Her elderly husband was dead, and Ainsley Douglas, according to Isabella, shuttled between being a paid lady- in-waiting to Her Dour Majesty and living with her older brother and his very respectable wife. No longer the ingénue, Mrs. Douglas was a lady whose lot in life had become waiting on others for her living.

Poor little dove.

Cameron swung himself onto the bed, putting his back against the headboard, and reached to his bedside table for a cigar. “That lock is ancient,” he said to the bare oval of her back. “Good luck with it.”

“Not to worry,” she said, scratching away at it. “I’ve not yet met a lock I couldn’t open.”

Cameron lit the cheroot, the smell of the sulfur match and cigar smoke curling inside his nostrils. “Aye, you’re quite the criminal, aren’t you? Last time you broke in here to steal a necklace. What are you here for this time? Blackmail?”

Ainsley glanced swiftly back at him, face pink. “Blackmail?”

“I wouldn’t advise you to blackmail Phyllida Chase, dove. She’d eat you for breakfast.”

Ainsley gave him a quick, scornful look and returned to the door. “Me, blackmail Mrs. Chase? Hardly. And I explained to Isabella about that necklace. I truly thought it belonged to Mrs. Jennings.”

Cameron threw the spent match into a bowl. “I’m past caring about the damned necklace. It was a long time ago, and bloody intrigues of bloody-minded women hold no interest for me.”

“I’m very pleased to hear it, Lord Cameron,” Ainsley said, concentrating on the lock.

Why did her saying his name make it music? Cameron leaned back and took a pull of his cigar. He should taste the fine, pressed leaves seasoned with brandy, but it could have been a charred stick for all he noticed.

If he weren’t so drunk he would simply unlock the door, let her out, and forget about her. But flashes of the night six years ago kept coming to him—the fierce heat of her skin, her hesitant but needy touch, her swiftly drawn breath as he kissed across her bosom.

She was six years older now and the gray dress was all wrong for her, but time had only deepened her beauty. Lush breasts swelled over the top of her bodice, and her hips had widened to be enticing under the tightly drawn skirt. Her face reflected more experience of the world, her gray eyes held a bit more skepticism, her self-control was firmer.

If Cameron could convince her to stay tonight, he’d finally be able to savor the hot, sensual taste of Ainsley Douglas, which had bewitched him all these years. Warm, cinnamony, smooth. He’d press her against the door, lick her skin that was damp with sweat, tell her what he really wanted in return for letting her out. All she had to do was finish what they’d started six years ago, and he’d unlock the door and release her.

Cameron forced himself to look away from her and take another pull of the cheroot. His wandering gaze fell on the coat that lay sprawled across the bed and the corner of paper that stuck out of his pocket.

He’d forgotten about the letter, or whatever it was, that Phyllida had thrust at him earlier that day. She’d told him to keep it safe for her, and Cameron had tucked the paper away, uninterested. His valet, Angelo, must have found it and thought it important enough to slide into the coat of Cameron’s formal suit.

Cameron fished out the paper and unfolded it. It was part of a letter, missing the greeting, and unsigned. His brows rose as he started reading. It was a sickening sweet panegyric to an apparently virile man, the prose drowning in exclamation marks and underlining. The style was sentimental and emphatic and all wrong for Ainsley Douglas.

He held up the page. “Is this what you were looking for, Mrs. Douglas?”

Ainsley looked around at him and slowly rose to her feet. The shock and dismay on her face told Cameron all he needed to know.

“That isn’t yours,” she said.

“God, I hope not. ‘Your honest brow is crowned with honeyed dew, your muscles like Vulcan’s at his forge.’ How long did it take ye to think up this drivel?”

Ainsley marched across the carpet and halted beside the bed, arm outstretched. “Give it to me.”

Cameron looked at her gloved palm so stiffly held out to him and wanted to laugh. She expected him to meekly return the letter, perhaps escort her to the door, apologize for inconveniencing her?

“Who did ye write it to?” Whoever it was didn’t deserve this beautiful woman writing him at all, even a bloody awful letter like this one.

She reddened. “It’s not mine. It’s . . . a friend’s. May I have it back, please?”

Cameron folded the letter in half. “No.”

She blinked. “Why not?”

“Because ye want it so much.”

Ainsley’s chest hurt. Lord Cameron lounged back on his bed and laughed at her, eyes glints of gold as he dangled the letter between his strong fingers. His waistcoat and shirt hung open, showing her a V of chest dusted with dark hair. A man in dishabille who’d undressed for his mistress. His kilt rumpled across his knees, the hem caught on a scar she’d seen when Mrs. Chase had lifted it.

He was rude, ungentlemanly, brutish, and dangerous. Lord Cameron collected erotica, people told her, books and art. She saw no sign of that lying about, although the painting that hung over his bedside table—a woman sitting on her bed pulling on her stockings—held unashamed sensuality.

But though a lady ought to regard Lord Cameron in disapproval, even apprehension, he made Ainsley’s blood tingle. He again was awakening things in her that had lain dead for too many years.

“Please give me the letter, Lord Cameron. It is very important.”

Cameron took a puff from his cheroot, sending smoke into Ainsley’s face. Ainsley coughed and waved it away.

“You’re tipsy,” she said.

“No, I’m bloody drunk and plan to get drunker. Would you like to join me in a single malt, madam? From Hart’s finest stock.”

The Mackenzies owned a small distillery that shipped Scots whiskey all over Scotland and to select clients in England. Everyone knew that. The distillery had done only modestly until Hart had inherited it—according to Isabella, Hart and Ian between them had turned it into a vastly profitable venture.

Ainsley imagined Cameron taking a slow sip of whiskey, licking away a drop from his lips. She swallowed. “If I show you that I’m not afraid of whiskey, will you give me the letter and let me out?”

“No.”

Ainsley let out an exasperated breath. “Devil take you, Lord Cameron, you are the most maddening, wretched—”

She made a sudden grab for the letter, but Cameron lifted it out of reach. “No, you don’t, Mrs. Douglas.”

Ainsley narrowed her eyes and swatted, not at the letter, but the cheroot. The lit cigar flew from Cameron’s fingers and bounced to the bedcovers. He dove after it, growling.

“Damn you, woman.”

Ainsley had one knee on the bed, her fingers around the letter he’d dropped to snatch at the cheroot. The next instant, she found herself flat on the mattress with Lord Cameron on top of her, her wrists captured above her head by his massive hand. Lord Cameron might be drunk, but he was strong.

“Clever, clever Mrs. Douglas. But not fast enough.”

Still holding Ainsley’s wrists, Cameron tossed the cheroot onto the bedside table, then wrested the letter from Ainsley’s fingers. She struggled but couldn’t budge him; his big hand held her firmly in place.

Cameron stuffed the letter into his waistcoat pocket and leaned closer, his breath burning her skin. He was going to kiss her. She’d dreamed of his kiss in the lonely years between her first encounter with him and this one, reliving the warm pressure of his mouth, the heat of his tongue. And now, she would let him kiss her again. Gladly.

Closer. Closer. Cameron nuzzled the line of her hair, his lips just brushing it. “Who is the letter to?” he whispered.

Ainsley could barely speak. “None of your affair.”

His smile held sin. “You look too innocent to have paramours. But I know you’re a good little liar.”

“I’m not lying, and I don’t have a paramour. The letter belongs to a friend, I told you.”

“She must be a very dear friend, for you to go to all this trouble.” He fished the key from his pocket and touched it to her lips. “Ye want this, do you?”

“I would enjoy leaving the room, yes.”

Cameron’s eyes warmed. “Are ye certain?”

“Very certain.” I think.

Cameron traced her lips with the key, the metal cool and hard. “What would you do for this key, pretty Mrs. Douglas?”

“I don’t know.” That was the plain truth. Whatever Cameron asked her for, Ainsley was afraid she’d do without protest.

“Would you kiss me for it?”

Ainsley’s gaze went to his lips, and she wet her own. “Yes. Yes, I believe I would.”

“Bold, wicked lady.”

“I must be, mustn’t I? I haven’t screamed or slapped you or smacked my knee between your legs.”

Cameron looked startled, then burst out laughing. It was a genuine laugh, his gravelly voice warm. The bed shook with it. Still laughing, Cameron tilted his head back and dropped the key into his mouth.

“What are you—” Ainsley’s words cut off as Cameron brought his mouth down on hers, sweeping his tongue—and the cool key—inside. His lips were strong, mastering, his tongue forceful.

Cameron lifted his head again, still smiling.

Finding her hands released, Ainsley plucked the key from her mouth. “I could have choked on this, my lord.”

“I wouldn’t have let you.” His tone was suddenly gentle, the one of the man who coaxed the most reluctant horses to come to his hand. In that instant, Ainsley saw loneliness in his eyes, a vast well of it, filling every space of him.

Ainsley knew about loneliness—she was often alone despite living among so many people—but she also knew that she had family and friends who would be at her side the moment she truly needed them. Lord Cameron had family, the notorious Mackenzies, four men who couldn’t stay out of the scandal sheets, and a son, Daniel, who spent most of his time away at school. His two younger brothers had wives and new families to keep them busy, his older brother Hart had the dukedom. What did Cameron have?

Compassion squeezed her heart, and Ainsley reached up to touch his face.

Instantly, Cameron rolled off her, removing his heady warmth, at the same time pulling her upright. She found herself sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching the key, before his hand under her backside pushed her to her feet.

“Go,” he said. “You have your way out, and I want to sleep.”

Ainsley held out her hand. “With the letter?”

“Bugger the letter. Now get out, woman, and leave me in peace.”

The shutters between himself and her had risen again. Hard and unpredictable was Lord Cameron. A new mistress every few months, ruthless when it came to winning races, and fiercely protective of his horses and his son.

Horses and women, she’d heard someone say about him. That’s all he cares about, in that order.

And yet she’d seen that flash of longing in his eyes.

Cameron still had the page of the letter. Ainsley had lost this round, but there would be another. There would have to be.

“Good night then, Lord Cameron.”

Hand under her arm, playful no longer, Cameron took her to the door, waited while she put the key in the lock, and more or less shoved her out of the room. Without looking at her, Cameron closed the door behind her, and she heard the decided click of the lock.

Well.

Ainsley blew out her breath and leaned against the nearest wall. She shook in every limb, her chest tight, her corset far too binding. She could still feel the weight of Cameron’s long body on hers, the strength of his hand on her wrists, the imprint of his mouth on hers.

She hadn’t forgotten his touch, the heat of his kiss, the strength of him, in six years. What a man he was, a forbidden, out-of-reach man who cared nothing for Ainsley Douglas and her troubles. Cameron still had the letter, and she had to get it back from him before he gave it to Phyllida, or worse, his brother Hart. If Hart Mackenzie knew what a treasure Cameron carried carelessly in his pocket, the ruthless duke wouldn’t hesitate to use it, she was certain.

But at the moment, Ainsley could only think of the long length of Cameron pressing her into the mattress, the heat of his breath on her mouth. What would it be like to be his lover?

Wonderful, wicked, far too powerful for the likes of Ainsley Douglas. He’d called her a mouse, she remembered, when he’d found her tucked into his window seat to hide.