“You’ve been seen in it once,” Beth whispered back, her lips twitching. “That’s what Isabella will say.”

“But I can’t pay for all this.” Isabella, the indulged daughter of an earl and now the wife of wealthy Mac Mackenzie, might not understand that most people couldn’t buy a new wardrobe on a whim.

“Darlings, are you being sordid and discussing money?” Isabella sat back down and spread the fashion book across her lap. “This is my gift to you, Ainsley. I’ve been dying to get you out of those dull gowns for ages. Don’t spoil it for me.”

“Isabella, I can’t let you . . .”

“Yes, you can. Now, stop protesting so we can get down to business.” She smoothed out a page. “I like this design—we’ll have the tissue gathered over the underskirt in the front, with a big rosette off center on the hip. Then the blue and silver stripe for the overskirt over the bustle, which will also make up the back of the bodice, with a slice of the blue silk in front.”

Madame Claire and her assistants bustled off to bring more fabrics, while Ainsley undressed for her fitting. Morag, one of Isabella’s maids, followed Ainsley behind a curtain and helped pull off her gray gown. The fabric now seemed drab and dull compared to the brilliant colors on the floor.

“And the electric blue taffeta for a morning dress,” Isabella went on. “That will be splendid.”

Ainsley put her head out between the curtains. “Why so much blue?”

“Because you’re fair-haired, and it looks well on you. Besides, Cameron is particularly fond of blue.”

Ainsley froze, hands clutching the drapes. Behind her Morag made a noise of impatience as she tried to reach buttons. “What has Lord Cameron’s preference for blue to do with me?”

Isabella gave her a pitying look. “Really, Ainsley, do you think anything can go on in the Mackenzie household without Beth or me knowing? Cameron was seen kissing you in the stable yard and in his private study, all dutifully reported to me by Daniel.”

“Your brother-in-law hasn’t spoken to me in two days,” Ainsley said. “He is very angry at me because I almost lost him a horse.”

“He hasn’t spoken to anyone, because he’s been too busy working with said horse,” Isabella returned. “All the more reason we finish you well. He’ll come ’round, and when Cam sees you shining like a butterfly, he won’t be able to resist you.”

“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.”