Compromising Miss Tisdale

by Jessica Jefferson

  Still sporting his arrogant smile, James bent his head low, his warm breath moist against her neck, causing the fine hair upon her body to stand on end with apprehension.

  “Oh, my darling, Ambrosia,” he whispered in her ear, far too close for her comfort. “I plan on getting my dance. Whether this night or another, rest assured, I will have what I want.”

  His tone was laced with malicious intent—his whisper, a warning.

  “Your Grace has always been most tenacious,” she tried to temper his threat with flattery. In her experience, flattery meant a great deal to men of a certain distinction, especially those whom wore their vanity like a badge of honor.

  James seemed pleased enough with the compliment. “Yes, I am. I’ve been told it is one of my more admirable qualities.”

  If not the only one.

  “Of course it is,” she smiled politely and curtsied. “If you would be so kind as to excuse me, I believe I see your sister.” She gestured toward the edge of the room and began heading in that general direction.

  He tried to follow her line of vision into the crush. “I do not see her . . . ”

  Ambrosia made certain before he uttered the last syllable that she was safely en route toward the refreshments. There she was finally able to remedy her parched throat with a glass of ratafia and regard all those who passed with a dutiful, yet passive acknowledgement. It was a blissful and brief moment of calm.

  Then she felt him.

  Chapter 12

  It was peculiar to Ambrosia, that she could feel someone’s presence without actually seeing them. She glanced around the room, stopping when she locked him into her line of vision. Then he turned to meet her gaze. Dancing couples occluded her line of site, only to part and teasingly reveal him, over and over again.

  His hair was somewhat mussed, black locks casually tucked behind his ears. There was the smallest hint of yellow under one of his eyes. Undoubtedly, the remnant of his past week’s brawl as reported in the broadsheets—so she had heard from Tamsin. His clothing was simple, but it fit him well and exemplified his trim figure. His was indeed quite a fine build, possibly the finest in the room. Possibly all of England for all she knew. In a place where all the men were just as gussied up as the women, his lackadaisical approach to dress made him stand out—like a wolf amongst a herd of pampered, impeccably groomed sheep.

  Why did he have to look so . . . wild?

  He started moving through the dense crowd toward her. She unwittingly held her breath, waiting for one of the dancers to accidentally clip him, but they never did. It was as if he parted the dancers like Moses had the sea.

  For heaven’s sake, a metaphor of biblical proportions? Even she was becoming nauseated by the sentiment of her internal dialogue.

  Duncan strode toward her, not once taking his eyes off her. She set her cup down on a passing server and calmly waited for him, his destination obvious if only to her. She immediately started smoothing down her skirts, surprisingly self-conscious. She knew her gown was beautiful and had been told she was beautiful wearing it. But under the intense scrutiny of his hazel gaze she felt unsure, uncertain.

  Completely exposed, if only to him.

  “Miss Tisdale,” he announced with a sweeping bow.

  “Lord Bristol.” She dipped. “What are you doing here?”

  Admittedly a poor choice of words, but it was habit.

  “I was invited, don’t you remember? Or perhaps you’ve forgotten about me already? Besides, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. After all, I heard your mother serves the finest ratafia in all of London and I could hardly miss a treat like that.”

  A lie. The ratafia was warm and contained more water than any other ingredient.

  Obviously, ghastly ratafia could hardly be his primary motivation. Ambrosia eyed him suspiciously. “I know you were invited, and so my question still stands—what are you doing here? Aren’t they expecting you at White’s? Or perhaps a club with a more dubious distinction? I did happen to hear how fond you were of boxing.”

  He laughed. “I no doubt deserve that. But you cannot believe everything you hear or read. It was a hardly a fight,” he said pointing to his eye. “I would refer to it as more of a misunderstanding, really. I had hoped to spend some time with you this evening, if only to clear up some of these misconceptions that seem to follow me around like dogged companions.”

  “They couldn’t all be misconceptions, Lord Bristol.” She crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips.

  The music began to start up again. It was a waltz.

  “May I request the pleasure of having the most beautiful woman in the room dance with me?” he asked, bowing with exaggerated flourish.

  She exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. He was quite clever. Now that he had made his little fuss, she could hardly reject him without causing a scene and giving him an unintentional cut direct.

  “Fine,” she answered with typical London blasé. Yet, her heart’s fervent drumming against her chest implied anything but ennui.

  “I knew you would,” he smiled, looking more like a boy of twelve than a mature man. It was insufferably charming. She feared her chest would implode at the sweetness of it all.

  Duncan reached out, took her hand, and led her onto the dance floor. He wrapped one hand easily around her, pulling her as close to his body as was acceptable. She was close enough now that she was able to smell his scent. Brandy, cigars, leather—everything a man should smell like, but nothing like that of his peers.

  Though their distance would be judged appropriate by even the most straitlaced scrutiny, it was still too close for her own comfort. The tension-filled space between them made her entire body feel like an archer’s bow being drawn, taut with anticipation and feelings she had yet to put actual words to.

  She knew every set of eyes in the room were upon the odd pair—the chairperson of the ladies’ society being held by a man who couldn’t walk through Grosvenor Square without inciting a scandal. Her mother, whom was flitting about like a bee pollinating guests with greetings, smiles, and wit, would no doubt hear about it long before she would have opportunity to actually see it.

  Duncan spun her around the room with a grace that was unprecedented, despite her extensive experience. She was suddenly very aware of her own awkward steps. She raised her eyes to look into his, taking note of just how many lines crinkled at the corners when he smiled—which was often. He smiled much like her sister Tamsin—unadulterated, as if no care in the world could dampen his spirits. She was often jealous of her sister’s easy joy, but as she basked under the light of his, she too felt a bit more carefree.

  And that was what attracted her to this wicked man—the expectations of society, of her family, and herself were made lighter by proxy.

  The music coming from the orchestra drowned out the other couples and the spinning made her feel as if she were in some sort of inebriated state, despite indulging in only two cups of ratafia. Ambrosia was by no means a dainty woman, but in his arms she felt as if she were light as air.

  Duncan appeared cheerful, but not nearly as heady as she felt. “I hope you find my dancing agreeable. It is somewhat an area of pride for me. When I was younger, my uncle insisted I learn to dance well, and years later I am eternally grateful for the skill. In fact, I’ve been told many times that it is certainly the best thing I do . . . on two feet.” The gold flecks in his eyes flashed with the wicked innuendo of his statement.

  Startled by his bluntness, she rebuked him with silence and the arching of one eyebrow.

  He dramatically feigned shock. “I apologize if my frankness offended you. It was a lame attempt at humor, I swear. I was only trying to make you smile, but it would appear it had quite the opposite effect. I dare say—you are far too serious for your own good, Miss Tisdale.”

  “Perhaps I simply do not find your shocking words amusing, Lord Bristol.”

  In truth, she felt elation at his chiding.

  “You should
really start calling me Duncan. Lord Bristol was my brother. And my father before that.”

  It was her turn to feign shock. “That would hardly be proper, my Lord.”

  He leaned in so only she could hear. “I am surprised at your remark, Miss Tisdale.” He whispered her name with such delicious intonation that her toes curled in her slippers and the area deep inside her belly became warm. “Why not throw propriety to the wind. After all, it would not be the first time something improper transpired between us.” His wicked words were warm against her ear lobe and the hot touch of his breath sent a surge of heat through her thighs.

  Places on her body that had lain dormant were suddenly made awake.

  Places she hadn’t even known existed.

  “Lord Bristol. Your words are most shocking. It would serve you right if I stalked off straight away and left you alone here in the middle of the dance floor.” Excitement coursed through her, heightening with each flirtation.

  “But you won’t,” he stated confidently.

  “And what makes you so certain that I will not?”

  He took the next turn a bit more quickly, making her unsteady. Duncan pressed his hand more firmly against her back, drawing her closer and lending it support. “It would cause a scene. You would never dream of causing a scene, you’re far too prim for something so exciting. And besides, you enjoy dancing with me far too much.”

  His boldness brought a smile to her face. She tried, unsuccessfully to tamp it down the best she could.

  As her smile grew, his began to fade. She looked away, embarrassed.

  “Please don’t stop,” he said rather seriously. “You have an amazing smile and I wish for nothing more than to see it more often.” The statement was not nearly as jovial as his other conversation, and he spoke quickly after it. “I mean, it would be good if you did it more often. You are quite lovely when you smile.” The sentiment of his previous statement was not forgotten and hung between them like a fog, dense and all encompassing.

  “How is it that you wish to become better acquainted, my Lord?” Ambrosia asked, trying her hand at nuance and innuendo. Though all brand new to her, it was as if the game was inherent.

  Perhaps she had inherited it from her mother, who was renowned for her skillful flirtations.

  The corner of his mouth upturned slightly, a sly smile that held the promise of more banter to come.

  Duncan had intended nothing more than innocent flirtation. But as she responded, and actually proceeded to participate, he could not help himself. And to see her smile—well, the wonder he felt was so great he couldn’t help but say aloud the first words that had come to mind. The lyrical sentiment he had managed to emit sounded foreign to his own ears. Prose was most unlike him. But the pleasure of her smile had pulled the fanciful words out of some hidden maudlin part of him.

  “Tell me more about yourself. Tell me about your charity group.”

  The song ended. She curtsied deeply and he bowed, both exiting the dance floor together, allowing their conversation to continue as they strolled through the rooms of the Tisdale home.

  “I am the chairwoman for a ladies’ society. We assist in various ways, but our primary efforts are directed at helping young women.”

  He nodded. “Do you enjoy that kind of work, then?”

  “Immensely. It is a Tisdale tradition to serve the less fortunate.”

  “So, it was expected that you serve?” Duncan asked casually.

  “I suppose it was,” she answered uncertainly.

  “Would you still have joined if it had not been a tradition?”

  He reached out and briefly touched her bare elbow, leading her to the right and helping her avoid a gaggle of young women whose excessive ruffles and frills made them a danger to the safety of the other attendees. The touch of her bare skin sent a jolt of heat up his arm, his fingers seared to the fine, smooth flesh.

  “I didn’t even contemplate it. It’s what Tisdales do. Even if it weren’t, I do believe I would have stumbled upon it one way or another. I do so love the work. During the fall, we bestow upon families baskets filled to the brim with loaves of bread and tea and whatever else we can scrape up. The gifts are always received with such gratitude that it warms my heart unlike anything else. But I especially love the chance to speak with the young girls, to mentor them into respectable women. Not every girl has the opportunity to be sent to an academy, so for most, this is their only exposure to proper learning. I can think of no greater reward than knowing I have forever changed one girl’s life, be it through bread or knowledge.”

  He nodded, reluctantly allowing his hand to leave her elbow. “Ahh, I see. Sustenance in all forms.” Duncan flexed and unflexed his hand, trying to coax his nerves to settle down. “But what if you did not like it?”

  She shook her head. “An impossibility. But if it were so, it would not have mattered. It is my duty to serve my family and its status to the best of my abilities. Besides, one group could hardly be considered a chore. Now, my brother Thomas had kept an exhaustingly vigorous schedule of charitable endeavors. The poor boy was hardly ever at home and dedicated quite a bit of his short life to assisting others with far greater need than my young women.”

  Duncan slowed the pace, wanting to prolong for as long as possible the journey to whatever it was they were walking toward. “I think that is hardly fair. I am sure your young women have just as great a need as the recipients of your brother’s charities. You speak far too harshly of your own achievements.”

  “I would hardly call what I do an achievement. My brother . . . ”

  Duncan stopped and turned to face her. “I do not wish to speak of your brother. I had asked after your interests, Miss Tisdale.”

  She stared at him, her blank expression making her thoughts undistinguishable. After a moment, Ambrosia turned and resumed walking without him.

  “I embroider skillfully, play the pianoforte, and sing quite adequately. I draw with enough skill to recreate recognizable flowers and small woodland creatures.”

  “My, my. You certainly are accomplished. I’m sure you are quite talented in each of those areas and a half dozen more you’ve neglected to share with me.” He hadn’t purposefully intended to sound sardonic, but it could not be helped.

  There was probably nothing Miss Tisdale could not do.

  “Only because I work diligently to become so. I must keep a rigorous schedule to ensure that I am able to complete all my lessons for the week. For some, like my brother, achievements and skill come easy. I have the misfortune of having to work for every accomplishment.” Her shoulders straightened, as if being physically stretched by the tension from exposing her vulnerabilities.

  “And what is it that you do?” Ambrosia asked, deflecting the focus off herself.

  The question caught him off guard. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, what is it that you do?” she repeated.

  “Do?” he asked again.

  She humphed. “How do you occupy your time?” This time she spoke each word a bit more staccato.

  He still did not answer. Duncan had understood the question from the first, but frankly hadn’t wanted to present an answer. “I am a gentleman of leisure,” he finally declared.

  “Still, your leisure has to consist of some sort of activity. What is it that you do on a regular basis?”

  Gambling, frequenting brothels, drinking to excess.

  “Not much in particular.”

  She seemed perplexed. “Well, what is it that you enjoy doing?”

  Gambling, frequenting brothels, drinking to excess. And eating—he liked that, too.

  “Not much in particular,” he repeated.

  They had reached a rather secluded area, shielded by large plants strategically placed for privacy. “We all must fill our lives with some worthwhile pursuit,” she said after considering his answer. “Without purpose, there would be no reason for our existence.”

  Duncan leaned against a pillar, contemplating her word
s. Was that indeed all he had? Surely, he had some interests outside of debauchery. Really, when he thought about it, he was no better than a pirate. Even less—after all, pirates at least had a profession. It would appear he was a gentleman of leisure . . . without a worthwhile leisure to speak of. “Tell me, Miss Tisdale, do you play cards?”

  A change of subject could do wonders for one’s self-esteem.

  “I do on occasion, when time allows, of course. And yourself?”

  “Yes. It’s one of my leisurely pursuits.” He was glad to have named at least one.

  “And are you quite good, then?”

  “One of the best.”

  He could have sworn that he saw the slightest smile play upon her mouth. He let his gaze fix upon her lips again. Those plump lips conjured up images that were completely inappropriate even to think about at an event such as this. Every so often she would bite the bottom one, most noticeably when she was trying to hold her tongue, tempting him to seize upon them with his own teeth.

  “And what makes you think you’re so good?”

  Again, he withheld the urge to make an inappropriate remark. “I play frequently and win often enough against my friends. Even a noted gambler like Kenning hasn’t beaten me in years.”

  She chuckled. “That is hardly proof of one’s success. Kenning is one of the worst card players I have come to know.”

  Duncan felt a twinge of something—jealousy? “And how is it that you are so familiar with the Duke’s abilities in cards? Rumor?”

  “I do not engage in gossip, Lord Bristol. I do, in fact, have it on personal knowledge. I have been friends with his younger sister for years and have had the benefit, or detriment, of playing against him many times. And he has yet to beat me.”

  “Is that a challenge, then?”

  She dared smile again, briefly. But for that time, Miss Tisdale appeared carefree and happy. And Duncan could only marvel at the site. She was stunning when happy. Her entire face lit up and those impossibly dark blue eyes shined. He bent down and stole a kiss. Thankfully, they were shielded by a strategically placed plant atop a pillar.