Jennifer Ashley - The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

Steven didn’t like even bets. Not enough variables to be interesting, he insisted. That was because Steven wasn’t the one huddled 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.

Ainsley gazed up at Cameron, meeting his topaz gaze for the first time in six years. He looked at her fully, like a lion on a veldt eyeing a gazelle, and the gazelle in her wanted to run, run, run. The defiant tomboy from Miss Pringle’s Academy, however, now a lofty lady-in-waiting, stared boldly back at him.

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?”

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.