Jennifer Ashley - The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

When she laid the last folio back on its shelf, Ainsley turned to him. “They’re not here,” she said, disappointed.

Cameron took another sip of whiskey. “There’s my study next door.”

“Is that a possibility?”

“Aye, it is.”

He didn’t miss Ainsley’s flush as she speculated why Cameron might take a mistress to his private study. “Very well, let us search the study.”

The room didn’t connect to his bedroom. Cameron led her down the hall a few steps to the next door, which he unlocked. Normally he didn’t lock his doors when he stayed at Kilmorgan—no need—but with all the comings and goings up here, he’d done it today.

Ainsley took on a look of dismay when she viewed the clutter of the study. This was Cameron’s private room, his retreat from the overstated social life that he sometimes had to lead as Hart’s brother and heir to the title.

Racing newspapers lay everywhere, as did books on all things equine. Cameron had contributed chapters or essays to a few of them, publishers begging for his opinion on the subject.

Cam’s prized paintings hung here as well: pictures of the horses he’d grown up with, of his best racers, of the ones he simply loved. Mac had painted most of them, although Degas had done a sketch for him of a horse in motion, all rippling muscles and tossing mane.

Angelo was the only one allowed to touch this room, and the man knew better than to disturb anything. It all got a bit dusty, but the whiskey decanter and the humidor were always replenished, the ashtrays emptied and cleaned, and any stray pieces of clothing, boots, or riding equipment restored to their proper places.

Cameron took a clean glass from the tray holding the whiskey and held it up. “Drink? It will be thirsty work.”

Ainsley eyed the glass in some trepidation. Cameron expected her to remind him that ladies didn’t drink spirits, but she gave him a nod. “Yes, why not? I prefer it with soda. Do you have any?”

Cameron lifted the cut glass stopper from the decanter. “This is Mackenzie single malt. Hart would die of apoplexy if anyone cut it with soda. It’s neat or nothing.”

Ainsley began lifting papers from his desk. “Very well. My brothers taught me to enjoy it with soda, but then we never could afford Mackenzie blend. I can hear Steven’s sighs of envy now.”

By the time Cameron poured the glass and brought it to her, Ainsley had seated herself on the floor, her skirts a swath of satin around her, a stack of papers and handwritten notes next to her. She accepted the whiskey, looking up at him with animated gray eyes.

Cameron clinked his glass against hers. “To a fruitful search.”

She nodded, took a practiced sip, and continued sorting papers into neat stacks.

“Anything?” Cameron asked, leaning over her shoulder. From here he could look straight down the cleavage of her soft breasts, and he didn’t mind that at all.

Ainsley wished to heaven he wouldn’t stand next to her like that. Cameron’s legs were firm and muscular under the socks he’d donned for the walk in the wet garden, the hem of his kilt on her eye level.

She glanced at his feet, large and muscular, pressing out the leather of his finely tailored shoes. Mud from the garden clung to one. Above the shoes were wide ankles behind thick gray wool, his legs those of a giant.

Ainsley couldn’t stop her gaze from rising higher, to the shadow under his plaid kilt, where she glimpsed a brawny knee. He was warm, too, his legs radiating heat to her bare shoulder. She’d been so awfully cold in the garden, and standing against him had taken all the cold away.

She made herself continue sorting the papers. No erotica here, only horses, races and results, histories and bloodlines of stallions, notes on what horses were being bought and sold. She stacked them all into piles, wondering how on earth he found anything.

“Who is Night-Blooming Jasmine?” Ainsley asked. The name came up often.

“Filly I’m training. Horse with damned fine promise.”

Ainsley looked up, unable to miss the glimpse of inner thigh in her view, the line of scar on it in shadow. She forced her gaze up, past the flat front of his kilt, to his shirt and the cravat he was in the act of loosening. His throat came into view, tanned and strong. Ainsley felt a flutter of pleasure. She liked him unbuttoned.

“Is she yours?” Ainsley asked, not missing the pride in his voice.

“Not yet.” Cameron pulled the folds of cravat from his neck and tossed the cloth carelessly to the desk. “Bloody owner won’t sell her to me.”

“Why not?”

“Because he despises Mackenzies. He’s only letting me train her because he’s damned desperate. She’s a fine bit of horseflesh, and she can run, by God, can she run.” His voice warmed, a man talking about his heart’s desire.

“Rather annoying of the man.”

“Bloody stupid of him.” Cameron’s brows drew down as he drank. “I want her, and I’d do right by her, if I can only make Pierson see sense.”

“Goodness, you sound almost like a man proposing marriage.”

Cameron shuddered. “Dear God, never that. I even hate the sound of the word. I suppose landing a horse is similar, but horses aren’t near as much bother as wives.”

The pull of disgust in his voice was true. “I’m certain Isabella would be pleased to hear you say so,” Ainsley said lightly.

“Isabella knows she’s a bother. She delights in it. Just ask Mac.”

Ainsley smiled at his quip, but he hadn’t feigned his opinion of marriage. Ainsley looked away from him and quickly continued through the papers.

She found much evidence that Cameron was a womanizing, erotica-reading, whiskey-drinking, horse-mad gentleman but no letters from the queen. She set aside the last papers, shook out her skirts, and climbed to her feet. Cameron reached to help her, his firm hand under her elbow.

“I’m doubting now that Mrs. Chase hid them here,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll wager they’ve never left her house in Edinburgh, except the one paper she brought to show me. She knew I’d try to ferret them out.”

“Ferret. A good name for you. I thought mouse when I saw you hiding in my window seat, but I can see the resemblance. Your eyes get bright when you’re on the trail of what you want.”

She liked his half smile, the teasing in his eyes. All loathing from his talk of marriage had gone. “How highly flattering you are, my lord. No wonder the ladies like you.”

Cameron pulled out a drawer in the desk she’d already searched. The papers in it had been old, dates on them from fifteen, twenty years ago. Cameron dumped them on the floor—all over the newspapers she’d already straightened—and started prying inside the drawer.

“This one has a false bottom if I remember. Haven’t touched it in a while.”

He tugged fruitlessly at the wood. Ainsley pulled a hairpin from her coiled braid and handed it to him. “Try that.”

“Ah, the tools of your trade.” Cameron took it from her, inserted the end in a slightly gouged corner, and pulled.

The bottom of the drawer came away to reveal a single folded letter, creased from being pressed flat. Ainsley snatched it up and opened it but grunted in disappointment before she read a word. “Wrong handwriting. It’s not hers.”

She handed the paper back to Cameron and turned away.

Ainsley headed for the books on the mantelpiece, but a faint noise behind her made her turn around again. Cameron stood where she’d left him, still as stone, his gaze riveted to the unfolded letter in his hand.

“Lord Cameron?”

He didn’t appear to hear. Cameron stared at the letter, his eyes unmoving, as though he’d taken in what it said and couldn’t quite believe it.

Ainsley went to him. “What is it?”

When she touched his hand, he jerked and looked down at her, his eyes empty.

“It belonged to my wife.”

Oh dear. Ainsley’s own sadness about John Douglas could be triggered whenever she came unexpectedly across something that had belonged to him. Though Cameron had been widowed a long time now, his pain must have been intensified by Lady Elizabeth’s violent death and people’s morbid suspicions about it.

“I’m so sorry,” Ainsley said, her heart in her words.

Cameron only looked at her. His amused tolerance and the camaraderie of the search had vanished.

Without a word, he strode to the hearth, where a fire burned against the cold September night, and tossed the letter onto the flames. Ainsley hurried to him as Cameron seized the poker and jabbed the paper deep into the coals.

“Why did you do that? Your wife’s letter . . .”

Cameron dropped the poker. His hand was black with soot, and he drew out a handkerchief to wipe it. “My wife didn’t write it.” His voice was harsh. “It was a letter to her, from one of her lovers. Expressing his undying passion.”

Ainsley stopped, stricken. “Cameron . . .”

“My wife had many lovers, both before and after our marriage.” The statement was flat, devoid of emotion, but his eyes told Ainsley a different story. Lady Elizabeth had hurt him, and hurt him deeply.

From all Ainsley had heard about Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, she’d been high-strung, beautiful, and wild, a few years older than Cameron. Their marriage had been a scandal from beginning to end, finishing with her death six months after Daniel was born. Lady Elizabeth must have stood often in this very room, perhaps one day hiding the letter before Cameron or a servant came upon her.

Ainsley’s anger surged. “Not very sporting of her.”

“I carry on with married women. What is the difference?”

The difference was he didn’t enjoy it, and he despised the women he carried on with. “I imagine you don’t write those women letters expressing your undying passion.”

“No.”

Cameron rubbed his wrist, where his shirt had loosened. Ainsley saw the scars again, round and even.

“Who did that to you?” she asked.

Cameron slammed the cuff closed. “Leave it alone.”

“Why?”

“Ainsley.” The word was stark, holding rivers of pain.

“My lord?”

“Stop.” Cameron cupped her head in his hands, his fingers spreading her hair. “Just . . . stop.” He leaned to her and took her mouth in a kiss of harsh desperation.

Cameron didn’t simply kiss her. He opened her mouth with his strong one, took what he wanted, made Ainsley kiss him back. Made her like kissing him back, made her want more.

His hands kept her pinned in place, but Ainsley didn’t want to go anywhere. His thighs flattened her skirts, the ridge of his hardness obvious and unashamed. Cameron knew how to make his mouth an instrument of sensuality, and he didn’t bother to hide his wanting.

Ainsley curled her hands against his chest. Beneath the linen of his shirt was warm, living male, his heart beating as rapidly as hers.

Cameron slid his hand to the top of her bodice. “You have no buttons tonight, Mrs. Douglas.”

“Clasps,” she murmured as she kissed him. “In the back.”

Cameron splayed his hand over the placket, fingers so strong that he could rip open every single clasp without thought. He kept his hand there, rock steady as he again swept his mouth across hers.

Ainsley couldn’t breathe. Cameron tasted her to every corner, his mouth firm and bold, his a lover’s kiss. No stolen moments in a corner, no cooing of lovebirds, just a man bent on bodily pleasure, damn what anyone thought. He licked across her mouth, hungry, feasting on Ainsley. She wound her arms around his neck and feasted back.

Cameron raised his head. “If I asked it of you tonight, Ainsley Douglas, would come to my bed?”

The words of Phyllida Chase came back to her. Lord Cameron doesn’t take his women in a bed . . . Quite known for it, is our Lord Cameron.

“I thought you didn’t like beds.”

She felt him jerk, saw his eyes flicker. “True.” His voice changed, from soft cajoling to hard edged.

Ainsley’s own voice shook. “I should think a bed would be more comfortable.”

“Comfort is the last consideration, Mrs. Douglas.”

The tingling became hot waves of excitement. He was right: a bed was sedate, a place for a well-acquainted husband and wife who pulled on nightcaps afterward and rolled to either side to sleep. Lovers would use a chair, say, or a thick carpet in front of the fire. Or perhaps Cameron wished to learn what could be done on the top of a desk.

Words stuck in her throat. Ainsley, who could talk her way into or out of anything, suddenly couldn’t form a sentence.