Compromising Miss Tisdale

by Jessica Jefferson

  Of course, a man that exuded as much confidence as he could pull off a shaved head and wheat sack and look just as alluring.

  “And you must be . . . ” he directed his attention to her sister.

  “One of my two younger sisters, Miss Tamsin,” Ambrosia finished, gesturing for him to take a seat in a nearby chair. “Rose is, well, Rose is somewhere around here.”

  Tamsin beamed genuinely and without refinement. The girl had always found it impossible to reign in her smile, so when she grinned, it whole-heartedly exposed two complete rows of perfectly shaped, bright white teeth. “So, you’re the Earl of Bristol, then?” she asked in a tone that could only be described as accusatory.

  Ambrosia felt a migrem coming on.

  He met her smile with a rather charming one of his own. “You make it sound as if I’ve committed some sort of crime. Pray tell—is it such a bad thing to be the Earl of Bristol?”

  Tamsin laughed, boldly. “Oh, I don’t think so! I would think it is quite a good thing to be as frequently talked about as yourself.”

  “So, I’m the topic of much discussion?” he asked in a voice smoother than pebbles at the bottom of the Thames.

  Ambrosia found herself turning liquid listening to the soft tenor of his voice. It was far more seductive than it should have been, but naturally a man like him knew how to use his appeal to get answers from women.

  “Oh, you’re positively infamous! The broadsheets are practically obsessed with you, especially with your parents being who they were. But if we’re speaking freely, I’m sorry to say that you’re not at all as I had anticipated. I had rather expected to see you sporting a pair of pointy ears with a matching tail. Imagine my disappointment to find you are no satyr, but merely a man.”

  Ambrosia had heard enough. “Tamsin, dear, please ring for tea so that we might entertain our guest a bit more suitably.”

  “Perhaps some brandy as well?” the Earl requested, settling back in the chair and making himself more comfortable.

  “You’ll take tea,” Ambrosia corrected. “We don’t serve spirits during the day.”

  “Very well,” he replied through his smile. It was a polite sort of expression, not one of those more purposeful looks that he so often brandished with the obvious intent to inspire insipidity amongst young women.

  “After our conversation the other day in the park, I wasn’t quite certain as to an appropriate hour to call on you. I do hope I did not catch you at a bad time,” the Earl dusted off the side of his weathered hessians. His boots had seen better days.

  Ambrosia raised an eyebrow. “I do not believe we discussed a specific time, or you calling on me at all, for that matter. If we had, I would have informed you that on Tuesday afternoons we embroider.”

  “She embroiders, I suffer,” Tamsin chirped up.

  He laughed. His was a great, unadulterated laugh that came from his stomach and put to shame any of the polite, inauthentic snickers she heard from most other gentlemen.

  “How old are you, Miss Tamsin?” he asked.

  “Ten and seven, nearly ten and eight.”

  “Do promise to keep me in mind when you make your debut,” he practically purred.

  Ambrosia tsk’d and rebuked him with a glance. “Please, don’t encourage her.”

  Tamsin smiled again, obviously relishing the innocent flirtation. “Oh, I most certainly will not.”

  Ambrosia glared at her younger sister in hopes to inspire some amount of intimidation.

  “Make my debut, that is,” Tamsin clarified, unaffected by the threat. “I’ve always hated all the female idiocy here in Town. The balls, the gowns, the ridiculous men. I want nothing more than to escape to the country so that I may live out my days riding my horses. I simply refuse to be sent to market and be married off like some heifer at the fair. Even if the gentleman in question were to have good breeding and an old title. Present company excluded, of course.”

  “Of course,” he waved it off with a hand. “I don’t take offense easily. After all, my breeding is debatable and my title not terribly ancient. However, I do find it extraordinary that someone as lovely as yourself doesn’t have aspirations of marriage.”

  “Really, I must insist you stop supporting this farce.” Ambrosia accepted the tea tray from a footman and began pouring. “Tamsin will marry when it is her time, as expected of her.”

  Tamsin snorted in response. “It’s not that extraordinary. In fact, my mama claims that my aversion to matrimony might just be hereditary.”

  “It couldn’t be hereditary. After all, isn’t one of your sisters already married?” Duncan said, a taunting smile playing at the corner of his lips.

  “One out of four? Possibly the only useful thing I’ve ever learned from Ambrosia is that those are terrible odds.”

  Ambrosia waited with bated breath, hoping he hadn’t quite picked up on the implications of her sister’s last remark. Her penchant for gambling would hardly make for suitable discussion over tea.

  “Then that explains it,” he declared, oblivious to Ambrosia’s anxiety.

  “Explains what?” both girls parroted in unison.

  He leaned forward, bringing his hands together under his chin. He looked up at Ambrosia through thick, sooty lashes.

  “It explains why someone as beautiful as you, Miss Tisdale, could remain unattached. It could only be by your own volition.”

  Ambrosia felt her cheeks grow warm. Men had paid her compliments before, almost verbatim to that of the Earl’s statement. But not once had empty sentiments ever evoked such a physical response from her. Her heart skipped wildly about her chest and her cheeks became ablaze as if she were sitting a bit too close to the fire.

  Tamsin balked in what had to have been the least ladylike display ever exhibited by a Tisdale. “Flattery will get you nowhere with my sister, Lord Bristol. You obviously do not know her very well.”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve heard that very remark.” He let his eyes linger upon Ambrosia far longer than appropriate before finally tearing them away. “It would seem that I need to actually heed the advice I keep receiving and perhaps become better acquainted with your sister.”

  “Well,” Tamsin stood up, “I can help with that. You see, my sister is the constant mother hen and I doubt you’ll receive any attention while I sit in such close vicinity.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Ambrosia’s icy tone was more of a warning than rhetoric. “You are most certainly not leaving us alone?”

  Tamsin smiled cheekily. “I assure you I am not being ridiculous. Rather, I am being quite strategic. Now, if you’ll please excuse me.”

  Ambrosia was entirely unnerved at the prospect of being left alone with the Earl. If she had thought him handsome in black finery, he was at least tenfold that, dressed in his navy coat. Despite his dark coloring, he took on an almost angelic appearance with his brass buttons reflecting the light that generously poured in from the room’s large windows. He wore a crisp white neck cloth that contrasted starkly with his skin’s bronze color, drawing even more attention to that which made him so different from the other men whom she found herself surrounded by.

  The only thing keeping her from panic was the maid in the corner keeping a constant vigil to maintain propriety.

  “You there.” Tamsin nodded toward the maid. “I’ll give you a half guinea if you leave your post and come with me.”

  The maid’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, then more quickly than she had no doubt ever moved in her life, was at her feet following Tamsin out the door.

  And then she was alone.

  With him.

  She was alone with him.

  Which meant she wasn’t alone at all and there in lied the problem. She should have immediately stood up and followed Tamsin straight out of the parlor.

  Should have.

  But again, her defector feet refused to move. It was most difficult to do what was right when her own body seemed to conspire against her at every turn.
>
  The man had nerve.

  He had been ever so bold as to show up at her home, uninvited.

  On a Tuesday.

  Men like the Earl did not bend to society’s rules, but rather bent the rules of society to better suit themselves. It was a paradox that she found impossible to comprehend, yet fascinated her none the less.

  Duncan remained in his chair across from hers, and for that space between them she was thankful.

  “So, why is it that you do not wish to be married?” he asked, his lips slightly upturned at one corner.

  “Of course I wish to be married. Whatever gave you the idea that I did not?”

  He shrugged and sat back in the chair, crossing his ankle over his knee. “After all the evidence presented before me, I simply made an educated deduction. There must be a reason why you, as the eldest sister, remain without a husband, whilst a younger sister marries. And of course, there is the matter of your appearance. I can hardly imagine how a woman as beautiful as yourself has managed to remain unmarried for more than one Season, let alone several. That is, unless it was by your own choosing.”

  Ambrosia felt her face again flush at his compliment. “I admit that it is unique that Lillian married first. However, that decision was met with a great deal of deliberation. My parents did debate postponing the engagement till after I had secured an offer. But, Lilly and Lord Colton were so in love, that to do so would have been terribly cruel. And I realize that my advanced maturity may lead one to draw conclusions, but I assure you that I want very much to be married. After all, it is my duty as a daughter to do so.”

  He cocked his head slightly, curiously regarding her. “Duty? I should think you more fanciful than that. Don’t most women speak of love and all that nonsensical business?”

  She was fidgeting.

  Ambrosia never fidgeted.

  In fact, she often scolded her sisters for the very same thing. Yet, there she was, pulling at her fingers and flexing her hands. An activity meant to divert her attention from the questions at hand. Questions she couldn’t answer to herself, let alone this man who, for all intent and purposes, was still practically a stranger.

  “I am hardly what one would consider fanciful. There is so much more to consider with marriage than simply love. I am content on waiting for what I deem to be an acceptable offer.”

  Duncan had not been surprised by the size, nor the splendor of the Tisdale home. He had heard rumblings of their considerable wealth and judging by the opulence that surrounded him, they no doubt knew how to best display it. Tea at the Tisdale’s was nothing short of having tea with members of royalty, which amongst the Ton they were. Ambrosia’s manners were impeccable, without fault, as he expected. She treated him with the same polite indifference she would any other visitor—despite the fact that unlike other visitors, he had touched her in ways presumably most had not.

  He’d been on his best behavior, hopefully gaining her confidence with his superior display of feigned interest. He hadn’t even argued when she rebuffed his request for a more suitable beverage. He abhorred tea, but had managed to suffer through it with an incandescent smile. He had even gone so far as to actually drink some of the revolting liquid.

  Duncan looked over at a vast portrait hanging over the fireplace. It was of a man, a handsome gentleman in his twenties, with the same lapis eyes that both Ambrosia and her sister possessed. The man in the portrait had shaggy, chestnut hair and posed casually, wearing riding clothes and a cavalier smile. The painting exuded a kind of playfulness that was the antithesis of the subdued woman whom sat before him. But the physical likeness was staggering and it was clear the gentleman in the picture had to be a relation.

  “Is that your father?” Duncan asked, particularly drawn to the man in the painting. “You certainly take after him.”

  He tried to picture Miss Tisdale smiling so and standing in such a relaxed manner.

  It was impossible.

  She stood and walked toward the painting, stopping once she had reached the mantle. “Actually, I greatly resemble my mother. Identical, if it weren’t for the quarter century that separates us. I’m afraid I look nothing like my father.”

  Duncan allowed himself to survey her figure from behind as she stood admiring the man in the portrait. She was wearing a gauzy lavender dress, and even though he cared little for the color, and the cut was explicitly modest, the fine fabric clung to her curves and moved with her in the most enticing ways. Despite its meager intentions, the gown actually left little to the imagination. He found himself at quite a pleasurable vantage point of Miss Tisdale’s bottom.

  Which was quite a bit more substantial than he had initially thought.

  And that discovery pleased him more than he cared to admit.

  “Is this man your uncle then? I do say, you two could pass for twins,” he said, clearing his throat and refocusing his attention back to the discussion at hand.

  She turned back to him, her expression thoughtful. “Because we both take after our mother. This is a portrait of my brother, Thomas.”

  Duncan, surprised by her admission, sat up a little straighter in his chair. “I had no idea. I thought there were only Tisdale sisters, no brothers to speak of.”

  Ambrosia made her way back to her chair before explaining further. “There are only sisters . . . now. Thomas passed on a few years ago. It was an awful winter and we both fell quite ill. I recovered. Thomas was not as fortunate.”

  Ambrosia’s voice was no longer curt and polite, but soft and rich with emotion.

  “I am sorry,” he said in the obligatory manner one would expect when conversing about such a thing.

  He stared at her mouth, which from where he sat spoke volumes as to the degree of emotion she was feeling. Usually, Miss Tisdale kept her mouth quite firmly closed in a state of perpetual frowning. Her lips were undoubtedly sensual; plump and almost an unbelievable shade of red. But she kept them tightly sealed, as if allowing them the smallest bit of play would possibly permit an unwelcome smile.

  But now, now he watched in awe as she allowed her mouth to soften, her lips like a rose finally given the opportunity to bloom. It was extraordinary, really.

  “You must have loved him greatly,” he observed.

  “Oh, I loved him—envied him in fact.” Ambrosia refreshed her tea, taking the liberty to top his off as well. He hadn’t the nerve to refuse and possibly interrupt her candor. “Everyone loved him, it was impossible not to. He was one of those individuals that others always seemed to flock to. But how could anyone resist him? After all, Thomas was always so good at everything. He didn’t have to worry, for he never did wrong. He was practically perfect.”

  “How so?” he urged her on, genuinely interested in what she had to say. Duncan found himself mesmerized by the transformation. Ambrosia spoke with a far-away look in her eyes and allowed her posture to finally relax. The ice queen was thawing before his very eyes.

  And then he dared imagine her speaking of him in such a way—with such blatant adoration. No woman had ever remembered a Maddox man fondly, let alone with any kind of devotion. After all, adoration was something one had to earn, which generally necessitated some amount of effort. But it was a comforting thought for the moment.

  Ambrosia continued relaying tales of her brother’s heroics. He listened attentively, lost in the narrative of the Tisdale family and the woman who told them so superbly.

  “And then just short of my debut, we both became ill. Somehow . . . ” she spoke slowly as she cautiously teetered her way through the memory. “ . . . somehow I survived, while he did not.”

  Silence enveloped the room as they both sipped on their tea. Duncan recognized her guilt.

  He had it, too.

  “I lost my brother, also,” he said when the silence had become too palpable to bear. It seemed a paltry thing to say, but he felt obliged to say something after she had shared so much.

  Ambrosia looked at him, really looked at him as if she were seeing somethin
g in him that was new. “Yes, I was quite surprised when I heard he had died. He, too, was quite young.”

  Duncan hadn’t said those words aloud till that moment. His brother’s death was common knowledge now, retold countless times, undoubtedly because of the abruptness of the situation. But never before had he actually said the words. And now that he had permitted himself to do so, he felt compelled to share more. “I always thought that if I was to die, that I would want death to be swift and with little notice. I believed it to be quite awful to anticipate one’s passing. My brother’s death was just so unexpected that the lack of forewarning seems to be the most difficult part to get past.”

  Ambrosia nodded. “Unforeseen tragedy leaves so much unsaid, undone. It really proves to show that there just aren’t second chances in this world.”

  The two sipped their tea, allowing their tragic commonality to hang between them, filling the space.

  Duncan suddenly felt a flash of pain and desperate desire to flee.

  He needed to leave.

  Immediately.

  It was too much for him, too raw.

  He stood abruptly. “I should be going,” he blurted.

  Ambrosia immediately followed suit. The two found themselves both on their feet, facing each other.

  She looked up at him, with eyes that were no longer slate, but liquid, inviting him to swim in their depths. It was instinctual for her, he thought. She was naïve as to what a look like that could do to a man, and he’d wager she hadn’t the knowledge she was even doing it. It was an innocent sensuality that she possessed—no guile, no pretense. He had merely tasted it before, but in this moment, with her body so close to his, the tension between them obvious, he knew that there was a great deal of heat lurking under that cold veneer of hers.

  It was also at this moment that he became acutely aware of the opportunity presented in front of him. Reminiscing had made her vulnerable. It had been his experience that women were particularly easy to seduce after poignant musings, grieving, or crying for any trivial reason. He could kiss her; possibly even do more given the proper encouragement. He could compromise her right then and there.