“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 crème de la crème 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 touch like fire, before moving down to button six.
A skilled seducer, she told herself at buttons seven and eight. He was a man who knew how to make women yearn to give him what he wanted. Ainsley, for all her seeming recklessness, had learned to be cautious—everything done for a reason, every risk calculated against its reward. But with Cameron, the old reckless Ainsley reared up, wanting him to undo her bodice down to her waist and take what he pleased.