The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

by Jennifer Ashley

  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.

  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 Camero
n 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 conservatory.”

  “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.