As for Cameron, once he had the Berkshire wind in his hair, and felt the young horses’ excitement coming to him through the lounge line, his ennui fled. Once again, he was awake and alive. When he and Daniel went back to the house each afternoon, Cameron had another bright spot in his life—Ainsley.

She fit smoothly into the household as though she’d lived there her entire life. The housekeeper, who’d never spoken much to Cameron except when absolutely necessary, kept a constant conversation running with Ainsley as Ainsley questioned her on all aspects of the housekeeping. Ainsley now had her own set of keys, and the housekeeper began saying, “Let me ask her ladyship,” when any question came up.

The staff here were quiet, undemonstrative, well-trained domestics, apart from their now-ended habit of skimming off the foodstuffs. If they didn’t actually burst into song and dance about Ainsley, they at least respected her.

Even the one point of contention between Cameron and Ainsley—the fact that Cameron left her every night to sleep in his own bed—seemed to ease a little as spring commenced.

Or so Cameron thought. He should have remembered that Ainsley was very good at stealth.

The locks in Cameron’s old manor house were easy to pick. The doors and locks were leftover from a hundred years ago, when the house had been built, and several of them even opened with the same key. Ainsley had practiced picking the locks from the day she arrived, which was how she’d discovered the cache of foodstuffs the servants had kept for themselves.

On a moonless night, she crept down the hall the short distance from her bedroom to Cameron’s, hairpin at the ready. She knelt softly on the carpet, listening to his snores from within for a time before she quietly moved the old- fashioned keyhole cover on its tiny hinge.

And found herself faced with a shiny new lock. He’d changed it.

Botheration.

Ainsley let out her breath, but she refused to give up. She had to work a little harder on this lock, and in the end it took two hairpins, but finally Ainsley had it open. She stood up, her heart beating swiftly, and very quietly opened the door.

The room was dark, save for the glow of coals on the hearth. She’d made certain to visit Cameron’s bedchamber often, so she’d studied the lay of the land. Unless he’d decided to rearrange the furniture at eleven o’clock last night, his bed would be that direction. The continuing snore told her she was right.

Ainsley softly closed the door behind her and started across the room.

“Ainsley.”

The word was hard, clear, and told her that Cameron was fully awake.

“Drat you,” she said. “You only pretended to be asleep.”

A match spurted and a kerosene lamp glowed to life. It showed Cameron sitting up in his bed, his lap covered with a sheet, the rest of him delectably bare.

“I was asleep. Then I heard the unmistakable scratch of a thief trying to pick my lock.”

“Your hearing must be very good then.”

“It is.”

Ainsley took another step. “Did I frighten you?” He’d told her he’d wake up in violence when he was startled. She’d planned to wake him as gently as she could, to show him that nothing terrible would happen.

Cameron’s smile was hot. “When I hear someone picking a lock, I immediately think of you. Not to mention the little mutters of frustration you make when the lock proves challenging. What are you doing in here?”

Ainsley closed the distance between the door and his bed. “I came to sleep with my husband.”

“Ainsley.”

She put her knee on the mattress. “You refuse to talk about it, but I refuse to let matters stand as they are. Beds are for sharing. Especially beds as large as this one.”

Cameron lunged for her. Before she could scramble away, Ainsley found herself dragged onto the bed and pinned to the mattress, much as he had the night she’d broken into his room to search for the queen’s letters. The difference was that last time, he’d been more or less fully dressed. This time, nothing rested between Cameron’s bare body and Ainsley but a sheet.

She felt every inch of his hard body—every inch—the strength of his hands, the heat of his breath.

“Do you need reminding how dangerous I am?” he growled.

“You’re not dangerous.”

Cameron pinned her wrists to the mattress with his weight and gave her his hot, wicked smile. “No? Perhaps I should demonstrate.”

Did she want him to or didn’t she? A wise woman should be frightened of a giant rising over her in the dark, looking ready to ravish her, but Ainsley was not wise. Or maybe she was. She’d married him.

“Not necessary,” she said.

Cameron licked across her mouth. “Necessary. I don’t want things becoming too domestic.”

So he’d told her on the train when he’d proposed. He wanted a lover, not a wife.

“Well,” she said. “Perhaps a small demonstration.”

Cameron rose abruptly from the bed, lifting her up with him, and the sheet fell away. He was naked in the dim light, his cock long and hard, his wanting unashamed. From Ainsley’s position on the edge of the bed, it was easy to grasp him in her hand, draw him a little to her.

Cameron tensed all over as he felt Ainsley’s sweet lips and tongue brush the tip of his cock. God help me. He’d been about to lay her on the floor and make deep, hard love to her, in retaliation for her sneaking into his room, but she’d turned the tables on him. Again.

She’d not done this before, but she’d seen his erotic drawings and heard the naughty things Cameron whispered into her ears. Ainsley wasn’t naïve, and she obviously wanted to play.

He almost came as he watched her open her lips and then his hardness slide between them. Cameron clenched his fists, his entire body rigid as he held himself back. If he came now, he’d miss this feeling of being inside Ainsley, the feeling of her licking him, nipping him, the wonderful pull when she began to suck.

“Ainsley.” The word was ragged, his breathing hoarse. He put his hand on her head, rocked his hips. “Ainsley. Love. What are you doing to me?”

Happily, she didn’t answer. Ainsley kept her mouth busy with him, her hands steadying herself on his thighs.

“Devil woman,” he whispered. “I am supposed to be making you pay.”

For answer, Ainsley worked him harder. Cameron heard the words spill out of his mouth, naughty syllables that had led to this situation in the first place.

Beautiful, beautiful Ainsley . . . damn it.

He shouted out loud as his seed spilled from his body, and he didn’t want to stop when she demurely pulled away and wiped her lips with her fingertips.

Cameron growled, a bestial sound. When Ainsley merely smiled at him, he swept her up into his arms and carried her across the room, where he proceeded to make deep love to her on the thick rugs before the fire. He loved her so thoroughly that she was fast asleep by the time he carried her back to her own bedroom and left her there.

Lord Pierson delivered Jasmine in the first week of February. Cameron watched him driving up the road at a snail’s pace, following the low-slung cart that contained Jasmine.

Cameron dismounted the horse he’d been riding and tossed his reins to the jockey, who sprang lightly into the saddle. Cam walked out of the paddock to meet the cart and carriage at the stable, but he stopped in surprise when another low-slung cart turned in.

Pierson stepped out of his carriage, making sure his pristine boots didn’t land anywhere muddy or damp. His neatly tailored clothes were a sharp contrast to Cameron’s rough coat and riding breeches.

“Well, Mackenzie,” Pierson said. “I’ve brought her back. You won’t make a pig’s breakfast of it this time, will you?”

Cameron watched the second cart approach and halt. “And what’s in that, then?”

“A stallion. He’s called Raphael’s Angel, and he’s giving me problems. I’d like you to sort him out for me.”

“And why should I do that?”

“For losing me the St. Leger. No one wants Raph’s Angel, but everyone says if anyone can turn him around and make him sellable it’s you. I thought that you’d do it for me as a favor.”

Jasmine’s cart had been taken all the way into the stables. Daniel and Ainsley appeared as if by magic as Angelo started to unload her.

“And I don’t want that Romany anywhere near my horses,” Pierson said loudly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s why she did so poorly.”

Ainsley turning, heard, and opened her mouth. Cameron held up his hand to forestall her.

“There’s nothing wrong with Angelo, and there’s nothing wrong with Jasmine,” Cameron said.

He would rather bash Pierson in the mouth, dump him back in the carriage, and send him home, but Cameron controlled himself. He wanted to train Jasmine—wanted to save her from this bastard—and if he angered Pierson, the man would simply take Jasmine away again.

Cameron turned to gesture Angelo away, but Angelo had already moved from Jasmine, leaving her to one of Pierson’s grooms. Angelo would comply without rancor, which was why Cameron trusted the man.

“Fine,” Cameron said. “Leave them both. I’ll see you at Newmarket.”

Pierson didn’t even gloat. He simply looked down his long nose and turned back to his carriage, ready to rush back to his overly ornate house in Bath.

Ainsley pressed her lips together. She knew what a struggle it was for Cameron not to shout what he thought at Pierson. He’d chosen to hold in his temper for Jasmine’s sake.

Poor Jasmine looked a bit rattled from traveling. Her coat was flecked with lather, and her eyes were wide. A good rubdown and a turnout in a paddock so she could run off her nerves, that’s what she needed.