The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
Page 3
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. The 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.
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. The 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.
