The Many Sins of Lord Cameron

He turned and strode out the door, banging it so hard that the curtains fluttered on the bed. Ainsley heard him move across the suite and slam the door to his own room. Then, ever so faintly came the click of the lock.

Ainsley lay down again, her breath hurting her. Her body hummed from the warm, sweet love they’d made on the chair. Cameron gave all to lovemaking, his entire body engaged in the act. He was such a big man, and yet he’d held her so that she didn’t fall, had taken their combined weight all on himself.

How a man with such raw brutality could be so tender, Ainsley didn’t know, but Cameron managed it.

But his fear when she’d asked him to stay had been real. Deep panic had flashed in his eyes, and he’d fought himself away from her.

That such a strong man should fear angered her. Ainsley determined then and there to delve to the bottom of it, to have Cameron explain how he felt, and erase what had been done to him the best she could. She would do it.

The dual emotions—elation at lovemaking and worry for Cameron mixed together and kept her eyes open. As tired as she was, she couldn’t relax into sleep until she was on the swaying train to Paris in the bright sunshine of the morning.

Once they reached Paris, a lavish coach took them to the townhouse Cameron rented in a street off the Rue de Rivoli. The house rose six stories, with a wrought-iron railed staircase twisting through its grand foyer to a dome at the top.

Ainsley would have her own bedroom here as well, with windows that overlooked the garden behind the house. Cameron’s room was in the front of the house, with Daniel’s on the floor above theirs.

The townhouse was elegantly beautiful, modern, and quite unlike anything Ainsley had ever lived in. The queen’s private spaces tended to be crowded, cluttered, and full of family photos, her public rooms vast and lavish. Cameron’s house sported cool marble tiles and light-colored paneling, and was filled with paintings in the new styles of Degas, Manet, Monet, and the young Renoir. The furniture was clean-lined in the new handcrafted style that was a backlash against the ornately carved and mightily uncomfortable manufactured furniture of the day.

Money had gone into this house, and good taste—likely Mac had suggested the paintings and Isabella the décor—but it was still a bachelor’s house. Cool and elegant, but a bit bare.

When Ainsley suggested she might stitch a few pillows for the parlor, Cameron looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. Then he took her shopping.

Ainsley had visited Paris once, on her fateful trip to the Continent with Patrick and Rona, but they’d taken rooms in a small hotel in an inexpensive district. Rona had been so nervous about the city that she hadn’t wanted to venture very far from the hotel, so Ainsley had seen little of Paris.

Cameron showed her a new world. He took her to boutiques that sold everything a householder could want, to art dealers eager to sell Cameron the very best, and shops that dealt in expensive objets d’art. Ainsley could buy pillows ready-made or order some made to her taste. She did so, but then she went to a shop that specialized in luxurious embroidery skeins and outfitted herself with a new embroidery basket filled with everything she needed. Heaven.

They lunched in a café, and Ainsley discovered something else Paris did well—cake. Ainsley loved cake, and the confections of many thin layers separated with chocolate or jam or sugar syrup satisfied her soul. She ate an extra-large piece during their fourth shopping expedition and licked her fork, looking up to see Cameron watching her with amused eyes.

Ainsley shrugged. “I like cake.”

“Paris has the best cakes,” Daniel said, diving into his second slice. “Every café on this boulevard has their own specialty. You could go up and down and try a different one every day.”

Ainsley grinned. “Yes, let’s.”

Cameron only laughed at them, the sound warm. It was the first time he’d laughed since Ainsley had joined him in Doncaster. Ainsley savored the laugh as she savored the last morsel of chocolate cream on her plate.

That night, Cameron took her to another new world, one Ainsley had glimpsed only in newspapers depicting the high life. Cameron himself picked out what she’d wear—a dark red and silver satin confection Isabella had dreamed up that went well with the diamonds Cameron had given her at Kilmorgan.

“It’s hardly matronly,” she said as Cameron laid the diamonds across her bosom and snapped the catch.

Cameron’s gaze met hers in the mirror of her dressing table. “Nothing matronly for you any longer, Ainsley Mackenzie. You are a beautiful woman. I want all to see how beautiful you are, and envy me.”

“I was joking.”

He kissed her neck. “I wasn’t.”

Ainsley found it heady to look so unlike herself as Cameron took her out into the Paris night, plunging her into the whirl of the avant-garde. More so having Cameron beside her in his black coat and Mackenzie plaid kilt. He was a powerful man of raw handsomeness, and now he belonged to her. Ladies looked at her in envy and curiosity, wondering who was the fair-haired nothing who’d snared the very eligible Lord Cameron.

“We must have cake after,” Ainsley said as she sipped champagne at the restaurant Drouant. “That chocolate one with the cream in the middle. I think it’s my favorite, though I’m not certain. I have many more to try.”

Cake was a safe topic. Despite her determination, whenever Ainsley tried to bring up the question of the two of them sharing a bed, Cameron’s eyes would harden, and he’d change the subject. Usually in a bad-tempered way. He’d started doing so if he so much as thought Ainsley would mention the word bed. Their conversations had been reduced to inanities, their lovemaking intense but without words.