The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

Chapter 11

Cameron looked at Ainsley, her color high, her eyes sparkling with righteous anger, and he wanted her. He’d take her on the billiards table, on the chair near it, or the settee, he didn’t much care. He wanted to kiss the lips parted in indignation, run kisses down the chest that rose with agitated breath. Cam wanted to bury himself inside the woman who’s said with such outrage, I’d like to give her a good talking-to.

He could imagine Ainsley, with her frank eyes and bold stare, telling Lady Elizabeth Cavendish exactly what she thought of her. Elizabeth, the rich, spoiled daughter of an aristocrat, as wild and bright as a tropical bird, wouldn’t have stood a chance against Ainsley. Ainsley was more like a sparrow—a matter-of-fact woman, more interested in the practical matter at hand than displaying her plumage.

No, not a sparrow. That was too plain for someone like Ainsley. Ainsley was deeply beautiful, with beauty that shone from the depths of her. Cameron wanted to learn that loveliness, every single inch of it.

“I know such things are none of my business,” Ainsley was saying, her voice like fine wine to his senses. “I should have stopped Daniel when he began, but I admit to a morbid curiosity about your late wife. If any of what Daniel said is true, I am sorry.”

She was sorry, that was the thing. Other women might pretend that Daniel must be making things up, or be disgusted—at Elizabeth, at Cameron, at Daniel for telling the tale. But not Ainsley. She saw the truth for what it was.

There were reasons Cameron hadn’t divorced Elizabeth, all of which had to do with Daniel. He’d realized early on that Elizabeth couldn’t be trusted not to try to rid herself of her baby, and so Cameron kept her close, much to her fury. Elizabeth had claimed repeatedly that the child wasn’t Cameron’s, and Cameron knew there was a risk that she told the truth. Elizabeth had had a string of lovers, some regular, some brief encounters. But Cam had been willing to risk it. Elizabeth had been wrong—Daniel was a Mackenzie all right.

Cameron knew now that he should have sent Elizabeth away as soon as she’d given birth to Daniel, but he’d been young and sentimental. He’d truly believed that once Elizabeth had a son to care for, she would change. But she hadn’t; she’d only sunk into a strange melancholy, her rages growing worse, and she’d started trying to hurt Daniel.

Cameron had the strangest feeling that Ainsley, if he explained all this to her, would understand.

“I’m not here to talk about my wife,” he said.

Ainsley’s eyes were filled with anger for him. “Very well, what did you come here to talk about?”

Cameron touched the top button of her dull gray afternoon dress and forced his voice to soften. “I came to ask how many buttons you’ll undo for me today.”

Ainsley’s sharp intake of breath pressed her bosom against the very buttons Cameron wanted to undo. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes starry, Ainsley at her most beautiful.

“I thought you’d forgotten about that game,” she said.

“I never forget games. Or what’s owed me.”

He stepped closer still, inhaling her sweet scent. Current fashion dictated that women’s skirts were worn tight against thighs and legs, and Cameron took full advantage, standing right against her. When she opened her bodice, he’d be able to peer into her soft cleavage.

He again touched the top button, which was a little bar of onyx. “How many buttons, Mrs. Douglas?”

“It was ten last time. This time, I think, I should only go a half dozen.”

Cameron frowned. “Why?”

“Because we’re indoors with people barging about the house looking for odds and ends. Billiard balls were on a few lists for the scavenger hunt.”

“Twenty,” Cameron said firmly.

Ainsley choked. “Twenty?”

“Twenty buttons will put me here.” He ran his finger down her bodice almost to her waist.

Cameron felt her heart pounding behind the stiffness of her corset. “Not fair,” she said. “These buttons are more widely spaced than the last set.”

“I’m not interested in what your dressmaker designed. I’m interested in how many I can open.”

“Very well, twelve. My final offer.”

“Not final at all.”

The billiards table stopped Ainsley from stepping back. All Cameron had to do was lift her, and he’d have her lying flat upon it. They’d tear the cloth and exasperate Hart’s housekeeper, but replacing the damn thing would be worth having Ainsley.

“I will concede fourteen,” she said.

“Twenty.”

“Lord Cameron, if someone bursts in here, I will never have time to do up twenty buttons.”

“Then we’ll lock the door.”

Ainsley’s eyes widened. “Good lord, no. I’d have a devil of a time explaining why I was behind a locked door with the notorious Lord Cameron Mackenzie. Leave the door unlocked, and they’ll think we were scavenging.”

Cameron smiled, putting as much sin into it as he knew how. “I’m getting impatient, Mrs. Douglas. Twenty buttons.”

“Fifteen.”

Cameron let his smile turn triumphant. “Done.”

She flushed. “Oh, very well. Fifteen. But let us be quick.”

“Turn around.”

She looked at him with startled gray eyes. Did she know how sensual she was? She could make a man long to see those eyes regarding him sleepily across a pillow, and Cameron did not like women in his bed. Bed was for sleeping. Alone. Safer that way for all concerned.

Ainsley faced the billiards table, her breathing still rapid. Her stupid bustle was in his way now, loops of wire that kept her skirt stuck out behind her. An idiotic fashion. Whatever fool had designed bustles had obviously had no interest in women.

Cameron made do by standing half at her side, his thigh against her hip. The next time he stood thus with Ainsley, he vowed that the bustle would be gone.

Cameron pressed a kiss to her cheek as he undid the first button. Ainsley stayed true to the game, no maidenly flutters or begging off. She’d finished the bidding and would stick to the bargain. Brave, beautiful woman.

Her eyes drifted closed as Cameron undid the second button and then the third, her body relaxing against his. He kissed the corner of her mouth, and her faint noise of longing made his cockstand ache.

By button eight, Cameron was kissing her neck, tasting her—salty tang over the faint bite of lemons. One day soon, Cameron would peel away her clothes and lick her entire body. Then he’d kneel before her and drink and drink, while her toes curled into the carpet, her hands tangled his hair, and she made those precious sighs of pleasure.

Ten, eleven, twelve. Cameron touched her bosom, heady heat inside her corset. He’d have the corset off her next time too.

“Thirteen,” he whispered. “Fourteen.” He dipped one hand into his pocket and opened button number fifteen one-handed. “Don’t move.”

Ainsley stood very still, eyes closed. Cameron breathed her scent, kissed her skin one more time, and then slid the necklace he’d taken from his pocket around her throat, closing the tiny clasp in back.

Ainsley’s eyes popped open. She stared in amazement at the strand of diamonds that now lay across her chest and then up at him. Her bodice gaped enticingly, breasts lifting above a corset with small, decorative bows on the front.

“What is this?” she asked.

Cameron made his tone careless. “I bought it at that jeweler’s in Edinburgh after you and Isabella and Beth left. I thought it would go well with your new finery.”

Ainsley looked at him in pure astonishment. No squealing excitement that most of Cam’s women succumbed to when he bought them jewels, no sly looks of promised payment later. Ainsley Douglas was dumbfounded.

“Why?” she asked.

“What do you mean why? I saw the damned necklace, and thought you’d like it.”

“I do like it.” Ainsley fingered the diamonds. “It’s beautiful. But . . .” Her expression held longing, loneliness, and a sudden hurt that surprised him. “I can’t accept it.”

“Why the devil not?”

Cameron looked so angry—at her. He who’d interfered with Ainsley’s business with Phyllida and had taken over her session at the dressmaker’s, the man who wanted to give Ainsley money without collateral and bought her jewelry as he would for his doxy, now looked angry at her.

“Because, my dear Cameron, you know how people like tittle-tattle. There would be much speculation on why you gave me this necklace.”

“Why does anyone have to know I gave it to you?”

Ainsley wanted to laugh. “Because you’re not exactly discreet.”

“Bugger discretion. It’s a waste of time.”

“You see? You can say that because you are so very rich, not to mention male. You can get away with much, while I must be a good little woman and follow all the rules.” And didn’t those rules chafe?

“The queen should give you a damned sight more than she does for drudging for her. You are worth more than she understands.”

Ainsley shivered at his dark voice. “You are flattering, and believe me, I adore you flattering me, but I have to be so careful.” She touched the necklace again. “Anyone discovering that you bought this for me will assume me your mistress. Phyllida already believes it.”

Cameron leaned to her, moving his hands to either side of her on the billiards table. His body hemmed her in, his arms a cage.

“Then be my mistress in truth, Ainsley.”

His breath touched her lips as she gasped in surprise, his mouth following. The swift kiss burned like a brand.

“I could give you so much,” he said. “I want to give you so much. Is that so bad a thing?”

So bad a thing? Ainsley clutched the lip of the billiards table and tried to stay upright. No, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to be this man’s lover. She’d lounge in his bed—or wherever he preferred—while he unbuttoned her frock and tasted her skin. Surrender to Cameron would be breathless, a wild, heady freedom.

He was a man who took everything he wanted, whose women were meltingly grateful to him and didn’t mind the strings attached. But then, Cameron’s usual ladies were courtesans, merry widows, and women whose reputations had been soiled long before they took up with him. They had nothing to lose, and Ainsley had everything. And wouldn’t the downfall be heavenly?

But once upon a time, Ainsley had succumbed to a seducer’s skilled touch. She’d hovered on the brink of complete ruin, terrified to confess her sins to the brother who’d been everything to her. She remembered the shock in Patrick’s eyes when she’d at last told him, the gasp of dismay from his upright wife, Rona.

And then Patrick, instead of chucking Ainsley into the street as he could have, had worked quickly and compassionately to save her. Only his and Rona’s intervention, and John Douglas’s kindness, had kept the world from discovering her shame. Patrick, Rona, and John had covered up what Ainsley had done, and Ainsley owed them everything.

“My lord . . .”

“My name is Cameron.”

“Cameron.” Ainsley closed her eyes and drew a breath for strength. “I want to. I very much want to be your lover. But I can’t.” The words dragged out of her, holding all the regret in the world.

“Why the devil not? You live like a servant and dress like a dowd. We’ll go to Paris if you’re worried about what people will say in London. You’ll dress like a queen instead of fetching and carrying for one, and I’ll drape you in jewels that will make this little bauble nothing.”

A vivid image arose, Ainsley in satin gowns the colors Isabella and Cameron had picked out for her, ropes of diamonds around her neck, rubies glittering in her ears. “Would there be sapphires?” she asked wistfully. “They’d go nicely with all those blue frocks.”

Cameron’s smile made her limbs weak. “There can be anything you want. A new gown every day, jewelry to go with it. A fine carriage for you to ride in, pulled by the best horses. I know a man in France who breeds the most amazing carriage horses. You could pick out the ones you liked.”

Of course, he’d give Ainsley the best horses. Horses were to him what diamonds were to most women. Precious, beautiful, worth seeking the best.

“You have fire in you, Ainsley Douglas. Let it out with me.”

She wanted to. She could have this, Cameron’s strong arms around her, the man in him awakening the woman in her. She’d never experienced anyone like him—a virile male who could arouse her simply by whispering her name.

“Please, don’t tempt me like this,” she said.

“I want to tempt you. I want you with every ounce of strength I have, and damn the scandal. Isabella is right—it’s past time you threw off your widow’s weeds and enjoyed your life.”

“It’s not the scandal I’m afraid of.” Ainsley drew a breath, her chest aching. “Believe me, were I alone in the world, I’d tell scandal to go hang and do as I pleased.” She’d realized a long time ago, however, that it wasn’t the scandal that was important, but the people she hurt with the scandal.

Raw pain flickered in Cameron’s eyes, an old hurt that had never gone away. “At least tell me you’ll think about it. Spend the winter with me in Paris. Promise me you will, Ainsley.”

Ainsley bit her lip so she wouldn’t blurt out the word, Yes! She could take what he offered and wring every bit of enjoyment from it before it was over. He’d move on, but she’d have that brief time to remember.

Cameron stilled, reading refusal in her silence, and what she saw in his gaze nearly undid her. Loneliness, years upon years of it, locked away behind the façade of a libertine. Cameron’s rakehell reputation hid a man broken and numbed long ago, a man seeking physical pleasure because he knew he’d obtain nothing else from life.

An offer like this from any other man might have angered and insulted Ainsley, but her eyes welled with sudden tears as Cameron lifted himself away from her.

“Do up your frock,” he said curtly. “The scavengers will be along.”

Ainsley reached for the buttons. “Cameron, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. If you don’t want to, you don’t.”

To her surprise, she realized she’d hurt him. For her, the decision was whether or not to break her brother’s heart all over again, but Cameron must see only a woman not wanting to be with him.

She touched his sleeve. “My hesitation has nothing to do with you, Cam. Of not liking you, I mean. I like you very well, and I’m sorry that I constantly make you angry. Regardless of all this, I hope that we can continue as friends.”

“Friends?” With breathless suddenness, Ainsley found herself caged against the billiards table again. “I don’t want to be friends with you, Ainsley Douglas. I want to be your lover. I want to bury myself inside you, I want to find out whether you taste as good all the way down, I want to feel you squeezing me, and I want to hear your cries as you take me inside you.”

Oh, yes, that would be . . . yes, quite wonderful. I want to be your lover too, Cameron. I want it with everything I have.

“Being friends with you will never, ever satisfy me,” Cameron finished.

“Me either, quite frankly.”

“Then why the hell did you offer it?”

Ainsley gave a little shrug. “Better than nothing?”

Cameron growled. He hauled her into strong arms that would never let anything bad happen to her and crushed a brief, hard kiss to her lips.

“Ainsley, what am I going to do with you?”

“Let me borrow five hundred guineas?”

“The devil.” Cameron let her go. “I’ll give you the money, but if you go on insisting on drawing up a loan document, understand that I’ll have nothing more to do with it. Has Phyllida fetched the letters?”

“She’ll have them tomorrow, she says.”

Cameron only nodded. “Good. Then you take them from her and be done. If she tries to cheat you or asks for more money, tell me, and then Phyllida will deal with me.” His smile was vicious. “She doesn’t want to have to deal with me.”

The finality in his voice told Ainsley that Phyllida wouldn’t win that fight. “Thank you for your help, Cameron. I mean that.”

“And I mean it when I say I want you. I intend to finish what is between us. Whether you wish to make it a longer affair is up to you. Now, do up your frock.”

Ainsley started buttoning. The blasted man had been in such a hurry to unbutton her, but when it came time to tidy up, he turned away, finished. So like a male.

Her fingers brushed the diamonds as she buttoned. “What about the necklace?”

“Keep it. Sell it. Hell, I don’t care what you do with it. Just don’t give it to Mrs. Chase for those damnable letters.”

Cameron spoke carelessly, but Ainsley saw him preparing for the hurt of having Ainsley give him back the diamonds. Would he return them to the jeweler, or throw them into a drawer and wait to give them to the next lady on his list?

Fat chance. These diamonds are mine. Hard luck on those other ladies.

“I wouldn’t dream of letting Mrs. Chase get her bony hands on my necklace.” Ainsley threaded her fingers through the strand and lifted the diamonds to her lips. “Thank you, Cameron. I will treasure this.”

The next night, Ainsley, wearing a large white wig of an eighteenth-century lady, face hidden by a gold paper mask, squashed uncomfortably in a carriage between the cushioned wall and Phyllida Chase, who must be wearing half a bottle of perfume.

Ainsley had enjoyed fancy-dress balls in her youth, inventing costumes that won her praise from her amused family and friends. She’d been everything from a china doll to a dragon—for the dragon she’d worn a papier-mâché dragon’s head she’d made herself, and let her little brother Steven chase her around the house with a sword.

For this fancy dress party, Ainsley wanted anonymity. If anyone happened to witness the exchange of money for letters, Ainsley wanted no one to recognize her. Neither Isabella nor Beth would be attending, which made her task a bit easier. Lord Cameron wouldn’t be there either, as far as she knew, for which she breathed a sigh of relief.

She hadn’t seen anything of Cameron today, but that afternoon, Angelo had approached her in a deserted hall and quietly pressed money into her palm. Funny that most people didn’t trust the Roma, yet Cameron was perfectly sanguine to let one carry fifteen hundred guineas to Ainsley.

Fifteen hundred. Apparently, Phyllida had persuaded Cameron to give her that much. The annoying woman had been playing both sides up the middle.

However, the sum might keep Phyllida from reneging on the bargain, so Ainsley didn’t argue. She’d tried to explain to Angelo that the queen was providing the first five hundred, and so Cameron had to relinquish only a thousand, but Angelo had walked away, uninterested.

Morag, sworn to secrecy, had helped with Ainsley’s costume. They’d made panniers out of cushions that Morag strapped to Ainsley’s waist, which spread the flowing skirt Morag had found in the attics. The skirts were bright red—yards and yards of red velvet that swished as Ainsley walked. She felt a frisson of enjoyment wearing the costume, even if the brocade bodice was very tight and wig itched a bit.

Phyllida had insisted Ainsley ride to the party in her sumptuous carriage with a few English ladies and gentlemen Ainsley had seen at Hart’s house party but didn’t know. They’d blithely ignored Ainsley all week and didn’t seem to recognize her now.

Six of them crammed into the carriage, the woman with Phyllida dressed as a shepherdess, complete with long crook, and the three gentlemen opposite dressed as a cardinal, a sheik, and a Spanish matador. Phyllida had chosen the costume of an Egyptian princess—or what she must imagine an Egyptian princess to be—all shimmering silks and thick gold jewelry and a black wig. She radiated sensuality, and from what Ainsley could feel from being stuck against Phyllida’s side, Phyllida had left off her corset.

Phyllida and the shepherdess laughed and flirted with the gentlemen without compunction as they rolled along the country road. Innuendos about staffs and goads were tossed thickly about. One gentleman decided that he was a naughty sheep that needed to be chastised, and he and the other two gentlemen baa-ed the rest of the way to Rowlindson’s mansion. Ainsley was never happier to climb down from a carriage in her life.

When Phyllida descended, Ainsley pulled her aside. “Can we not make the exchange now?” The banknotes were heavy inside Ainsley’s corset, and the sooner she retrieved the letters, the better. Then she could go home, pull off the absurd wig, and turn her mind to other matters, like Lord Cameron’s most wicked offer.

“No, indeed, darling.” Phyllida laughed in real pleasure, more animated than Ainsley had ever seen her. “I’m here to enjoy myself. And you look divine. Come and meet our host.”

Phyllida’s fingers curled into Ainsley’s arm as she marched Ainsley up the long staircase in the open hall. Lord Rowlindson, an Englishman who, according to Isabella, had purchased his estate from an impoverished Highlander and remodeled it, waited at the top. He was tall and dark haired with brown eyes, an ordinary face, and a friendly smile. The guests seemed to like him, and even the shepherdess and her new flock behaved decorously when they greeted him.

“Mrs. Chase, how delightful.” Rowlindson pressed Phyllida’s hand and smiled with genuine warmth. “Thank you for gracing my humble establishment. And for bringing this lovely young lady with you.” He gave Ainsley a wide smile.

“Yes, she and I are great chums,” Phyllida said. “This is Mrs. . . . um . . .”

“Gisele,” Ainsley broke in and held out her hand. “Tonight, I am Gisele.” She tried to make her voice throaty, her accent French, but it came out scratchy and wrong.

“Bienvenue, Gisele.” Rowlindson took her hand, bowed, and pressed a light kiss to the back of it.

“Merci, monsieur.” Ainsley gave him a little curtsey. He was courteous at least, and his smile wasn’t lascivious. Just friendly with a twinkle of amusement.

Rowlindson turned to greet the next set of guests, and Ainsley followed Phyllida into the cathedral-like drawing room, complete with gothic arches and packed with people. Phyllida sashayed in, waving at female friends, cooing at male.

The guests talked in shrill voices, the noise grating on Ainsley’s ears. Perfume and body heat were dense. Phyllida slid through the crowd like an eel through water, leaving Ainsley with her wide panniers straggling behind.

Phyllida had said she wanted to make the exchange in the conservatory. That would be a peaceful room filled with potted plants and places to sit. Cool solitude. There Ainsley could wait quietly, far from innuendo about sheep. Heaven.

Ainsley turned to leave the drawing room, but more guests surged in from the hall, carrying Ainsley with them like the tide. She was buffeted about, and felt more than one hand on her bosom, before she erupted into a relatively empty corner by a window. The window was open, mercifully, and Ainsley dragged in breath after breath of damp but refreshing Scottish air.

Movement in a nearby embrasure caught her eye, and she saw a man and a woman entwined there. The woman’s costume plunged in a V almost to her navel, and the gentleman had his face in her bosom. The lady in turn firmly rubbed the man’s crotch.

Ainsley swung away, only to find the sheik from the carriage on a circular divan around a pillar, a lady on either side of him. The ladies’ hands roved under his bed sheet, and all three were giggling.

Oh, dear.

Ainsley understood now why Beth and Isabella hadn’t mentioned the party. Ainsley had thought them simply too busy with Hart’s do, but in truth, they were too respectable to be added to Lord Rowlindson’s guest list.

Some of the people here had come over from Hart’s house party, but most Ainsley didn’t recognize. Many ladies wore costumes like Phyllida’s: loose, uncorseted, scandalously low cut. Another lady had come in eighteenth- century dress, but her décolletage dove so far downward that the pink brown of her nipples showed.

Drat Phyllida. It was just like her to decide to make the exchange at an orgiastic gathering. If Ainsley made a fuss, perhaps refusing to pay her or trying to steal the letters, Phyllida could expose Ainsley to all and sundry. What a scandal. Mrs. Douglas, the prim little widow, one of the queen’s favorites, at an orgy.

“Cherie.” A man and a woman stopped in front of Ainsley, both of them looking her up and down. “Perhaps you’d like to walk with us?”

Ainsley’s face flamed. “No. That is, no, thank you. Excuse me.”

She lifted her too-long skirts and scurried past them. The conservatory. Now.

Ainsley wormed her way through the crowd, ignoring the evil looks of those she shoved with her panniers. She finally popped out of the drawing room to the relative calm of the upper hall, and tried to catch her breath as she made for the stairs.

Lord Rowlindson, shaking hands with new arrivals, saw her and sent her a smile. Was the smile now sinister? Ainsley couldn’t decide. Rowlindson still looked like a benevolent host, concerned only that his guests have a good time.

She thought it prudent not to ask Lord Rowlindson for directions to the conservatory, and started on the journey to find it herself. Conservatories, modern additions to older houses, would be on the ground floor, probably at the end of a wing. Ainsley clutched the cool iron balustrade and started pattering down the stairs.

A strong hand jerked her to a halt. She stifled a shriek as she was pulled around and found herself looking into the unmasked, enraged face of Lord Cameron Mackenzie.