The Many Sins Of Lord Cameron (MacKenzies & McBrides #3)(32)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Ainsley understood now why Beth and Isabella hadn’t mentioned the party. Ainsley had thought them simply too busy with Hart’s do, but in truth, they were too respectable to be added to Lord Rowlindson’s guest list.

Some of the people here had come over from Hart’s house party, but most Ainsley didn’t recognize. Many ladies wore costumes like Phyllida’s: loose, uncorseted, scandalously low cut. Another lady had come in eighteenth- century dress, but her décolletage dove so far downward that the pink brown of her ni**les showed.

Drat Phyllida. It was just like her to decide to make the exchange at an orgiastic gathering. If Ainsley made a fuss, perhaps refusing to pay her or trying to steal the letters, Phyllida could expose Ainsley to all and sundry. What a scandal. Mrs. Douglas, the prim little widow, one of the queen’s favorites, at an orgy.

“Cherie.” A man and a woman stopped in front of Ainsley, both of them looking her up and down. “Perhaps you’d like to walk with us?”

Ainsley’s face flamed. “No. That is, no, thank you. Excuse me.”

She lifted her too-long skirts and scurried past them. The conservatory. Now.

Ainsley wormed her way through the crowd, ignoring the evil looks of those she shoved with her panniers. She finally popped out of the drawing room to the relative calm of the upper hall, and tried to catch her breath as she made for the stairs.

Lord Rowlindson, shaking hands with new arrivals, saw her and sent her a smile. Was the smile now sinister? Ainsley couldn’t decide. Rowlindson still looked like a benevolent host, concerned only that his guests have a good time.

She thought it prudent not to ask Lord Rowlindson for directions to the conservatory, and started on the journey to find it herself. Conservatories, modern additions to older houses, would be on the ground floor, probably at the end of a wing. Ainsley clutched the cool iron balustrade and started pattering down the stairs.

A strong hand jerked her to a halt. She stifled a shriek as she was pulled around and found herself looking into the unmasked, enraged face of Lord Cameron Mackenzie.

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.”