“Butterflies don’t shine,” Ainsley said. “And please do not tell me that, when you parade me past Cameron in my brand- new blue clothing, he will fall to his knees and propose.”
Isabella shrugged. “Anything is possible.”
Ainsley jerked the curtain closed. “Isabella, I love you like a sister, but I refuse to continue with this absurd conversation.”
Isabella laughed, but Ainsley thought her optimistic. Cameron had made it very clear that marriage was not a state he’d willingly enter again. Besides, a man like Cameron would not drop to one knee and propose in a conventional way. John Douglas had done that, so sweet of him, because his knees had been quite rheumatic. No, Cameron Mackenzie, on the small chance that he should propose to a woman, would take said lady rowing on a lake, or riding in the hills. He’d swing her down off her horse, cup her face in his hands, and kiss her—a long, thorough, burning kiss—and then he’d say in his gravelly voice, “Marry me, Ainsley.”
Ainsley would have to nod her answer, unable to speak. Then he’d kiss her more deeply while the horses wandered away. They’d consummate the engagement there in the grass—which would be miraculously neither muddy nor boggy.
“If it is so absurd,” Isabella said as Ainsley stepped out from behind the curtains in her combinations, ready to be measured, “why did Cameron follow you to Edinburgh, today?”
Ainsley suddenly found it hard to breathe. “Of course he didn’t. Isabella, don’t invent things.”
“I wouldn’t.” Isabella stood up and held the beautiful blue velvet to Ainsley’s face. “I saw him plain as day, boarding our train and looking furtive as the devil. He certainly didn’t want to be seen. Yes, this blue I think. Madame Claire, where is that silver?”
Not many streets away, Cameron scowled at Lord Pierson, Night-Blooming Jasmine’s owner. Pierson’s elegant drawing room was filled with cigar smoke and Scottish memorabilia. Claymores hung on the walls on top of swaths of plaid, a collection of sporrans lay in a glass-fronted cabinet, and knives Pierson swore had been collected from Culloden field rested inside a glass-topped table.
Pierson was Cameron’s least favorite kind of Englishman—one who pretended to have a passion for all things Scottish but in reality despised the Scottish people. The junk in this room had been sold to him by crafty dealers who capitalized on Pierson’s need to embrace the romance that he thought embodied the Highlands. Pierson always spoke to Cameron with a sneer in his voice, his absolute belief in his superiority obvious.
“I expect you to turn out a winner, not put me off with excuses,” Pierson said. He poured Scots whiskey—from a cheap distillery, not the Mackenzies’—into glasses and handed one to Cameron. “I need her to fetch me top price at auction.”
At auction. Give me strength. “I haven’t had enough time with her,” Cameron said. “She’s too nervous to run well. Leave her with me another year, and she’ll take the four- year-old races by storm. She’ll finish Ascot like a queen.”
“No, damnation, I need her to win at Doncaster so I can sell her when the season ends. I thought you were supposed to be the best trainer in Britain, Mackenzie.”
“And when the best trainer tells ye not to run the horse, ye ought to listen to him.”
Pierson’s lips pinched. “I can always pull her from your stables.”
“Good luck finding another trainer this late. You won’t and you know it.”
Damn the man. If not for Jasmine’s sake, Cameron would walk away from the idiot, have nothing to do with him. But Pierson would ruin Jasmine, and Cameron didn’t have the heart to let him.
Jasmine had been fine after her wild run. Though Angelo had said nothing, Cameron knew the man felt a world of shame for letting Jasmine out like that. The only explanation for Angelo’s lapse was that Ainsley had bewitched him. Why not? She’d bewitched everyone else in the household.
“Let me buy Jasmine from you, as I proposed before,” Cameron said. “I’ll give her whatever you’d fetch at auction for her if she were a winner. She’s a fine bit of horseflesh. Make a nice addition to my stock.”
Pierson looked shocked. “Indeed no. She’s an English mare of purest blood. She doesn’t belong on a Scottish farm.”
“My main training stables are in Berkshire. I could do magnificent things with her there.”
“Then why aren’t you there with her now?” Pierson demanded.
Cameron tilted his whiskey glass. The whiskey was awful, and he’d taken only the smallest of sips. “An obligation to my brother.”
“What about your obligation to me and my horse? She races at Doncaster, or I pull her from you and spread the word of your incompetence. Is that clear? Now, I have other appointments. Good day to you, Mackenzie.”
Cameron resisted punching the man in the mouth, set down his glass, and turned to take his greatcoat from the servant who brought it. If he struck Pierson and relieved his temper, Jasmine would suffer, and Cameron couldn’t let that happen.
The servant—who was English, Cameron noted—led Cameron to the door and opened it for him. Cameron clapped on his hat and stepped out into the rain.
He strode down the street, misty rain obscuring sky, buildings, and people, relieving his anger by walking fast and hard.
Bloody arrogant bastard. In usual circumstances, such a man wouldn’t get under his skin, but Cam liked Jasmine and wanted her. He thought about enticing Pierson into playing cards with him and winning Jasmine, but Pierson wasn’t a gambler. He didn’t even bet on the horses.
Cameron could calm Jasmine down to run her at Doncaster, but not to win. If he pushed her too hard, he risked her health. Jasmine might win but drop dead at the finish line—or, if Pierson had his way, the moment the buyer walked off with her. That was the way Pierson did things.
Damned bloody English Philistine.
Cam’s thoughts cut off abruptly when he saw the woman dressed in gray, with hair the color of sunshine, dart out from a jeweler’s shop. Ainsley slipped a little pouch into her pocket, glanced surreptitiously about, opened her umbrella, and hurried away down the misty street.
Chapter 10
Ainsley felt the presence of Cameron even before his large gloved hand closed around her umbrella handle.
Did he tip his hat, give her a polite hello, offer to escort her down the street? No, he regarded her with angry eyes from a granite face and wouldn’t let go of the blasted umbrella.