Mrs. Yardley kept her seat. Ainsley had been aware of every movement Cameron made since he’d appeared even though she’d avoided looking directly at him.
She hadn’t missed how Cameron carried Mrs. Yardley’s chair and mallet for her, slowing his long stride for hers as they moved about the pitch. He was being patient, kind even, conversing with the elderly lady, who smiled back at him in appreciation.
Cameron was this patient and gentle with his horses, guiding them with care that he rarely used on people, unless they were like Mrs. Yardley. It was a side of himself no one acknowledged, and Ainsley wondered if anyone but she even noticed it.
She saw no sign of that patience, however, when Cameron looked up from his ball at Ainsley. His eyes glinted with determination, like a billiards shark ready to win the pool.
It did not help that Lord Cameron was devastating in his riding clothes: buff breeches smooth over his thighs, boots muddy, casual coat hanging open over a plain shirt. Cameron’s large masculinity rendered the slender Englishmen pale and ineffectual, as though a bear had wandered into a gathering of docile deer. He wielded his mallet with precision, which was why he and Mrs. Yardley had already racked up a number of points, and therefore guineas, because no one who came to visit the Duke of Kilmorgan didn’t gamble outrageously.
Cameron drew back his mallet and struck his ball with force. The ball leapt with a straight trajectory up the little rise and smacked into Ainsley’s with a decided click.
Her heart jumped. “Botheration,” she muttered.
Her partner, the rather feeble-brained count, called out, “Excellent roquet, my lord.”
Cameron strode to them, mallet on his shoulder. He said nothing to Ainsley as he placed his large booted foot over his ball, Ainsley’s still touching it, and drew back the mallet. His riding coat stretched across his shoulders as Cameron smacked the ball under his foot, the impact sending Ainsley’s galloping across the green. She watched in dismay as the bright yellow and white striped sphere rolled merrily to the edge of the lawn and plunged into the undergrowth of the woods.
“I believe you’re out of bounds, Mrs. Douglas,” Cameron said.
Ainsley ground her teeth. “I see that, my lord.”
The count said in careful English, “That was perhaps not, as you English say, very sporting.”
“Games are played to win,” Cameron said. “And we’re Scottish.”
The count looked into the undergrowth and then down at his well-polished shoes. “I will fetch the ball for you, signora,” he said without much enthusiasm.
Which would leave Ainsley alone with Cameron. “No, indeed, I’ll find it myself. Won’t be a tick.”
Ainsley turned and ran for the undergrowth before the count could do more than make a token protest. She hadn’t missed the relief on the count’s face that he wouldn’t have to take his pristine suit into the bushes, nor had she missed the slow smile on Cameron’s.
It was cool under the trees, the mud sticky. Ainsley walked about ten yards into the woods before she spied the painted stripe on the ball under the thickest bush. She stuck her mallet into the brush and thrashed around for it.
“Allow me.” Cameron was beside her, no apology, no explanation. His longer arm allowed his mallet to reach under the brush, and in a few seconds, he scraped Ainsley’s ball back to bare mud.
“Thank you.” She started to tap the ball back, not wanting to pick up the mud-caked thing, but Lord Cameron’s body was in her way. A screen of trees blocked them from view of the green, making them effectively alone.
“Why are you all buttoned up like that?” Cameron ran his gaze down the blackberry-shaped buttons of her bodice. A smart frock, Ainsley had thought when Isabella had coerced her into buying it. Gray with darker gray piping along the little peplum jacket and skirt, the chin-hugging collar trimmed with a bit of black lace.
“You were happy to bare all last night,” Cameron said. He let his mallet handle hover an inch from her chest. “Your bodice was down to here.”
Ainsley cleared her throat. “Low neckline for evening, high for morning.” She’d tried to tell Isabella that the ball gown was too revealing, but Isabella had said: “It has to be, darling. I’ll not have my dearest friend look like a frumpy matron.”
“This doesn’t suit you,” Cameron said.
“I can’t help the fashion, Lord Cameron.”
Cameron poked the top button with his gloved finger. “Undo this.”
Ainsley jumped. “What?”
“Unbutton your damned frock.”
She nearly choked. “Why?”
“Because I want you to.” Cameron’s smile spread across his face, slow and sinful, and his voice went low. Dangerous. “Tell me, Mrs. Douglas. How many buttons will you undo for me?”
Chapter 5
This could not be happening to her. Lord Cameron Mackenzie could not be standing in front of Ainsley, asking her to unfasten her bodice for him. Here in the woods, steps away from the creme de la creme of Europe playing croquet on the Duke of Kilmorgan’s front lawn.
“How many?” Cameron repeated.
All of them. Ainsley wanted to tear open the placket and sink down into the mud and let the brand-new dress be ruined.
“Three,” she croaked.
Something wicked gleamed in his eyes. “Fifteen.”
“Fifteen?” The blackberry buttons were close together, but fifteen would bare her to the middle of her corset. “Four.”
“Twelve.”
“Five,” Ainsley countered. “That is as much as you can expect, and I’ll have to do them up again before we return to the game.”
“I don’t give a tinker’s damn what you do before you return to the game. Ten.”
“Six. No more.”
“Ten.”
“Lord Cameron.”
“Ten, bloody stubborn female.” He leaned closer, breath touching her skin. “I’ll ask politely until I get tired of asking, and then I’ll rip off those pretty buttons myself.”
Her world sharpened. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
Ainsley wet her lips. Her pleas of propriety were false, and he knew it. “Ten then.”
“Done.”
She had to be mad. She could not stand here and let Lord Cameron unbutton her frock. Once upon a time, she’d let him half undress her, and she’d barely gotten away with her sanity intact.
Untrue. She’d lost her sanity that night and never regained it.
Ainsley watched, one heartbeat at a time, as Cameron tugged off his gloves and reached for her top button.
His smile held triumph as the button slid through the hole. The fabric sprang back, as brazen as Ainsley felt. Cameron brushed the tiny bit of flesh he’d bared, licking heat all the way down her body. She would die before he reached ten.
Buttons two and three. Cameron touched her after he opened each one, as though learning her as she came undone for him.
Ainsley closed her eyes as he unfastened buttons four and five. He brushed the hollow of her throat, his
