The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
Page 2
When she summoned the nerve to peek back through the drape, Phyllida’s bodice was open, revealing a pretty corset over plump curves. Lord Cameron bent to kiss the bosom that welled over the corset cover, and Phyllida groaned in pleasure.
The vision came to Ainsley of Lord Cameron pressing his lips to her bosom. She remembered his breath burning her skin, his hands on her back. And his kiss. A deep, warm kiss that had awakened every single desire Ainsley had ever had. She remembered the exact pressure of the kiss, the shape and taste of his mouth, the rough of his fingertips on her skin.
She also remembered the icicle in her heart when he’d looked at her and through her the next day. Her own fault. Ainsley had been young and allowed herself to be duped, and she’d compounded the problem by insulting him.
Phyllida’s hand was under Cameron’s kilt now. He moved to let her play, and the plaid inched upward. Cameron’s strong thighs came into view, and Ainsley saw with shock that scars marked him from the back of his knees to the curve of his bu**ocks.
They were deep, knotted gashes, old wounds that had long since closed. Good heavens, Ainsley hadn’t seen that. She couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips.
Phyllida raised her head. “Darling, did you hear something?”
“No.” Cameron had a deep voice, the one word gravelly.
“I’m certain I heard a noise. Would you be a love and check that window?”
Ainsley froze.
“Damn the window. It’s probably one of the dogs.”
“Darling, please.” Her pouting tone was done to perfection. Cameron growled something, and then Ainsley heard his heavy tread.
Her heart pounded. There were two windows in the bedchamber, one on either side of his bed. The odds were two-to-one that Lord Cameron would go to the other window. Even bet, Ainsley’s youngest brother, Steven, would say. Either Cameron would jerk back the curtain and reveal Ainsley sitting there, or he would not.
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?”
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.
The vision came to Ainsley of Lord Cameron pressing his lips to her bosom. She remembered his breath burning her skin, his hands on her back. And his kiss. A deep, warm kiss that had awakened every single desire Ainsley had ever had. She remembered the exact pressure of the kiss, the shape and taste of his mouth, the rough of his fingertips on her skin.
She also remembered the icicle in her heart when he’d looked at her and through her the next day. Her own fault. Ainsley had been young and allowed herself to be duped, and she’d compounded the problem by insulting him.
Phyllida’s hand was under Cameron’s kilt now. He moved to let her play, and the plaid inched upward. Cameron’s strong thighs came into view, and Ainsley saw with shock that scars marked him from the back of his knees to the curve of his bu**ocks.
They were deep, knotted gashes, old wounds that had long since closed. Good heavens, Ainsley hadn’t seen that. She couldn’t stop the gasp that escaped her lips.
Phyllida raised her head. “Darling, did you hear something?”
“No.” Cameron had a deep voice, the one word gravelly.
“I’m certain I heard a noise. Would you be a love and check that window?”
Ainsley froze.
“Damn the window. It’s probably one of the dogs.”
“Darling, please.” Her pouting tone was done to perfection. Cameron growled something, and then Ainsley heard his heavy tread.
Her heart pounded. There were two windows in the bedchamber, one on either side of his bed. The odds were two-to-one that Lord Cameron would go to the other window. Even bet, Ainsley’s youngest brother, Steven, would say. Either Cameron would jerk back the curtain and reveal Ainsley sitting there, or he would not.
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?”
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.
