The Many Sins of Lord Cameron
Page 38
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 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.
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.
“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 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.
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.
