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.
Chapter 12
“Bloody hell, Phyllida told ye to meet her here?”
When Angelo had reported that Phyllida had taken Ainsley to Rowlindson’s, Cameron’s rage could have burned down the house. Rowlindson, a fellow collector of erotica, had perversions that would fill volumes. The man enjoyed gathering the most scandalous people in the country to his house, mixing them with courtesans both male and female, and standing back to watch what happened.
Watch was the key word, because Rowlindson lived to observe the act, especially when it involved three or more people. He also liked to take photographs. It was quite a hobby for him, and he had a large collection of photos, which he was always offering to show Cameron.
The fact that Phyllida Chase had dared bring Ainsley here made him sick. She’d done it to take revenge on Cameron—not for Cameron breaking off his affair with Phyllida, but for Cam siding with Ainsley about the letters. Phyllida might have promised Rowlindson access to Ainsley in return for letting Phyllida bring her.
If Rowlindson touched Ainsley, or more likely, let her be touched by others while he photographed the event, Cameron would kill him. Cameron might kill Rowlindson for even contemplating the matter.
Ainsley looked more or less intact as she gaped up at him, delectable in her frowzy wig and mask. She’d disguised herself well, but Cameron would have known those gray eyes anywhere.
Cameron pulled her the rest of the way down the stairs, along a hallway, and into an anteroom. Thankfully the little jewel box of a chamber was empty. Cam closed the door and locked it behind him.
“What are you doing?” Ainsley jabbered. “I need to meet Phyllida in the conserva
tory.”
“Dear God, Ainsley, what the devil possessed ye to meet her here?”
He was so angry, his eyes so fierce. In the billiards room at Kilmorgan, Cameron had looked at her with such longing, and now his rage was strong, all sensuality forgotten.
“I didn’t know it would be this sort of fancy-dress party, did I?” Ainsley said. “I never knew people truly did this sort of thing.”
“They do. Rowlindson’s masquerades are famous.”
“Well, they’re not famous in my corner of the world. I wondered why Phyllida wanted to meet here, but I assumed she worried that I wouldn’t pay her if she didn’t take me somewhere by ourselves. She is a treacherous snake.”
“Which is why you’re going back home.”
“Not until I get those letters. Besides, it’s not my home. It’s yours. I don’t have a home.”
The last words came out more pathetically than Ainsley had intended. She heard the ring of sorrow and tried to mask it, but too late.
She turned from Cameron, wide skirts nearly knocking over a delicate little table with a gilt clock on top. Rowlindson had some fine pieces and good taste, incongruous with his friends and entertainment.
Cameron’s arms slid around her before she’d gone two steps. No bustle kept him at a distance tonight; his warm kilt pressed her backside through her skirts.
“You’re always welcome in my home, Ainsley.”
He’d melt her. She couldn’t meet Phyllida and get the letters if she were a puddle on the floor.
Cameron pulled back a curl of the wig and kissed her neck. “I have a house in Berkshire where I train the horses in the spring. I want to show it to you.”
“Sounds lovely.”
“Muddy and cold. Flat. Full of sheep.”
“Gracious, I’ve had enough of sheep tonight.”
“What?”
“Never mind,” Ainsley said. “I’m sure your horses love it.”
“They do.”
Cameron continued kissing her skin, seducing her into compliance, the wretch. She turned, her panniers pressing him away. “I’d love to see it.”
Ainsley had no idea when she’d ever have the chance, but she wanted to learn about every part of Cameron’s life. He spent winters on the Continent, Isabella had told her—Paris, Rome, Monaco—before rejoining his trainers in Berkshire as soon as the coldest part of winter had finished. In Berkshire Cameron spent all his waking hours with his horses, readying them for the start of the flat racing season in Newmarket.
It sounded fine to Ainsley, a routine of his own making, a life with a purpose. So why, when she looked at him, did she see longing, an emptiness unfulfilled?
Cameron’s eyes darkened as he cupped her face. “I want you,” he whispered. “Ainsley, damn you, I want you so much.”
“I want you too, truth to tell.”
The look in his eyes was one of desperation, and Ainsley hurt with longing. But the little clock on the table was marching on to the appointed hour.
“There is no time,” she whispered. Would there ever be?
Cameron sat down on one of the tiny chairs and lifted Ainsley to his lap. The stupid wig got in his way, but he pushed it aside and kissed her.
She tasted so damned good. She arched up to him willingly, her need as hot as his own. Her bodice was nicely low, allowing Cameron to cup the bosom that overflowed her corset.
He wanted her unfettered. He wanted to close his mouth over her breast, to taste and suckle her. Cameron had wanted that, he realized, for more than six years, and not only because she’d confounded him that long-ago night. He wanted her, Ainsley, the beautiful, brave woman.
He’d have this damned costume open before the night was over and finally learn the taste of her. Cameron slid a hand to her hip, finding whatever padding she’d used to plump out the skirt.
“I want this off.”
“It will be a great relief to me too,” Ainsley said as she kissed him.
“It will come off. All of it. I want you bare for me, Ainsley.”
She gave him a little smile. “And I want to see what you wear under your kilt.” Ainsley wriggled her hips, which stroked his cock.
“Little devil.”
“I’m not an innocent debutante. I’ve heard much about Mackenzies and their kilts.”
“I like you not being an innocent debutante.” He kissed her lips again. “I’m going to thoroughly debauch you.”
“Oh, heavens.” She smiled and tapped her fist to his chest. “Oh no, you wicked thing, you mustn’t.”
Cameron nipped her mouth. “Vixen.” A man could fall in love with you.
That troubling thought was broken by the chime of the little gilt clock next to them. Cameron wanted to throw it across the room.
Ainsley struggled up, her smile gone. “I have to go.”
Cameron deserted the chair and pressed her back into it. “You will stay in this room. I’ll make the exchange.”
Ainsley popped off the chair. “Don’t be daft. It has to be me. Phyllida’s instructions were very clear. ‘Only you, Mrs. Douglas, not Lord Cameron,’ she said.”
Cameron sat her back down again. “I’ll get those damned letters, every single page of them. You’re right that Phyllida Chase is a viper. She’ll try to cheat you. She doesn’t trust me, but she knows she can’t cheat me.”
He saw thoughts dancing through her gray eyes, Ainsley calculating the risks. “We should go together,” she said.
“I’m not letting you out of this room, not at one of Rowlindson’s blasted soirees. He’s a bad man, Ainsley.”
Ainsley slanted him a smile that made his blood hot. “But that’s what everyone says about you, Lord Cameron.”
Cameron smiled right back at her. “I am a bad man, very bad, but in a different way. I want to ravish you until we’re both senseless with it, and then I want to do it all over again.”
She flushed at his candor, but she didn’t flutter and faint. Not Ainsley.
“I know you’re right about Phyllida, but the letters . . .” She looked unhappy. “You must promise me you won’t look at them but bring them straight back to me.”
“I have no interest in the letters.” Cameron leaned over her, stroking his gaze to the shadow between her breasts. “Is that where you’re hiding the money?”
Ainsley reached deep into the corset and dragged out the wad of banknotes. “That’s all of it.”
Cameron took the notes, warm from her body, lucky things. “I didn’t expect they would get lost down there.” He pressed a brief kiss to her mouth and straightened up. “Stay here. I’ll return with the letters, and we’ll go home in my carriage.”
Ainsley nodded again. She looked delectable, edible even, in that oversized wig, her gray eyes sultry through the mask. She looked like the best of harlots, half innocent, half seductive, the sort of woman in high demand in upper- class brothels.
The sort of woman Rowlindson best liked to photograph being pawed over by one or two brutes of males. Ainsley might declare she wasn’t an innocent, but she had no idea about the things Rowlindson and his friends could get up to.
The beast in Cameron awoke, the violent, dangerous thing Cameron tried with alcohol, women, and horseracing to keep at bay. But tonight the beast found a place to direct its anger, and Cameron smiled. He’d had seen the look in Rowlindson’s eyes when the man had watched Ainsley descend the stairs. Cameron could enjoy himself breaking Rowlindson’s neck, and maybe Phyllida’s. After Cameron retrieved the blasted letters.
“Wait.” Ainsley bounced out of the chair. She jerked Cameron’s handkerchief from his pocket and started dabbing at his lips. “You have lip color on your face.”
Cameron gave her a hot smile. “I want to see it all over my body.”
Ainsley blushed. Beautiful, beautiful Ainsley.
Cameron kissed her again then took the handkerchief and wiped the rest of the scarlet paint from his mouth as he made himself turn from her and leave the room.
&
nbsp; When the door clicked shut, Ainsley blew out her breath and collapsed back into the fragile chair.
Any other woman watching a gentleman who interested her going off to meet his former lover might be apprehensive, but Ainsley felt only relief. If anyone could make certain Phyllida handed over the letters, it would be Cameron Mackenzie. He wasn’t a subtle man—he’d get the letters whether Phyllida wanted to give them up or not.
Ainsley was warm all over, warmer than she’d been in a long while. And excited and worried and just a little bit scared about what she intended to do.
Even before Cameron had started kissing her in this little room, Ainsley had decided she’d allow herself one night with him before she returned to Balmoral. One glorious night of being Lord Cameron Mackenzie’s lover, and then she’d retreat and become plain Ainsley Douglas again, dutiful sister and reliable confidante of the queen.
She was older and wiser and far more knowledgeable than when she’d been fresh out of finishing school, she reasoned. She’d go into the liaison, as Phyllida had said she had, with eyes wide open. Ainsley would be cautious but, for one night, she’d be happy in Cameron’s arms, and treasure the romance of it for the rest of her life.
First, she had to wait for Cameron to return the with letters. Ainsley sweated as the clock wound to one fifteen—marked with a little chime—then on to one twenty. At one thirty, she gave up and jumped from the chair, but before she could start for the door, it opened to admit Lord Rowlindson.
He’s a bad man, Ainsley, Cameron had said with quiet certainty. What did it say about a gentleman when someone like Cameron, black sheep of the notorious Mackenzie family, derided him?
Lord Rowlindson didn’t look very dangerous at the moment. He stood with his hand on the door handle and sent Ainsley a look of concern. “Gisele, is it? Is everything all right?”
Ainsley plopped down in the chair again, fanning her face with her hand. “The crowd was rather overwhelming. I decided it a good idea to sit quietly.”
The Many Sins of Lord Cameron hp-3 Page 12
