Silence stretched. Cameron’s large body blocked her from the room behind him, but he could so easily turn and reveal her. Cameron owed her nothing. He must know good and well that she was hiding in his bedchamber because of another intrigue. He could betray Ainsley, hand her to Phyllida, and think it served her right.
Behind Cameron, Phyllida said, “What is it, darling? I saw you jump.”
“Nothing,” Cameron said. “A mouse.”
“I can’t bear mice. Do kill it, Cam.”
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.”
“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 her Mackenzie lord anytime she pleased to enjoy his 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 down from the window seat.
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, his gravelly voice flowing over her. “What the devil are you doing in my bedchamber—this time?”
Chapter 2
SIx YEARS AGO
Well, this is damned pleasant.
Six years ago, almost to the day, Cameron Mackenzie had stood in the doorway of this very bedchamber and spied a beautiful stranger in the act of closing the drawer of his bedside table.
The lady had worn blue—a shimmering, deep blue gown that bared her shoulders, cupped her waist, and flared back over a modest bustle. Pink roses drooped through her hair and down the gown’s train. She’d removed her slippers—the better for stealth—revealing slender feet in white silk stockings.
She hadn’t heard him. Cameron leaned on the door frame, enjoying watching her so blithely going through his bedside table.
Drunk and bored, Cameron had left Hart’s interminable house party downstairs, unable to take another minute of it. Now warmth stirred through his ennui. He couldn’t remember who the young woman was—he knew he’d been introduced to her, but Hart’s guests had long since blurred into one dull mass of humanity.
This lady now separated from that mass, becoming more real to him by the second.
Cameron softly crossed the room, the numbness in which he existed when not with his horses or Daniel lifting away. He stepped behind the blue-clad lady and clasped her satiny waist.
It was like catching a kitten in his hands—a startled cry, a rapid heartbeat, breath coming fast. She looked back and up at him and tangled his heart in a pair of wide gray eyes.
“My lord. I was . . . um . . . I was just . . .”
“Looking for something,” he supplied. The roses in her hair were real, the scent of them deepened by her own warmth. A plain silver chain and locket adorned her neck.
“Pencil and paper,” she finished.
She was a bad liar. But she was soft and smelled good, and Cameron was drunk enough not to care that she lied. “So you could write me a letter?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Tell me what this letter would say.”
“I’m not certain.”
Her stammer was endearing. That she wanted a liaison was perfectly obvious. Cameron tightened his hand on her waist and pulled her back ever so gently against him. Her small bustle pressed his groin, the cage keeping him from what he wanted to feel.
When she looked up at him again, something snapped inside him. The scent of her mingling with roses, the feel of her in the curve of his arm, the tickle of her fair hair against his chin awoke emotions he’d thought long dead.
He needed this woman, wanted her. He could drown in her, make her sigh in pleasure, enjoy oblivion with her for a little while.
Cameron touched an openmouthed kiss to her shoulder, tasting her skin. Salt, sweet, a little bit of spice. Not enough—he wanted more.
Cameron didn’t often kiss women on the lips. Kissing led to expectations, to hopes for romance, and Cameron did not want romance with his ladies.
But he wanted to know what she tasted like, this young woman who pretended such innocence. A name swam to him—Mrs. . . . Douglas? Cameron vaguely remembered a husband standing next to her downstairs, a man clearly too old for her. She must have married him for convenience. The man probably hadn’t touched her in years.
Cameron would touch her and taste her and then send her back to her ineffectual husband sated and happy. At least one night of this be-damned house party wouldn’t be so tedious.
He tilted her head back and brushed his lips gently to her mouth. Mrs. Douglas started in surprise but didn’t push away. Cameron coaxed her lips open, deepening the kiss.
Pleasant fire spun through him when Mrs. Douglas dipped her tongue into his mouth, hesitant, but beautifully curious. His lady was unpracticed, as though she’d not kissed like this in a long time, but Cameron could tell she’d done it at least once. He cupped her head in his hand and let her explore.
Cameron broke the kiss to lick across her lips, finding the moisture between them honey sweet. He transferred his mouth to her throat while he undid the hooks on the back of her bodice. The silk easily parted, his hands pushing down the fabric so he could lean in and kiss her bosom. Mrs. Douglas’s soft sound of pleasure made his arousal jump, the need to hurry beating through his brain. But Cameron didn’t want to hurry. He wanted to go slowly, to savor every moment.
He let the bodice crumple to her waist, and with the ease of practice, slid his hand to the laces of her corset.
Ainsley thought she’d burn up and die. This was not what she’d meant to happen—she meant to be far from this chamber before Lord Cameron returned for the night. But now Lord Cameron coaxed to life sensations she thought she’d never feel again.
The necklace she’d taken from Cameron’s dressing table was safely buttoned into the pocket of her petticoat. She’d nearly tucked it into her bosom, but the emeralds were bulky, and she’d feared the outline would show against her bodice. Luckily for her she had changed her mind, or Cameron’s roving fingers would have already found it.
The necklace belonged to one Mrs. Jennings, a widowed friend of Ainsley’s brother. Mrs. Jennings had tearfully confided in Ainsley that she’d left her necklace in Cameron’s chamber, and now the very bad man would not let her have it back. He was blackmailing her over it, she claimed. Mrs. Jennings feared exposure, scandal. Ainsley, outraged at Cameron’s behavior, had offered to fetch it for her.
She understood now why Mrs. Jennings had fallen for Lord Cameron’s seduction. Cameron’s tall body dwarfed hers, his hands so large that Ainsley’s were lost in them. But instead of being frightened, Ainsley felt right in the curve of his arms, as though she’d been made to fit him.
Dangerous, dangerous thoughts.
Cameron pressed kisses to Ainsley’s neck. She touched his hair, marveling at the rough silk of it. His breath was furnace-hot, his mouth a place of fire, and Ainsley burned.
The corset’s laces parted, and Cameron glided his hand inside her chemise and down her back.
Reality hit Ainsley with a slap. Th
e notorious Cameron Mackenzie was parting her clothes with skilled, seductive hands, preparing to take her to bed. But Ainsley Douglas was not a courtesan or a wild-living lady free to make her own choices. She’d married respectably, thanks to her brother’s quick thinking, and her elderly husband waited for her in their chamber.
John would be sitting with his slippered feet stretched to the fire, had probably already dozed off over his newspapers. His tousled gray head would be slumped in sleep, his spectacles askew on his nose. So kind, so patient, was John Douglas, knowing that his young wife had more interesting things to do than be with him. Ainsley’s heart broke.
“I can’t.” The words dragged from her, everything she thought right forcing them out. “I can’t. My lord, I’m so sorry.”
Cameron stilled, mouth on her neck, hand on her bare back.
“My husband is a good man,” she whispered. “A very good man. He doesn’t deserve this.”
Damn it, something inside Cameron cried out. Damn it all to hell.
His entire body fought him as he lifted his hands away. Cameron knew women, knew when their bodies craved a man’s touch. Mrs. Douglas wanted what Cameron offered, that was apparent, despite the anguish swimming in her gray eyes. Cam smelled her readiness faintly behind the roses and knew that if he took her, he’d find her slick and open for him.
Her husband obviously hadn’t been satisfying her needs. Whether he wouldn’t or couldn’t didn’t matter; he wasn’t, or this lady would not be so ready to seek Cameron.
And yet, Mrs. Douglas was saying no for this husband’s sake. It took a rare courage to make such a decision, strength that most of Cam’s women didn’t have. Those women wanted satiation and weren’t much bothered by who they hurt to get it.
Cameron tugged Mrs. Douglas’s corset back together and laced it closed and then fastened her bodice. He turned her to face him again and traced her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“Go tell your good man how lucky he is, Mrs. Douglas.”
“I am truly sorry, my lord.”
Good lord, Cameron had tried to seduce her, and she was apologizing to him. Cameron had wanted pleasure, pure and simple, the mind-blanking fire of coupling. Nothing more. He’d assumed she sought that as well. Now she looked worried that she’d caused him inconvenience.
Cameron leaned and pressed another kiss to her parted lips, lingering until the last possible moment. “Go on, now.”
Mrs. Douglas nodded, smiling her gratitude. Gratitude, God help him.
Cameron walked her to the door and opened it, kissed her damp lips once more, and guided her out. When Mrs. Douglas turned around to say something, he shook his head and shut the door, turning the key in the lock.
He pressed his forehead to the door’s cool panels, listening to her patter away down the empty hall. “Good night, lass,” he whispered.
Cameron spent the rest of the night on his bed, fully dressed, downing glass after glass of whiskey. He wasted much time trying not to fantasize about pretty young Mrs. Douglas and where the seduction would have gone. He failed utterly.
The fantasies wrapped him in a glow of warmth well into the next day as Cameron watched Mrs. Douglas. Her husband was tall and bony, awkward with her, though he lingered near her as though he needed to be reassured by her constant presence. Mrs. Douglas was kind to him, Cameron noticed. She didn’t treat him with disdain. He also noticed the Mrs. Douglas studiously avoided any eye contact with Cameron.
What a wild affair Cameron could have with her—every night something new. He’d buy jewels to drape her naked body and scented oils to slide onto her skin. He’d be discreet, something Cameron rarely bothered with. He’d convince Mrs. Douglas that her husband would never be hurt by anything they did. They’d meet in secret, perhaps alone in Cameron’s carriage, while they explored and tasted and thoroughly learned each other. Their liaison would be glorious, stuff to think on for years to come.
The pleasant fantasy came crashing down the next night when Cameron stood on the terrace outside the ballroom, drinking whiskey with his brother Mac. One of Cameron’s former paramours, Felicia Hardcastle, of lovely body but foul temper, stormed out to the terrace and halted in front of Cameron. “You gave her my necklace!”
Necklace? What necklace? People inside the ballroom stared, and Mac watched in mixed astonishment and amusement.
“What the devil are you talking about?” Cameron demanded.
Felicia pointed a stiff finger through the terrace door to Mrs. Jennings, another former mistress. The lady in question stood in the middle of the ballroom in a low-necked evening dress that showed off the emeralds encircling her neck. Emeralds Cameron had purchased for Felicia, which Felicia had carelessly left in his chamber at the beginning of the week. Cameron had locked them into the drawer of his bedside table, planning to have his valet, Angelo, retrieve them and return them to Felicia’s maid.
Now the emeralds hung around the neck of Mrs. Jennings, who turned to greet Ainsley Douglas and take her hand with a fond squeeze. Mrs. Douglas, the lady Cameron had found hovering near his bedside table last night.
Bloody hell.
Felicia swept back inside to screech accusations at Mrs. Jennings and Ainsley. Cameron watched Ainsley’s pretty mouth drop open and her gaze move across the room to lock on Cameron’s.
Her expression spoke of confusion, shock, betrayal. Genuine? Or more trickery?
It didn’t matter. Mrs. Douglas had lied to him, used him, duped him with her tearful reluctance to betray her husband—all to steal a stupid necklace for some ridiculous feminine intrigue. And Cameron, fool that he was, had fallen for the little deception.
He entered the ballroom and moved through the crowd, striving to ignore Felicia, Mrs. Jennings, and the gawping crowd. Ainsley Douglas thrust herself into Cameron’s path, and he nearly ran over her.
Her gray eyes pleaded with him to understand, forgive. The smell of the roses on her bosom came to him, and the sweet scent of herself, and Cameron realized he still wanted her.
He made himself look down at her in stony indifference, hardening his heart to the tears beading on her lashes. He turned away and continued through the crowd until he reached the ballroom door, then left the house and made his way to the stables.
The warm, horsy odors had comforted him a little, but Cameron told Angelo that he was leaving, mounted a horse, and departed. He boarded a train for London that night and left for the Continent the next morning.
Six years between that day and this rushed past Cameron. He’d returned tonight to his chamber in the midst of another boring house party, again drunk, to find pretty Ainsley Douglas here once more.
Something sharp and raw burned away his half inebriation. Cameron tossed up the key and caught it, the little ringing sound loud in the silence.
“Well?” he asked. “Have ye thought of an explanation yet?”
Chapter 3
Ainsley Douglas wet her lips, making them moist and red and enticing. “Oh yes,” she said. “Dozens of them. I’m trying to decide which one you will believe.”
She stood against the door in a gray evening frock that bared half her chest, the same silver necklace she’d worn six years ago glittering on her bosom. Her ballroom coiffure was a mess, the back of her gown crushed. So innocent she looked, watching him with wide eyes, but Cameron knew better than to believe in Ainsley Douglas’s innocence.
“I’ll make a bargain with you, lass,” he said. “You tell me the truth, and I’ll unlock the door and let you out.”
Ainsley stared at him with those heart-wrenching gray eyes a moment longer, then she turned back to the door, yanked a hairpin from her hair, and dropped to her knees to examine the lock.
Cameron’s heart pounded and his blood felt thick. He hadn’t refastened his shirt or waistcoat, and they hung open to his waist, but the air didn’t cool him. His skin was hot, and his mouth was dry as a tomb. He needed another drink. A large one.
Ainsley’s position pushed her
backside at him, showing Cameron a bustle and train covered with gray ruffles and small black bows. One of her curls straggled down her bare back. Her hair was a little darker than Cameron remembered, woven with golden streaks. Blond hair could darken as a person got older—she’d be all of, say, twenty-seven now.
Her elderly husband was dead, and Ainsley Douglas, according to Isabella, shuttled between being a paid lady- in-waiting to Her Dour Majesty and living with her older brother and his very respectable wife. No longer the ingénue, Mrs. Douglas was a lady whose lot in life had become waiting on others for her living.
Poor little dove.
Cameron swung himself onto the bed, putting his back against the headboard, and reached to his bedside table for a cigar. “That lock is ancient,” he said to the bare oval of her back. “Good luck with it.”
“Not to worry,” she said, scratching away at it. “I’ve not yet met a lock I couldn’t open.”
Cameron lit the cheroot, the smell of the sulfur match and cigar smoke curling inside his nostrils. “Aye, you’re quite the criminal, aren’t you? Last time you broke in here to steal a necklace. What are you here for this time? Blackmail?”
Ainsley glanced swiftly back at him, face pink. “Blackmail?”
“I wouldn’t advise you to blackmail Phyllida Chase, dove. She’d eat you for breakfast.”
Ainsley gave him a quick, scornful look and returned to the door. “Me, blackmail Mrs. Chase? Hardly. And I explained to Isabella about that necklace. I truly thought it belonged to Mrs. Jennings.”
Cameron threw the spent match into a bowl. “I’m past caring about the damned necklace. It was a long time ago, and bloody intrigues of bloody-minded women hold no interest for me.”