His kiss was hard, offending her naive lips. It was all so incomprehensible; the moment, the man, his kiss. She found herself devoid of all sense and thus reacted instinctually. She brought her hands to his chest and cautiously leaned into him. Without delay, she was responding to the coaxing rhythm of his expertise. The sweet taste of brandy, still warm on his breath, filled her senses, thus leaving her unsure if it was the brandy or the intensity of the moment and unfamiliar stirrings within her body that left her head swimming.
He let up a bit and the kiss turned into something different entirely. His mouth was leading her, challenging her inexperience. His tongue tentatively touched her lips, seeking permission. She allowed her lips to part and invited him in.
He moaned against her mouth, a primal sort of groan. The sound was unfamiliar, filling her with fear and logic all at the same time, breaking the trance.
What had she done?
She was acting like a complete henwit! How could she have allowed some man, not even a gentleman, but a common man to reduce her to a weak-kneed, blabbering mess? Not even Amelia’s brother, James, with his roaming hands and sugary words, dripping with guile, had earned such a response from her.
Without warning, Ambrosia pushed him away with all the force her body could muster, sending him stumbling backward.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieked.
He balked. Remnants of the passion shared just a moment ago lingering in his eyes, in his pained expression, in the tension in his body, and most prominently in his breeches. “I was kissing you. Surely, it’s obvious.”
“Why on earth would you do something like that?” Ambrosia took a step away from the door, arms akimbo.
“You said you’d rather not talk, and there aren’t that many alternatives. It made perfect sense at the time and I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”
Her mouth gaped at the absurdity of his words. “Why ever would you assume that?”
He shrugged. “You’re obviously not some young chit out for her debut. And you’re the one who found me. Naturally, I assumed-”
“Well you assumed wrong! I am a virtuous, young lady.”
“If you were that virtuous, you would have turned around as soon as you saw me.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. He had a point, but she wasn’t about to let him know that.
“You, sir, are a danger to women.”
He smiled. “I’ve always thought of myself as more of a gift, really.”
She rolled her eyes, an urge she rarely surrendered to, despite the regularity of her desire to do so. Ambrosia Tisdale prided herself on being the epitome of calm and refinement, not succumbing to base behaviors. But if ever there had been a situation to warrant such conduct, this was certainly it.
The exasperating man was watching her with obvious amusement, finding depraved enjoyment in their situation. He stood with that wicked smile—virile confidence oozing from every pore, with not one single drop of remorse.
“If I wasn’t so concerned for the detrimental effects this little encounter would have on my impeachable reputation, you can be certain that I would scream bloody murder right now. But as the situation exists, I will refrain and simply walk out of this room. Make no mistake that I will personally notify the Lady of the house of her butler’s poor sense in allowing just anyone off the street, a common laborer, into her home. To think! There are decent people right on the other side of that door!” She pointed dramatically behind her.
He folded his arms across his bare chest. “Do what you must. I’m sure Lady Montgomery will be quite interested in knowing that I’m here.” His reply barely registered. She was too preoccupied with putting as much space between them as possible.
Ambrosia threw back her shoulders and stood tall. She smoothed the pleats in her gown and the few wisps of hair that had fallen from her chignon. “Good night to you, sir,” she said, bowing her head slightly in his general direction and slipping out the door, back into the hall.
She was, after all, a lady. And there was never an excuse for bad manners.
Chapter 3
Duncan Maddox hadn’t expected to see anyone else in the library, but the surprise was a pleasing one. Despite the chill he felt settling in his bones, he was still able to appreciate a beautiful woman. The light from the fire was dim, but he could make out enough of her soft features to know that she was indeed a lovely girl.
Woman, really. He assumed her to be a bit older since she was missing that vapid look so many of the young debutantes wore. Her eyes were blue. Not just any blue—but a deep, tumultuous hue. They were the sky over Dover, right before a storm. Her bold words had been his invitation to steal a kiss, and her slight tremble and ragged breath was all the prodding he’d needed to continue on.
It had been quite a while since he’d seduced a woman from polite society and by the way she reacted to his touch, virtuous was the last word he would have used to describe her. She may have seemed timid at first, but could hardly be considered a novice.
This girl was no English rose. She was too tall, too brunette.
Then suddenly, it had all stopped for what he could only assume was the blatant hypocrisy of London in the springtime. Young women didn’t mind stolen kisses in dark libraries, just as long as they were with appropriately titled gentleman.
Ahhh, yes. Now he remembered exactly why it had been so long since he had been in London.
He hated it.
He hated the smells, the noise, the dirty water of the Thames. The putrid air that surrounded the city.
And most of all, the equally putrid people. It was stifling—all the rules and regulations. Propriety was the façade the decent people of London used to cover their true motivations—lust and fortune. His parents had taught him that lesson well enough.
It had been easy to avoid, until now. He’d had the good fortune of being born a youngest son, his older brother in line to become the Earl of Bristol. After spending a brief time at Oxford, his parents had sent him packing to one of the family’s estates in the country, so he could better pursue his own interests. This left his brother, Jason, to deal with the family accounts, investments, to marry for wealth, and eventually produce an heir.
The arrangement gave him leave to entertain, avoid marriage, and live a life of leisure. Of course, being the youngest son, he did have to do a short stint on the Peninsula, but a fair enough price to pay for his lack of social obligation.
Then it had all changed last year. His brother had died rather suddenly. Duncan still found the idea ludicrous. His brother was bigger, stronger, and quite possibly the most virile man alive. One afternoon he had complained of some difficulty catching his breath, then simply collapsed. No illness, no forewarning—just a few moments of heavy breathing, then he’d died.
Just like that.
Men like his brother were supposed to die fighting valiantly for their country in war or while rescuing women and small children from burning houses. They were not supposed to simply collapse out of nowhere.
Their parents had died long enough ago, as was the case with the rest of the Maddox family. All that was left was himself and his father’s youngest brother, Richard. Of course, he still had his mother’s cousins, the Montgomery’s, but the Maddox family line was near obsolete. And the prize for last Maddox standing was the title of Earl—a distinction he had spent his entire life staying as far away from as possible.
“Duncan!” His Uncle Richard gave him a tight hug. “I’m relieved to see you. You were so late, I was worried. Thought you had changed your mind.” His uncle clapped him on the shoulder, outwardly appraising his appearance. “You certainly can’t attend the ball dressed, or undressed, like that! The guests will be disappointed. I told everyone you’d be attending tonight.”
“Uncle, you shouldn’t have.”
“Oh, but of course I should. You’ve been away too long.”
“No,” Duncan looked at him seriously, “you shouldn’t have.”
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br /> Then he stepped back and noticed Richard’s appearance. His jet-black hair had long since gone silver and he’d lost a bit of height over the years. His once handsome face had become gaunt and he was down more than a stone since he’d last laid eyes on him. His color was sallow, with deep purple rings under each of his eyes. “You’re not well,” he said solemnly.
Richard smiled. “No, I am not.”
“You should have told me to come sooner.” Duncan swallowed down a growing lump.
“I sent for you as soon as I found out.”
He looked around. “Well, obviously we have much to catch up on.”
“I’m sure the butler has notified Lady Montgomery of your arrival by now. Perhaps we can get you settled, then we may speak in private.”
Duncan nodded. “Yes, I suppose I would like to find my room, dress, and get something to warm me up a bit.”
Richard looked at him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to have you back.”
Duncan said nothing in return and proceeded to make his way up the stairs.
Ambrosia walked across the foyer with Amelia, who was vigorously sampling all fare passing by them on footmen’s servers. It was a bit past one in the morning, but the din of the crowd was still thick with the anticipated possibility of the prodigal Earl’s return. Though she couldn’t think of anything that excited her less than some scandal-ridden, second son’s appearance, she was pleased that for once the focus was not on her matrimonial status.
“Rumors about your Lord Bristol have certainly done their damage. I’ve never seen so many women gathered in a single location before. One could hardly blame me for not finding a single prospect tonight. By my rough estimates, it looks as if two thirds of the guests are female. The odds are stacked against me.”
Amelia abruptly turned to her. “Shoosh. Do keep your voice down! Men don’t want to hear a woman talking about figures and such.” She went on to bite off a rather large piece of tart she’d snagged. “That thing you do with numbers is hardly appropriate.”
“You mean arithmetic?” Ambrosia excelled at needlepoint, played the pianoforte with a lovely sense of musicality, and was most proficient in all skills expected of a lady. But her greatest and most favorite talent seemed to lie with numbers, a gift with unfortunate gender limitations. Besides assisting her father, Viscount Tisdale, review the occasional account or offer her expertise during card games, she found little use for abilities outside of calculating random statistics at parties.
Amelia glowered. “You’re exaggerating. There’s no possible way you were able to count all the guests.”
She decided against mentioning that she had found the time to count during the depressing lulls in her dance card. “I find the whole thing terribly unfair. It should be an even split, half men and half women. Really, how is one supposed to find a husband with such defeating numbers?”
“You’re sour.” Amelia took a bite of scone.
“I am not sour.” She was indeed, but not for the obvious reasons. As much as she tried to avoid it, her mind kept returning to the man in the library, recalling every moment of their encounter without flaw. She could still feel his bold gaze on her body, the intensity burning into her flesh-
“Lord Bristol!” Amelia exclaimed, coughing on bits of pastry.
Ambrosia followed Amelia’s wide-eyed gaping to the travertine stairs, where a man was making his way down. He was tall and impeccably dressed. His hair was black as ink and a bit too long by the day’s standards, but it suited him. His shoulders were broad and by the cut of his coat it was not difficult to see his physique was trim, but strong. She took quick inventory of the rest of him—full lips, straight nose, square jaw, brown eyes-
No, they were hazel and . . .
Ambrosia swallowed.
Audibly.
It was him.
From the study.
He was the Earl of Bristol!
“Lady Middlebury? Yes, it is you!” He met them at the bottom of the stairs and placed a kiss upon Amelia’s gloved hand, which sent her into a fit of giggles. “I believe I might have taken advantage of your family’s hospitality once or twice. Where is your brother tonight? I was rather hoping to run into Kenning.” He flashed a debonair smile.
Amelia was blushing terribly and was too far consumed by nonsensical giggling to form actual words. Ambrosia thought it was a ridiculous show, but was unable to say anything herself since she was suddenly incapable of taking in a decent breath.
“Of course I remember you, scoundrel! James was touring the continent with his new wife, but he’s recently returned for the Season. I have no doubt you shall see him sooner, rather than later.” She gestured toward Ambrosia. “Forgive me for not introducing you to my friend. This is Miss Ambrosia Tisdale.”
He studied Ambrosia for a moment before speaking, as if he was articulating exactly what it was he wanted to say. “I believe we’ve already met,” he finally stated, the tenor of his voice daring her to contradict him.
Amelia jumped in to mend her gaffe. “Oh, I do apologize. I was under the impression that the two of you hadn’t met.”
Ambrosia forced a smile, her eyes not leaving his. “You must be mistaken, Lord Bristol. I don’t believe that we have been properly introduced.” She managed to speak a full sentence, despite the sudden dryness of her mouth. Amelia was a notorious gossip and she hardly needed him to discuss the details of their first meeting in front of her. If word of their initial meeting got out, she’d be ruined. And she had worked far too hard for that.
He tapped a finger against his chin as if giving the matter much thought. “No, I’m quite certain we’ve met before. Recently perhaps?”
“No, my Lord,” she disagreed through her forced smile and gritted teeth. “I’m quite certain we have not met. Recently or otherwise.”
“I think we have.”
“I’m positive we haven’t.”
“You look quite familiar.”
“Then you must be mistaken,” she said bluntly. Mistaken? Try cracked, addled, or mad.
“Are you sure?” he challenged, drawing out the last word. “You might not recognize me. My appearance is quite common and I’ve been confused with others on occasion. Common laborers even.”
Ambrosia clenched her fists at her sides. His appearance was anything but common, whether in soggy breeches and muddy Hessians, or a black waist coat and cravat. How could she have been so wrong in her judgment? This man exuded a sense of entitlement that would rival any member of the royal family.
“No. I do not recognize you. I am confident we have never met.” She was tired of the game and desperately wanted to move on. Where were her mother and hopeless marital prospects when she truly needed them?
Amelia nudged her friend in the side. “Ambrosia, how can you be certain that you haven’t met the Earl before? If he’s so sure that the two of you have indeed met, then perhaps you have -”
“He’s wrong!” she blurted. “We’ve never met.” Ambrosia had been going for a tone of indifference, but her objection may have come out a bit more harshly than intended. In fact, it was a shout.
Would-be spectators in the foyer grew quiet, becoming aware of the scene unfolding before them. She could feel her blush make its way up her bodice and around her neck.
He had won. His victorious smile indicated as much.
“On second thought,” he said for the benefit of the audience, “you may be right. I believe I might have confused you with someone else.”
Ambrosia nodded, trying to recover some semblance of dignity. “Of course. Perhaps you have me confused with one of my sisters.”
“Perhaps,” he mumbled as he directed his attention back to Amelia. “I do apologize, but my cousin has told me I am expected to make some sort of entrance. Lady Montgomery hates to be kept waiting.” He took Amelia’s hand and kissed it lightly. “I hope to see you and your brother again very soon.”
Without waiting for a response, he made his way ou
t of the foyer, toward the ballroom. A gaggle of guests trailed shortly behind.
“Do you have a fever?” Amelia asked, once Lord Bristol was out of earshot.
“I don’t believe so,” she answered, taken aback by the sudden interest in her health.
“You must have a fever, because I can think of no other reason for your actions other than lunacy brought on by sudden illness.”
Ambrosia swallowed, pulled at her gloves and smoothed her hair. “I may have been a bit bold.”
“Bold? Is that what we’re calling insolence now? In the years since I’ve known you, I have never so much as heard you raise your voice, let alone scold a peer of the realm whom you’ve just met.”
Ambrosia took a deep breath. She had no excuse. He had taunted her with his words and she’d reacted poorly. She’d made a spectacle of herself—in public no less! It was hardly the behavior befitting a young lady and she hadn’t any idea what had come over her.
Well, she had a slight inclination. The Earl of Bristol had dared challenge her in ways she had never been before and something had sparked inside of her.
It was as if before this evening, her life had merely been a wick and suddenly she found herself aflame.
Chapter 4
As Duncan made his way down the corridor to meet his uncle, he found his mind wandering back to those brief moments spent in the library. Most ladies reeked of rose water or something similarly sweet, but this one wore the subtle scent of mint. It was different from anything he had smelled before and lingered heavy in the air long after she had gone.
He sighed. But that was all that had been different. If you got past those dark blue eyes and delectable fragrance, he was sure she was just like every other member of the Ton.
And those people were of no interest to him.
Richard was helping himself to the brandy when Duncan walked in. “Lady Montgomery has made you comfortable, I presume?” He poured himself another two fingers. “Would you care for any?” he asked, gesturing toward the crystal decanter.
Compromising Miss Tisdale Page 2
