The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

“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.