiss, the shape and taste of his mouth, the rough of his fingertips on her skin. She also remembered the icicle in her heart when he’d looked at her, and through her, the next day. Her own fault. She’d been young and allowed herself to be duped, and she’d compounded the problem by insulting him.

Phyllida’s hand was under Cameron’s kilt now. He moved to let her play, and the plaid inched upward. Cameron’s strong thighs came into view, and Ainsley saw with shock that scars marked him from the back of his knees to the curve of his buttocks.

She couldn’t stop the gasp that issued from her lips. They were deep, knotted gashes, old wounds that had long since closed. Good heavens, she hadn’t seen that.

“Darling, did you hear something?” Phyllida asked.

“No.” Cameron had a deep voice, that one word gravelly.

“I’m certain I heard a noise. Would you be a love and check that window?”

“Damn the window. It’s probably one of the dogs.”

“Darling, please.” Her pouting tone was done to perfection. Cameron growled something, and then Ainsley heard his heavy tread.

Her heart pounded. There were two windows in the bedchamber, one on either side of it. The odds were one-to-one that Lord Cameron would go to the other window. Even bet, Ainsley’s youngest brother Steven would say. Either Cameron would jerk back the curtain and reveal her or he would not. Steven didn’t like even bets. Not enough variables to be interesting, he’d say.

That was because Steven wasn’t sitting on a window seat waiting to be revealed to Lord Cameron and the woman who was blackmailing the Queen of England.

Lord Cameron’s broad brown hands grasped the edges of the drapes in front of Ainsley and parted them a few inches.

He stopped. His golden gaze locked with hers, strong face stilling in anger.

Ainsley gazed back at him, the first time she’d met his eyes in six years. Now he looked at her fully, like a lion on a veld eyeing a gazelle. The gazelle in her wanted to run, run, run. The defiant tomboy from Miss Pringle’s Academy, now a lofty lady-in-waiting, stared back at him in defiance.

Silence stretched between them. His large body blocked her from the room behind him, but he could easily betray her. Cameron owed her nothing, and once upon a time, she had rejected him under awkward and humiliating circumstances. That is, any other man would have been humiliated and furious; Cameron had simply dismissed her, uncaring. Later when he’d learned about the intrigue, he’d been ice-cold, and looking down at her now, he knew good and well she was here because of another intrigue. He could betray Ainsley now, hand her to Phyllida, be done with her and think it served her right.

Behind Cameron, Phyllida said, “What is it, darling? I saw you jump.”

“Nothing,” he said in a gruff voice. “A mouse.”

“Oh, do kill it. I can’t bear mice.”

Cameron let his gaze tangle with Ainsley’s while she struggled to breathe in her too-tight lacings. “I’ll let it live,” he said. “For now.” Cameron jerked the curtains closed, shutting Ainsley back into her glass and velvet tent. “We should go down.”

“Oh, why? We’ve just arrived.”

“I saw too many people coming back into the house, including your husband. We’ll go down separately. I don’t want to embarrass Beth and Isabella.”

“Oh, very well.” Phyllida didn’t seem much put out, but then, she likely assumed she could hole up with Lord Cameron any time she wanted and enjoy his sinful touch.

For one moment, Ainsley experienced deep, bone-wrenching envy.

The two fell silent, no doubt restoring clothing, and then Phyllida said, “I’ll speak with you later, darling.”

Ainsley heard the door open, more muffled conversation, and then the door closed, and all was silent. She waited a few more heart-pounding minutes to make certain they’d gone before she flung back the draperies and scrambled out. She was across the room and reaching for the door handle when she heard a throat clear behind her.

Slowly, Ainsley turned around. Lord Cameron Mackenzie stood in the middle of the room in shirtsleeves and kilt, his golden gaze once more pinning her in place. He held up a key in his broad fingers.

“So tell me, Mrs. Douglas,” he said in a deceptively soft voice, “what the devil are you doing in my bedchamber—this time?”