The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

“I don’t hate it today. I want you to pair me with Mrs. Douglas.”

“Ah.” Isabella’s surprised look turned to one of interest. “Mrs. Douglas, is it?”

They both turned to where Ainsley stood under a tree across the lawn, the Italian count at her side trying to catch her attention. Ainsley’s dress, trimmed with darker gray piping, was long-sleeved and high-collared, buttoned up to her neck. Cameron didn’t like her like that—the effect was one of a brightly plumed bird wrapped in a confining sheet.

“You should have told me beforehand,” Isabella was saying. “I’ve already put her with a partner.”

“So change him.”

“Change him? My dear Cameron, assigning Hart’s guests to partners is an extremely delicate task. The entire game of croquet is a like a balance of European power. If I change one team, I have to change them all. I bless Ainsley for being able to take on the count.”

Mac came up behind Isabella, slid his arm around her waist, and nuzzled her cheek. “Hart and his political games of croquet. I can think of so many better things to do this morning besides whacking a ball around a green.”

Isabella blushed but didn’t push her husband’s hand away as it moved to her abdomen, where their second child had started to grow. “I promised Hart I’d help him,” Isabella said. “He looked so desperate when he asked.”

“He would.” Mac continued to nuzzle. “Where is Hart, anyway?”

“Wooing diplomats with brandy and cigars behind closed doors,” Isabella said.

“Leaving us with the dull work,” Mac rumbled.

Their youngest brother, Ian, was absent as well, but none of them needed to ask why. Cameron had spoken to Ian earlier that morning, but Ian didn’t like crowds, nor did he like games in which he could calculate the winning trajectories in two minutes. He’d be bored and uncomfortable and dart away to be alone, giving Hart’s guests something to talk about.

In the past, Cameron, worrying about Ian, would go make sure that he wasn’t sitting alone in a huddle, or staring for hours at a Ming bowl, or pouring over some endless mathematical exercise. These days, Cameron knew that Ian used the excuse of not liking crowds to spend more time alone with his wife—in bed. Crafty sod.

“If you truly want in the game, Cameron, I’ll have you look after Mrs. Yardley,” Isabella said. “She volunteered to sit out as we have an odd number, but I know she’d love to play.”

Cameron’s gaze strayed to the green where the count had taken Ainsley’s arm to lead her to the first wicket. “Fine,” Cameron said. “Mrs. Yardley it is.”

“Excellent. She’ll be pleased.” Isabella smiled. She held out a mallet to him. “Think of it as a very slow game of polo. Enjoy yourself, Cam.”

“Oh, I intend to.” Cameron took the mallet and marched determinedly to the lawn. Ainsley Douglas, ensconced with her count, never once looked his way.

Chapter 4

Mrs. Yardley, a very plump, gray-haired woman who could barely move her legs to walk, proved to be intelligent and pleasant. Cameron flirted with her mildly as he carried her mallet and folding chair and settled her in at each wicket. She stated that she appreciated Isabella pairing her with the black sheep of the Mackenzie family—a lady of her years and girth had only so much excitement in life.

Cameron leaned on his mallet, trying to stave off his headache as the tedious game commenced tediously. He’d drunk far too much last night, and while he’d felt better riding this morning, his head was still thick with his hangover.

Ainsley, on the other hand, looked fresh and bright, every gleaming hair in place. Cameron had liked her much better mussed. On his bed last night he’d wanted to spread her golden hair in his hands, drag it over her bare br**sts, kiss the lips that talked back to him so saucily. He let his senses drift to the scent of her, the feel of her beneath him, the taste of her mouth when he’d pushed the key into it.

“Ah,” Mrs. Yardley said. “I see a spring lassie catching a laddie’s eyes.”

Cameron opened his eyes and frowned as the count tried to guide Ainsley’s hands on her mallet. There was no need for the count to instruct her—Ainsley had already racked up a number of points with her competent strokes.

“It’s autumn,” Cameron said. The trees at the bottom of the park blazed scarlet and gold, mixed with the deeper black green of the pines.

“But a beautiful lady always means spring in the heart.”

“I mean that it’s autumn for me.” Cameron watched Ainsley as she bent to tap her ball with precision. The sight of Ainsley’s hands firmly gripping her mallet made him dizzy.

“Nonsense. You’ve lived only half as long as I have, and it’s a long time through the next half of your life. Such a strange marriage Mrs. Douglas made. John Douglas was in his fifties, she barely eighteen. I imagine it was a family arrangement, but I can’t imagine what sort of arrangement. Douglas never had much money, and he left Ainsley almost destitute, poor thing. I tell you all this for a reason, Lord Cameron.”

Because she’d noted Cameron’s obsessive interest with Ainsley Douglas. Hell, the whole house party would see it if they weren’t busy trying to be noticed themselves.

“She’s young,” Cameron said. “She can remarry.”

“True, she is young and still quite lovely, but she’s shut away from company much of the time. Her Majesty keeps Mrs. Douglas tucked by her side—she’s become quite the favorite, and Mrs. Douglas needs the money the post with the queen brings. Ainsley’s oldest brother helps her, but he has a family of his own, and Ainsley rather feels the pinch of living in his back spare room. Ainsley’s mother had been one of the queen’s favorites before she lost that pleasure by marrying beneath her. Mr. McBride was not who the queen had in mind for poor, dear Jeanette. But all that was forgotten when the queen met Ainsley. She was enchanted with Ainsley and insisted on bringing her into the household. The post was a godsend. Ainsley’s brother is kind, but she was utterly dependent on him. Of course she took it.”