“I know,” she said. “That makes it worse.”
Cameron’s gaze focused hard on her. Again the shutters between him and the world fell, and again Ainsley saw the lonely depths of him. For a split second only. Then the shutters were restored, his scowl back in place.
“You’ve misbuttoned yourself.”
Ainsley looked down at her placket. “Blast.”
Cameron leaned to her. “Unfinished business, Mrs. Douglas. Before you leave at the end of the week, we will finish it. Depend on that.”
He jerked her up to him in a sudden movement and caught her lower lip between his teeth. Before Ainsley could gasp or pull away, he let her go, shouldered his mallet, and strode off, back through the curtain of trees.
He moved like a god in charge of his world, used to leaving panting females behind him. Ainsley’s lip throbbed from Cameron’s bite as she tried to grasp buttons with her shaking fingers, and she still felt his grip on the back of her neck. Lord Cameron was strong and dangerous, and she should be frightened of him. But the reckless Ainsley only mourned that he’d walked away too soon.
Something rustled in the brush, followed by a bleating voice. “Signora? Can you find not your ball?”
“Yes, yes, I have it!”
Ainsley jerked her placket together and swiftly buttoned it, then snatched up her muddy ball. She burst out of the brush to the waiting count and found that Cameron Mackenzie was no longer in sight.
“Dad!”
Under the fireworks in the dark gardens, Cameron’s thoughts jerked from the memory of Ainsley’s firm br**sts under his lips when he’d unbuttoned her in the woods. Her pulse had been beating as fast as a rabbit’s—would it beat as quickly in passion?
“Dad!”
Daniel Mackenzie planted himself in front of Cameron. The lad’s kilt sagged from his hips, and his shirt was stained and jacket askew as though he’d been running through the woods. Probably he had been.
Daniel had inherited Elizabeth’s eyes, a deep, rich brown, with only a hint of the Mackenzie gold. Likewise, his hair was very dark with mere highlights of red. Elizabeth had been a beautiful woman, and Daniel reflected this in the sturdy structure of his face, the straight, clear lines that age would never erase.
His eyes now held a mixture of rage and uncertainty. “Did ye forget?”
“Of course I didn’t forget.” Cameron dug through his brain trying desperately to remember what the devil he was supposed to remember. “Your aunt Isabella tethered me all morning.”
“Yes, I know, the croquet. But I wanted to talk to you.”
No one had explained to Cameron when he was twenty years old and proud as hell that he’d managed to get his wife with child, how difficult it would be to raise a son. Nannies and tutors and schools were supposed to do that, weren’t they?
But sons needed so much more than food, clothing, and tutoring. They expected fathers to know things, to teach them about life, to be there when needed. Cameron’s own father had set no good example, so most of the time Cameron found himself floundering in deep waters, searching for his footing.
It had been damn hard going, and Cameron knew that he’d never, ever done enough. He thanked God for his brothers, as unruly as they were, for helping take Daniel under their collective wing. Between the four of them, and then Isabella and Beth, they’d somehow managed to bring Daniel up.
“I’m here now,” Cameron said.
Daniel heaved an aggrieved sigh, tall enough to look his father directly in the eyes. “What I wanted to ask was—how old ye were when ye first took a mistress?”
Cameron felt the floundering start, but Daniel was perfectly serious. The lad’s face was full of curiosity and something anxious as he waited for Cameron’s answer.
“Why do you want to know?” Cameron had been fifteen, the lady in question, eighteen, knowing that a rich man’s son eager for his first encounter would probably pay well. Cameron had had enthusiasm but no finesse, and he’d been under no illusion as to why a sophisticated courtesan had put up with him.
“Why’d ya think? I’m sixteen, and it’s high time I had me own. You and Uncle Hart, not to mention Uncle Mac, had mistresses when you were still in school. Even Uncle Ian had one. The reputation of the Mackenzie family is no secret. I should know. I live with th’ bloody lot of ye.”
Bloody hell. Cameron’s own father’s advice on the matter of women had been: Keep your c**k happy with tarts, take a lady to breed heirs, and don’t mix the two of them. Women should be sauce, not the meal, or they’ll make your life hell. Not what Cameron wanted to tell his son.
“A tart who takes up with a lad as young as you only wants your money,” he said carefully. “It’s no slight on you, Danny. It’s the only way they know how to live.”
“I don’t mean a courtesan, Dad. I mean a real lady.”
Cameron held on to his patience. “A real lady, as you call her, will expect marriage. If you want someone to bed, stick with tarts, but understand why they’re with you. Then you’ll both know where you stand.”
“Oh, very wise, Father. You married before you were even out of Cambridge. And Mother was older than you too.”
The scar on Cameron’s left cheek tingled. He rubbed it. “And it was a bloody nightmare. Remember that.”
“Aye, I know you hated me mum.”
“I did not hate your mum . . .” Elizabeth had been crazy, violent, and insatiable, but had it been hatred that Cameron had felt? Or rage, sorrow, disgust?
“I have one all picked out,” Daniel was saying. “And she’s not a tart.”
Cameron prayed for strength. “Who? A daughter of Hart’s guests? Please, Danny, tell me you haven’t already seduced her.” Hart would be in a black fury over that and put the blame squarely on Cameron.
“No, Dad. It’s Aunt Isabella’s friend, Mrs. Douglas.”
Cameron choked, coughed, searched desperately for breath. “What? No!”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s too bloody old for ye, that’s why not!” Guests turned, interest caught even through the fireworks. Cameron tried to lower his voice. “She’s not for you, Daniel.”
“Aunt Isabella says she is twenty-seven,” Daniel said. “I hear her widow’s portion was nothing, so I’d think she’d be grateful for a rich lad, don’t you think?”
Cameron glanced to where Ainsley stood not far from them with Mrs. Yardley, Ainsley again in gray. At least she wasn’t buttoned up to her chin this time. Now that the sun was down, the Scottish September night growing cold, she wore short sleeves and a bodice scooped halfway down her br**sts. To fight off certain pneumonia, Ainsley had topped her ensemble with a thin, lacy shawl that was more holes than fabric.