The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

Chapter 5

This could not be happening to her. Lord Cameron Mackenzie could not be standing in front of Ainsley, asking her to unfasten her bodice for him. Here in the woods, steps away from the crème de la crème of Europe playing croquet on the Duke of Kilmorgan’s front lawn.

“How many?” Cameron repeated.

All of them. Ainsley wanted to tear open the placket and sink down into the mud and let the brand-new dress be ruined.

“Three,” she croaked.

Something wicked gleamed in his eyes. “Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?” The blackberry buttons were close together, but fifteen would bare her to the middle of her corset. “Four.”

“Twelve.”

“Five,” Ainsley countered. “That is as much as you can expect, and I’ll have to do them up again before we return to the game.”

“I don’t give a tinker’s damn what you do before you return to the game. Ten.”

“Six. No more.”

“Ten.”

“Lord Cameron.”

“Ten, bloody stubborn female.” He leaned closer, breath touching her skin. “I’ll ask politely until I get tired of asking, and then I’ll rip off those pretty buttons myself.”

Her world sharpened. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

Ainsley wet her lips. Her pleas of propriety were false, and he knew it. “Ten then.”

“Done.”

She had to be mad. She could not stand here and let Lord Cameron unbutton her frock. Once upon a time, she’d let him half undress her, and she’d barely gotten away with her sanity intact.

Untrue. She’d lost her sanity that night and never regained it.

Ainsley watched, one heartbeat at a time, as Cameron tugged off his gloves and reached for her top button.

His smile held triumph as the button slid through the hole. The fabric sprang back, as brazen as Ainsley felt. Cameron brushed the tiny bit of flesh he’d bared, licking heat all the way down her body. She would die before he reached ten.

Buttons two and three. Cameron touched her after he opened each one, as though learning her as she came undone for him.

Ainsley closed her eyes as he unfastened buttons four and five. He brushed the hollow of her throat, his touch like fire, before moving down to button six.

A skilled seducer, she told herself at buttons seven and eight. He was a man who knew how to make women yearn to give him what he wanted. Ainsley, for all her seeming recklessness, had learned to be cautious—everything done for a reason, every risk calculated against its reward. But with Cameron, the old reckless Ainsley reared up, wanting him to undo her bodice down to her waist and take what he pleased.

She almost begged him to at button nine.

At button ten, Ainsley opened her eyes.

“Done,” Cameron said softly, and he pulled open the placket.

Ainsley’s breasts swelled over the top of her corset. Ladies were supposed to be slender, hence the cage of the corset, but Ainsley always seemed to overfill her stays.

Cameron pushed the placket out of the way, his hand going almost reverently to her skin.

“Ainsley,” he said in his raw voice. “Do you know how beautiful you are?”

When he touched her, when his voice flowed over her, she felt beautiful. “You are kind to say so.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with kindness.” He sounded irritated. Cameron slid his thumb over her breast then leaned and kissed her there.

Even him lying fully on top of her hadn’t burned her as his lips did now. Ainsley’s feminine places grew hot as he kissed her flesh, slow kisses, taking his time. His lips were warm, practiced, the rough warmth of his hair brushing her chin. She wanted to pull him to her, to cradle him against her as he laid her down in the sticky mud, even with the tap of croquet balls not far away.

Cameron kissed the top of her cleavage, his unshaved whiskers a pleasant burn. Then he straightened up, stepped away, and slid a folded paper down between her breasts.

Ainsley’s eyes widened, and she clapped her hand over her corset. “What—”

“I believe that is yours, Mrs. Douglas.”

Ainsley snatched out the letter, unfolded it, and saw the even strokes of the queen’s handwriting, words to her horseman, John Brown.

“I decided I didn’t have any interest in your letters,” Cameron said. “Or your be-damned intrigues.”

Ainsley stared, openmouthed, then she crumpled the page and thrust it into her jacket pocket. “Thank you,” she said, heartfelt. “I can’t explain, but thank you.”

“You’re still unbuttoned.”

Ainsley looked down at her gaping placket, her breasts welling over the plain corset.

Cameron’s wicked smile returned. “I don’t mind. But if another ball comes rolling out here, you might be embarrassed.”

Ainsley stripped off her gloves and started buttoning with shaking fingers. It took what seemed forever, while Cameron did nothing but watch, but at last Ainsley closed the top button. She snatched up the mallet she’d dropped, but when she turned to go, she found Cameron still barring her way.

“We have unfinished business, Mrs. Douglas.”

“Do we? What business would that be?”

Cameron touched the handle of his mallet to her chin. “The business you began when you came to my room six years ago.”

“I told you, that was a mistake. I thought you were withholding the emerald necklace from Mrs. Jennings.”

“Forget about the damned necklace. I mean what you started with me that night. You half seduced me to keep me finding out what you were up to, then wriggled out of it with your pleas about your good husband.” His eyes were hard, glints of angry gold.

“I’d not planned any of that. I expected to be finished and gone before you returned. Besides, you were perfectly willing to seduce me, even though you knew I was married.”

“I’m used to women seeking me as refuge from their dull husbands.”

“Like Phyllida Chase?” Ainsley heard the bitterness in her voice but couldn’t mask it.

“Exactly like Phyllida Chase. Her husband ignores her and blatantly philanders, so she turns elsewhere for entertainment. Why not? Other women are much the same.”

“You despise them,” Ainsley said in surprise.

“What?”

“You despise these ladies who cuckold their husbands. And yet you seduce them. Why do you want to be with women you despise?”

Cameron’s brows shot down, but the look he gave her struck her to the heart. “Men enjoy pleasure, Mrs. Douglas. We want it, we crave it; we think of little else. Even men who pretend to be prim and pious are driven by it. The beast lies very close to the surface. If a lady cuckolds her husband to provide me that pleasure, so be it, but I refuse to admire her for it.”

“It sounds so lonely,” Ainsley said softly.

“I’m rarely alone.”

“I know,” she said. “That makes it worse.”

Cameron’s gaze focused hard on her. Again the shutters between him and the world fell, and again Ainsley saw the lonely depths of him. For a split second only. Then the shutters were restored, his scowl back in place.

“You’ve misbuttoned yourself.”

Ainsley looked down at her placket. “Blast.”

Cameron leaned to her. “Unfinished business, Mrs. Douglas. Before you leave at the end of the week, we will finish it. Depend on that.”

He jerked her up to him in a sudden movement and caught her lower lip between his teeth. Before Ainsley could gasp or pull away, he let her go, shouldered his mallet, and strode off, back through the curtain of trees.

He moved like a god in charge of his world, used to leaving panting females behind him. Ainsley’s lip throbbed from Cameron’s bite as she tried to grasp buttons with her shaking fingers, and she still felt his grip on the back of her neck. Lord Cameron was strong and dangerous, and she should be frightened of him. But the reckless Ainsley only mourned that he’d walked away too soon.

Something rustled in the brush, followed by a bleating voice. “Signora? Can you find not your ball?”

“Yes, yes, I have it!”

Ainsley jerked her placket together and swiftly buttoned it, then snatched up her muddy ball. She burst out of the brush to the waiting count and found that Cameron Mackenzie was no longer in sight.

“Dad!”

Under the fireworks in the dark gardens, Cameron’s thoughts jerked from the memory of Ainsley’s firm breasts under his lips when he’d unbuttoned her in the woods. Her pulse had been beating as fast as a rabbit’s—would it beat as quickly in passion?

“Dad!”

Daniel Mackenzie planted himself in front of Cameron. The lad’s kilt sagged from his hips, and his shirt was stained and jacket askew as though he’d been running through the woods. Probably he had been.

Daniel had inherited Elizabeth’s eyes, a deep, rich brown, with only a hint of the Mackenzie gold. Likewise, his hair was very dark with mere highlights of red. Elizabeth had been a beautiful woman, and Daniel reflected this in the sturdy structure of his face, the straight, clear lines that age would never erase.

His eyes now held a mixture of rage and uncertainty. “Did ye forget?”

“Of course I didn’t forget.” Cameron dug through his brain trying desperately to remember what the devil he was supposed to remember. “Your aunt Isabella tethered me all morning.”

“Yes, I know, the croquet. But I wanted to talk to you.”

No one had explained to Cameron when he was twenty years old and proud as hell that he’d managed to get his wife with child, how difficult it would be to raise a son. Nannies and tutors and schools were supposed to do that, weren’t they?

But sons needed so much more than food, clothing, and tutoring. They expected fathers to know things, to teach them about life, to be there when needed. Cameron’s own father had set no good example, so most of the time Cameron found himself floundering in deep waters, searching for his footing.

It had been damn hard going, and Cameron knew that he’d never, ever done enough. He thanked God for his brothers, as unruly as they were, for helping take Daniel under their collective wing. Between the four of them, and then Isabella and Beth, they’d somehow managed to bring Daniel up.

“I’m here now,” Cameron said.

Daniel heaved an aggrieved sigh, tall enough to look his father directly in the eyes. “What I wanted to ask was—how old ye were when ye first took a mistress?”

Cameron felt the floundering start, but Daniel was perfectly serious. The lad’s face was full of curiosity and something anxious as he waited for Cameron’s answer.

“Why do you want to know?” Cameron had been fifteen, the lady in question, eighteen, knowing that a rich man’s son eager for his first encounter would probably pay well. Cameron had had enthusiasm but no finesse, and he’d been under no illusion as to why a sophisticated courtesan had put up with him.

“Why’d ya think? I’m sixteen, and it’s high time I had me own. You and Uncle Hart, not to mention Uncle Mac, had mistresses when you were still in school. Even Uncle Ian had one. The reputation of the Mackenzie family is no secret. I should know. I live with th’ bloody lot of ye.”

Bloody hell. Cameron’s own father’s advice on the matter of women had been: Keep your cock happy with tarts, take a lady to breed heirs, and don’t mix the two of them. Women should be sauce, not the meal, or they’ll make your life hell. Not what Cameron wanted to tell his son.

“A tart who takes up with a lad as young as you only wants your money,” he said carefully. “It’s no slight on you, Danny. It’s the only way they know how to live.”

“I don’t mean a courtesan, Dad. I mean a real lady.”

Cameron held on to his patience. “A real lady, as you call her, will expect marriage. If you want someone to bed, stick with tarts, but understand why they’re with you. Then you’ll both know where you stand.”

“Oh, very wise, Father. You married before you were even out of Cambridge. And Mother was older than you too.”

The scar on Cameron’s left cheek tingled. He rubbed it. “And it was a bloody nightmare. Remember that.”

“Aye, I know you hated me mum.”

“I did not hate your mum . . .” Elizabeth had been crazy, violent, and insatiable, but had it been hatred that Cameron had felt? Or rage, sorrow, disgust?

“I have one all picked out,” Daniel was saying. “And she’s not a tart.”

Cameron prayed for strength. “Who? A daughter of Hart’s guests? Please, Danny, tell me you haven’t already seduced her.” Hart would be in a black fury over that and put the blame squarely on Cameron.

“No, Dad. It’s Aunt Isabella’s friend, Mrs. Douglas.”

Cameron choked, coughed, searched desperately for breath. “What? No!”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s too bloody old for ye, that’s why not!” Guests turned, interest caught even through the fireworks. Cameron tried to lower his voice. “She’s not for you, Daniel.”

“Aunt Isabella says she is twenty-seven,” Daniel said. “I hear her widow’s portion was nothing, so I’d think she’d be grateful for a rich lad, don’t you think?”

Cameron glanced to where Ainsley stood not far from them with Mrs. Yardley, Ainsley again in gray. At least she wasn’t buttoned up to her chin this time. Now that the sun was down, the Scottish September night growing cold, she wore short sleeves and a bodice scooped halfway down her breasts. To fight off certain pneumonia, Ainsley had topped her ensemble with a thin, lacy shawl that was more holes than fabric.

Cameron’s thoughts slid back, as they had done all day, to Ainsley in the woods, her skin flushing as he undid the tenth button of her bodice. He’d pulled open the placket, and hadn’t the package inside been sweet?

Beautiful Ainsley spilling over her corset, breasts full and lush. He’d wanted to lick all the way down her cleavage, unlace the corset to bare her nipples, catch a velvet areola in his teeth. He’d been too damn hard to return to the game—he’d had to walk around in the mud a long time before making his way back to Mrs. Yardley to finish the match with her. It must have been the longest bloody game of croquet in the history of the world.

“She’s not for you, lad,” Cameron repeated with difficulty. “You leave her be.”

“Why? Are ye interested in her yourself?”

Hell, yes. “She’s not my sort of woman, Danny.”

Daniel clenched large-boned hands he was still growing into. “I know that. That’s why I like her. Because she’s nothing like your women, nothing at all. So she’ll be safe from the likes of you.” He snarled the last word, turned, and loped off into the darkness.

“Daniel . . .”

Daniel didn’t stop or turn back, disappearing at a run, off to who knew where.

Being a father was absolute hell. Cameron swung around again and found his view blocked by his youngest brother, Ian.

Cam was a little surprised to see that Ian had come outside—Ian hated crowds, was unnerved out of all proportion to them. However, it was dark, most of the guests avoided him anyway, and his wife, Beth, stood not many feet from him.

Ian was an inch or so shorter than Cameron, but just as broad of shoulder. His stance held a new strength, much of which was due to the young woman standing behind him chatting to one of the guests.

“Ian, what the devil was I supposed to remember to do with Daniel this afternoon?” Cameron asked him.

Ian glanced to where Daniel had gone. Ian would never give Cam placating phrases that others might—He admires you, Cameron; he’s just trying to please you. Ian took things as they were and understood the truth. He knew that Daniel’s frustration with Cameron was about equal to Cameron’s frustration with Daniel.

“Ride the bounds with him,” Ian said.

“Damn it.” Daniel loved to ride the perimeter of Mackenzie lands, which led through deep woods to craggy gorges. Cameron was usually too busy with his horses, but he’d assured Daniel they’d do it today. “Take some advice, Ian. Don’t look to me as a model for fatherhood. Watch what I do and then do the exact opposite.”

Cameron realized he’d lost his literal-minded little brother. Ian had glanced away to watch Beth’s face be lit by the bursting fireworks.

“Ian, do you remember what was in that letter I showed you this morning?” Cameron asked.

Without looking away from Beth, Ian started rattling off the sentences, repeating the flowery phrases in a rapid monotone.

Cameron raised his hand. “Fine. That’s enough. Thank you.”

Ian stopped as though a tap had been closed. Cameron knew that Ian had paid little attention to what the letter actually said but could repeat the words in their precise order. Would be able to for years.

“The question is, did Mrs. Douglas write it?” Cameron asked, half to himself.

“I don’t know.”

“I know you don’t. I was pondering out loud.”

Ian looked him up and down. “Mrs. Douglas writes letters to Isabella.” Having delivered his declaration, Ian returned his gaze to Beth.

“Yes, they’re old friends, but this has nothing to do with—” Cameron broke off. “Ah, I see. Sorry, Ian, I didn’t understand.”

Ian didn’t answer. Cameron squeezed Ian’s shoulder, but briefly, knowing his youngest brother didn’t like to be touched by anyone but Beth. Or Isabella. Only beautiful women for Ian Mackenzie, damn him.

“Ian, do you know why everyone thinks you mad?”

Ian glanced at Cameron, not really caring, but he’d learned to look at people when they spoke to him.

Cameron continued. “Because you give us the answer, but you leave out all the steps we lesser mortals need to reach it. You mean that I should ask Isabella to show me one of Mrs. Douglas’s letters and compare the handwriting.”

Still Ian didn’t respond. As though he’d forgotten they’d been speaking at all, he turned away again, pulled back to Beth, the anchor of his world. Ian wasn’t watching the fireworks, Cameron saw; Ian watched his wife watching them, understanding their beauty through the conduit of Beth.

Cameron let him go. Another firework exploded, the heat touching Cameron’s face.

In the light of that firework, Cameron saw Ainsley Douglas slip away from Mrs. Yardley and walk steadily down a path toward the main garden, into darkness. As the guests applauded the display, Cameron turned and followed her into the night.