Compromising Miss Tisdale

by Jessica Jefferson

  She finally turned her gaze away from the tree and looked at him. “Lord Bristol! I would think you of all people should be sympathetic. Didn’t you just finish telling me how your past had shaped who you are today? Even if I regard you as someone whose so much more than what you believe yourself to be?”

  Damn her logic.

  “Duncan,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Duncan,” he repeated. “I’ve asked you to please stop referring to me as Lord Bristol.” That name was not his own and he hated hearing it. He was once a Maddox, and now he was simply Bristol. Bristol—a name filled with impossible expectations, a name that taunted him every time he heard it. A name that was never supposed to be his.

  “But it’s who you are,” she countered. “Unless you feel you’re survival was a mistake as well.”

  As if cued by something greater than the both of them, Duncan’s fishing pole began to dance.

  “A fish!” Ambrosia shouted. “There are never fish to be had in this pond!”

  Duncan grabbed the pole and began fighting with his catch. “What do you mean? Colton said the pond was stocked full of them.”

  Ambrosia was beside herself. “Of course there aren’t. Do you think I would ever swim in a pond populated by fish? Certainly not! William was lying to you, probably in a selfish ploy to get away from the rest of the guests.”

  Duncan struggled with the pole, trying to keep his balance on the unlevel boulders under his feet.

  “You’re going to lose it. Perhaps if you moved your wrist . . . ”

  He was in a fight for his life with what had to be the first whale ever to take up residence in an English pond and hardly needed Miss Tisdale to instruct him on the proper way to bring in his catch.

  “Steady your feet,” she ordered.

  “For a woman who’s never fished before, you certainly have strong opinions,” he barked back.

  Ambrosia set her arms akimbo, then picked up her skirts and started making her way toward him. “Let me do it,” she commanded.

  Duncan would have been very annoyed if it wasn’t for the vast expanse of stocking-covered legs she was unwittingly exposing.

  Ambrosia jumped from rock to rock effortlessly. Then, she came down wrong and hit a slick piece of moss dressing the top of one of the stones.

  She slipped. She did her best to regain her balance, but by then it was too late. Duncan saw her start to teeter and raised his hand, but the distance was a hair too great for him to reach her in time. Falling was inevitable. She quickly went down, her bottom landing in the thick black mud that ran along the length of the creek.

  In a situation such as this, it was the gentleman’s responsibility to quickly offer his assistance with the utmost discretion.

  But Duncan never claimed to be a gentleman.

  There was no saving her, so he had no obligation to react heroically. He tried to stifle a laugh with his palm pressed firmly against his mouth, but nothing could help the boisterous sound from bubbling over. He dropped the pole into the water—his catch escaping unscathed. Which is more than he could say for Miss Tisdale.

  Ambrosia’s bonnet had fallen over her face, so her expression was completely obscured. All he saw were her delicate shoulders shaking. Fearing the girl was racked with sobs, he was finally able to contain his laughter long enough to make it over to her and inquire after her well-being.

  “Ambrosia?” he asked cautiously, squatting down in front of her.

  That’s when she lunged at him, knocking them both in the shallow water. Duncan fell first into the pond with Ambrosia flat on the top of him. He pushed off her bonnet, exposing a woman inundated by a fit of hilarity.

  He laughed, thoroughly surprised by her deviousness. Not to be outdone, he seized her by the shoulders and rolled her over so that she was now submerged in the shallow water, with his body hovering over hers.

  They locked glances. She was smiling, actually smiling. Duncan lowered himself, allowing his mouth to cover hers softly. He tested her limits, playfully nipping at her lips, then sampling her mouth sparingly with his tongue. Then he felt her wrap her arms around his neck, clinging more tightly than she ever had and he allowed himself to seize her with his kiss. Duncan ran his hand down her chest and waist, and palmed the outline of her breast, now prominent through the wet, gauzy fabric. Ambrosia raised one leg, nestling him tighter against her. He could feel her warmth radiating between her legs and he ground his body into hers.

  “Duncan,” she breathed against his neck.

  He made a guttural sound, unable to produce actual words at this point in his arousal. His name on her lips practically brought him to his peak.

  “Duncan,” she breathed again.

  “Yes, say my name. I love to hear you say it.”

  “Duncan,” she repeated, this time with a bit less breath and slightly more assertive.

  “Yes, my darling,” he said in between kisses against the column of her neck and the generous swelling of the tops of her breasts.

  “There’s someone coming.”

  He stopped, face level at the crevice between her breasts, and listened—a difficult feat given the discordance of his own breath.

  Someone was indeed calling after them. Him, specifically.

  Duncan rolled off her and offered his hand to assist her in standing. Ambrosia took it, and with some effort, he was able to extricate her from the mire.

  “Thank you,” she said, still breathless. She tried to adjust her bonnet, to no avail.

  He reached over and tried to set it right upon her head. “Why is it this only happens when I’m wet?” he mused.

  She smiled shyly. “I hadn’t realized . . . ”

  He held the ribbons in each of his hands, bringing one over the other and tying them into a knot. He paused when the knot had tightened around her chin and stared at her for a moment. Her beautiful dress was ruined, thoroughly soaked through and caked with mud. Her hair hung in clumps of tangles about her shoulders, bits and pieces of grass sticking out from under her bonnet. Even her face, usually unmarred by any sort of spot or freckle was streaked with clay and perspiration.

  Even at her messiest, she was still more perfect than he could possibly deserve.

  She stared back at him, then reached out and took her ribbons. “You’re doing it all wrong.” Her words weren’t meant to be unkind, but only to break the spell before they were discovered.

  “Lord Bristol,” called an approaching footman.

  “Yes?” he called back.

  “There’s a messenger at the house for you. He says it’s most urgent.”

  Ambrosia looked at Duncan, clearly able to read the thoughts that were looming in his mind. Only his uncle knew he was there.

  Something was wrong with Richard.

  Chapter 22

  Ambrosia stared out the window, her hair still damp from her bath.

  His Uncle Richard had sent word of his deteriorating condition. Duncan left without gathering any of his belongings, nor saying goodbye.

  She ought to have felt relief with distance separating them again. Isn’t that why she had been so pleased to travel to Brightly in the first place? For space? For clarity?

  Yet, as she watched his carriage grow smaller with distance, the coat of arms barely recognizable, she felt a particular sense of loss. Even with him gone, control over her emotions were utterly lost.

  Lillian joined her and looked out the window onto the road leading up to the home. “I hope Mr. Maddox feels better.”

  Ambrosia let out a breath. “He won’t.”

  “That’s not very sporting of you,” Lilly said, fidgeting a bit in her seat. Lillian was ever the optimist—even in the face of chronic ailments.

  “Duncan looked so distressed. I do worry how he will handle it all.” Ambrosia stared at her hands in her lap.

  Both girls sat there, staring at gloved hands upon their day gowns. “You love him, don’t you?” Lilly said, finally interrupting the silence.
>
  Ambrosia hesitated to give an answer. “I suppose I possess a certain fondness for him.”

  “And has he declared his intentions toward you?”

  “Yes. He has none.”

  Lilly balked. “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “Those kinds of men do not marry for love, if ever at all.”

  Lillian patted her sister’s knee firmly. “If that were true, I would indeed be a spinster today. Those kinds of men do indeed marry . . . when they fall in love.” She stood up, reaching out for her hand. “Don’t pine away at the window. The guests will talk poorly of you.” Lillian perked up, her eyes growing wide. “I know just the thing that will cheer you up! And it would help the Earl greatly.”

  “Oh, Lilly, your ideas are seldom good.”

  Lilly dismissed her bleak remark with a wave of the hand. “He left all of those old ledgers here. You heard how much he detested combing through them and the task still remains undone. It would be terribly forward, but perhaps you should review the accounts. You are so good with numbers, not to mention it would keep your mind busy till you hear from him again.”

  Ambrosia vehemently shook her head in opposition. “Absolutely not. A woman going through his accounts without invitation to do so is not just forward—it’s practically immoral.”

  Lillian waved a disapproving finger. “Hardly. He left all of those books just sitting upon the desk in the library. If you are so worried about being found out, we could simply say we had our solicitor look over them. You’ve still done him a tremendous favor at a time he needs no other complications. He’ll be wracked with grief over his uncle, the last thing he needs are reminders of his brother.”

  Ambrosia absorbed her sister’s words and decidedly agreed with them. He wouldn’t need to find out it was her per se. And the library would provide a welcome reprieve from the bustle of the party. More guests arrived every day and it was only a matter of time before her mother began exploring other avenues of interest as they pertain to potential suitors. Soon, Brightly would be overrun with unwed gentleman and she would be expected to play ever the gracious host.

  Hours later, Ambrosia found herself lighting another candle, the natural light provided by the windows ceasing hours ago when the sun finally departed for the evening. Her head ached from all the squinting, but she found herself unable to turn away from the sheets of foolscap with scribbled arithmetic across them.

  The ledgers of Jason Maddox, former Earl of Bristol had revealed more than she could have ever imagined. Years of reviewing her father’s books had yielded nothing but the occasional misplaced number. Tonight, she finally understood why her father insisted on combing over the accounts even after his man of affairs had reviewed them.

  Ambrosia closed the book and rested her head upon the cover, considering her options.

  All she could see was Duncan.

  “Ambrosia?”

  She startled and looked toward the voice. “Tamsin,” she said, settling down again. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  The girl shrugged, looking more like a young boy than of a lady ten and seven. Tamsin’s hair was left down and she wore a baggy gown that gaped across her chest. She found a chair in close proximity to the desk and threw her legs over the side, lounging like some sort of Greek goddess waiting to be fed her grapes. “You were too enraptured by your work to notice. What are you doing anyways?”

  “Reviewing some things. Why aren’t you off with the others somewhere? Or at the very least, why aren’t you hiding from the others somewhere?”

  Tamsin shrugged and allowed her head to fall back over the arm rest. “It’s quite a slow day here at Brightly. Oh, did I tell you the housekeeper rehired that maid you had let go. I saw her working in the kitchens this morning, so it would appear she’s obtained a transfer.”

  Ambrosia didn’t bother to look up from the numbers at hand. “A mistake, surely.”

  Tamsin shook her head. “I asked one of the other kitchen girls who made the decision and it appears it was mother who gave her approval.”

  “Mother has always been a bit of a tender heart.”

  Tamsin snorted. “Or she simply thrives on spectacle. Just look at the Earl. Why else would she have invited a man like that? Speaking of, what happened to Lord Bristol? I saw the Earl’s carriage leave at what could only be described as breakneck speed. Please tell me you finally sent the man on his way?”

  Ambrosia shook her head. “No. I am afraid he left under his volition rather than at my suggestion. He received word that his uncle’s condition had deteriorated and was trying to make it back to London before . . . well, he wanted to make it back in time.”

  Tamsin sat up a little straighter. “Oh, I didn’t know. I thought perhaps . . . ” her voice trailed off. “Well, no matter what I thought. It’s no secret that I don’t like the man, but I do feel for him.”

  Ambrosia made a circle around one of the entries. “I am quite certain the Earl wouldn’t want your pity.”

  “It’s not pity,” she protested. “It’s common decency. The man’s going to lose his uncle. It’s hard enough to lose someone you love, let alone when that someone is the only family you have in the world. I remember how you used to hold me when I’d cry about Tom. I can’t imagine how awful it would have been without having you there.”

  Ambrosia was moved by her sister’s insight. Thomas’ death was difficult enough to absorb, let alone without the aid of one’s family. Duncan would face his uncle’s death without anyone to help absorb the burden.

  Tamsin threw her legs back to the floor and sat in the chair properly. “I suppose he’ll be alright. I assume a person becomes used to not depending on anyone else when there simply isn’t anyone else.”

  Ambrosia set the quill down. “Tamsin, you sound as if your opinion of the Earl has softened again.”

  Tamsin shrugged, her bony shoulders falling considerably. “I never hated the Earl. I was simply put off by his behavior. At least of what I read of it in the scandal sheets.”

  Ambrosia fought a smile. “I thought you loved to read of his exploits? The races, the gambling, the fights?”

  “But not the women.”

  Ambrosia cleared her throat and once again took on the role of mothering hen. “This is hardly proper discussion for a girl of your age. Do you see now why I avoid that rubbish?”

  Tamsin rolled her eyes. “Please, Ambrosia. I was corrupt long before I learned to read the broad papers.” She thought for a moment as if debating how to continue. “I had hoped he was the one for you. You obviously love him.”

  Ambrosia held her breath.

  It was Tamsin’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “I could tell. Despite opinions to the contrary, I am quite astute and could tell the very day he came to call on you.”

  “Love is a bit presumptuous,” Ambrosia countered after regaining the ability to breathe again.

  “Fondness, taken a liking to, whatever it is you’re intent on calling it. You obviously feel something for the man.”

  Ambrosia nodded. “Animosity? Disdain?”

  They both knew she was fibbing.

  Tamsin smiled briefly as if to say I told you so. “And I thought perhaps it was reciprocal. But then I read such scathing reports about him and all I heard was talk about his dalliances. The man’s a rake. Even more so than William was.”

  Lillian’s husband hadn’t always been as gallant as he was currently and the not-so-distant recollections of his spotted past weren’t completely forgotten by the pack of somewhat overbearing sisters.

  “I had such hopes,” Tamsin continued. “I just knew that he was the man that would bring you happiness. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you happy—genuinely happy. And I fear that you may never allow yourself to be happy again. It’s been so different since . . . ”

  Tamsin didn’t have to say aloud the words that hung in the air like a stale, suffocating heat.

  Since Thomas died.

  Ambrosia hadn’t been genuinely happy since
Thomas died.

  But how could she, when she was far too busy trying to be him to worry about herself.

  Ambrosia lifted her quill from the ink well and began to write again, signifying the end of their conversation. Tamsin picked up on the not so subtle hint and began making her way out the door.

  “Tamsin?” Ambrosia called toward the girl once she had reached out to turn the door knob.

  “Yes,” she called back without turning.

  “You’re not nearly as bad as Lilly says you are.”

  Tamsin laughed loudly as she exited the room, the halls echoing with the melodic sound.

  Ambrosia sat there in the dimly lit room for some time after the ginger-tressed heathen had left. The fire was nothing but embers and the last candle was dangerously close to extinguishing itself and leaving her alone in the darkness. But her legs refused to budge, tethered by invisible ropes to the floor, rendering her unable to returning to her own chambers.

  She had come to Brightly in search of clarity. And suddenly, it seemed as if she had finally found it.

  She always did what was right; which was always proper and appropriate.

  But what if what was right was actually neither proper, nor appropriate?

  What if the best way to honor her brother’s life was to live like him—true to his self and exemplifying his character?

  It would seem clarity would come at a cost and Ambrosia was at a crossroads.

  She set in front of her two fresh pieces of foolscap, dipped her quill into the ink pot, and began constructing her first letter, addressing it to Lillian.

  Chapter 23

  At half past six the next evening, Ambrosia stood upon the doorstep of a fashionable address near Grovesnor Square. A footman clad in velvet green with gold cording opened the door and escorted her into the foyer. He made no secret of the fact that he was searching for her escort, peering around her as if the size of her hips could have possibly eclipsed a second person.