Compromising Miss Tisdale

by Jessica Jefferson

  She lost control.

  Control of the situation, control of her emotions, even control of her very body seemed to vanish while in Duncan’s presence. And at such a crucial time in her life, she could hardly tolerate lapses in character or judgment. She needed to settle upon a husband—soon, while the choice was still hers to make. Every Season that she remained unmarried forced her toward a moment when she would no longer have choices available to her. Her beauty would one day fade and she would no longer be the master of her own fate with the world as her oyster and every man an option. Every Season that she remained unmarried brought her a bit closer to losing control and her future would no longer be hers to influence.

  The Earl of Bristol was an unwarranted complication and a wholly unwelcome distraction.

  And of all the evenings to be distracted—this was certainly not one of them. Ambrosia knew the motives behind tonight’s ball all too well. She had seen the guest list, a flagrant display of influential parental match-making. All of London’s finest bachelors would be in attendance. Lord and Lady Tisdale couldn’t have been more obvious than if they had placed her upon a silver platter and presented her at dinner to a room full of men.

  Her fourth Season.

  And there could not be a fifth.

  A knock at the door startled her back to the task at hand.

  “Oh, Lilly,” Ambrosia breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad it’s you.”

  “Of course it’s me. Who else would it have been?”

  “Mama,” Ambrosia answered bluntly. “Rose maybe?”

  “Or worse, Tamsin.” Lilly settled into the chaise facing the vanity. “You’re lucky she’s not yet old enough to attend. I fully expect the girl will shock us all and make her debut in a pair of breeches.” She hesitated before continuing on. “Is everything all right? You seem nervous.”

  Ambrosia balked, dismissing the accusation with the back of her hand. “Don’t be absurd. I am certainly not nervous. After all, I never get nervous.” She bit her lip. “But it is incredibly warm. I dare say I am absolutely wilting from this heat. A lady never wilts . . . or perspires for that matter. Good gracious, why is it so warm in here? Is the fireplace lit?”

  Lilly eyed her suspiciously. “It’s nothing but embers. And I do not feel warm.”

  “If it gets any warmer, I’ll simply have to make my appearance clad only in my chemise and nothing else,” her voice had escalated and was bordering upon shrill.

  Lilly picked up a fan from a nearby table and worked on creating a breeze. “Now, now, there’s no need for such rash behavior . . . or state of undress. Ambrosia, are you certain that you are not unwell? Your face is quite flushed. Perhaps it is your choice in gown? It does cover you quite completely from neck to ankles. And what is that fabric—wool? Or perhaps it is burlap?”

  “I would appreciate it if you could please stop harassing me regarding my choice in gowns. I looked like a common Cyprian in the last one you chose for me. This is a proper gown, with a proper cut. All questionable parts are properly contained.”

  “Properly hideous. What is that color? Baby excrement? Is that what is popular on the continent right now?”

  Ambrosia looked down at what she had regarded as dark mint colored sleeves. “What is wrong with the color? It’s a lovely shade of green.”

  “Lovely? Your gown looks seasick. Now heed my warning—that color will most certainly repel men. Is that what you want? To actually repel men?”

  “Of course not. I want nothing more than to find a suitable husband, tonight if at all possible. What else would you have me wear?”

  Lilly made her way into the closet and came out with an ivory gown with gold trim about the skirt and bodice. “This gown is divine! You absolutely must wear this one. I’d change into it myself if I had the figure you do.”

  Ambrosia took the dress without dispute, slipped behind a screen, and began undressing.

  “Are you sure you won’t tell me what’s wrong?” Lilly asked, handing Ambrosia a matching ribbon.

  Ambrosia popped her head out from an ornately painted dressing screen, eyebrow raised. “Whatever leads you to believe there is something wrong?”

  Lilly grinned proudly. “Because you just took my advice without any argument whatsoever. You, Ambrosia Tisdale have the firmest personality of anyone I have ever met. To see you so easily swayed is both uplifting and eerily disturbing.”

  Ambrosia quickly came out from behind the screen for her sister to assist her in fastening the gown. The ivory of the dress did compliment her peaches and cream coloring, while the cut hugged her figure quite closely. The light played off the elaborate gold embroidery, drawing attention to all her best assets. Her hair was piled high upon her head with an ivory ribbon weaving its way in contrast through her thick, dark curls. She retook her seat at the vanity while her maid strategically placed gold beads throughout her chestnut tresses as she sorted through her collection of gold and diamond jewelry.

  “I suppose I am a bit anxious about finding a husband. I thought I had more time, yet I do not. Tamsin is close to coming of age and being introduced into society. I must accept an offer soon or step aside for the other girls.”

  Lilly folded her arms over her chest. “I wish I knew what it is that you’ve been waiting for. With all the offers you’ve received, how could you possibly find reason to refuse every single one? If it is a fear of matrimony, let me put your mind at ease. There is something particularly reassuring about being off the market and no longer having to worry about finding a husband. When I fell in love, it was as if a great burden was lifted off my shoulders.”

  “Tell me again about your courtship with Lord Colton.” Ambrosia slipped a gold bangle over her ivory glove. “What made you certain that he was indeed the man you wanted to spend your life with? Because quite honestly, at this point, there are very few I can imagine spending more than a dance with, let alone an eternity.”

  Lilly exhaled deeply and her gaze drifted off as she slipped into some romantic reverie. “At the time I didn’t believe it to be obvious, but on reflection I was a fool not to have seen it sooner.”

  “So, it was love at first site then? Like in one of those gothic novels Rose used to hide under her mattress.”

  “Quite the opposite, actually.”

  Ambrosia slipped on a dainty gold slipper. “What do you mean? You just said it was obvious.”

  Lilly straightened a wrinkle out of her gown, smoothing the taffeta down repeatedly as she spoke. “It was obvious only in the fact that it was hardly subtle. I’m afraid the whole thing was most uncomfortable. It wasn’t suddenly disabling, but rather it came on more gradually, much like a chronic condition of sorts.”

  “Love as a chronic condition?”

  “Well, yes,” Lillian continued to explain. “I would tremble horribly whenever he was near me. My mouth would become dry, my back would sweat. I would have an overwhelming sense of nausea whenever he came about. Not to mention I behaved like an incomparable idiot. The whole thing was most dreadful.”

  “That doesn’t sound like love. It sounds like ague.”

  Lilly paid no mind to the remark. She was used to her sister’s derision. “Well, I told you it was a chronic condition of sorts. I have to admit that it does sound a bit like illness, but I assure you, even when it was the most uncomfortable, it was also the most wonderful feeling I ever had.”

  Ambrosia was skeptical. “So you were ill with love? Sounds exhilarating. I can hardly wait.”

  “Why are you asking about this now?” Lilly asked, taking it upon herself to sample Ambrosia’s perfume, spritzing liberally across the bosom. “Is there a certain man whom you hope will make you feel all those wonderfully dreadful feelings?”

  Ambrosia turned her attention back to perfecting her appearance. “Well, there are plenty of men whom make me ill, but I am afraid none for the better.” She stood up and spun around for the benefit of her sister’s appraisal. “What do you think of all your hard wo
rk? Am I finally acceptable?”

  Lilly clasped her hands together enthusiastically. “Magnificent! You look almost Grecian with your hair arranged like that. A true goddess! I simply cannot fathom how any man could possibly resist you. You are truly a beauty and I am certain tonight you will finally decide your husband.” She reached over and took Ambrosia’s hands in her own. “You realize Mama has the highest hopes for you tonight?”

  She took a deep breath. “I assumed as much.”

  “She’s gone through the trouble to pad the guest list with every eligible bachelor left in London.”

  Ambrosia dismissed the comment with a flip of her hand. “All of whom I’m sure I’ve met before. She desperately needs to find new stock if she expects me to settle down anytime soon.”

  Lilly cast her sister a sideways glance. “Are you positive there isn’t anything else the matter?”

  She put on a brave smile, uncomfortable with this new sense of vulnerability. “No, of course there isn’t.” She needed to marry, her prospects were drying up, and the Earl of Bristol was complicating an already complicated situation. “Things are practically perfect.”

  Lilly stood up and Ambrosia escorted her to the door of her bedroom. “I will see you again downstairs. Remember, you are lovely and tonight I know an irresistible offer will certainly come your way!” She exhaled dreamily. “You are so fortunate to attend the ball as a young, unattached female—without care or obligation. You must relish these final days.”

  Lilly kissed each of her cheeks.

  “Without care or obligation,” Ambrosia repeated to herself.

  What a foolish notion.

  A loud chime came from the grandfather clock in the hall. Nine chimes—nine o’clock.

  It was time to make her entrance.

  The Tisdale home, like that of many great families, housed a magnificent ballroom. Vases of pink and white roses lined the perimeter of the room. Freshly bees-waxed floors reflected the light of a dozen looming crystal chandeliers adorning the chapel-height ceilings. The ballroom itself was separated into two levels, the first off the foyer where guests could be properly met and greeted before descending down to the next level. From there, a gilded staircase led each guest to the main dancing area where they would be announced, then subsequently doted upon by the staff. The Tisdales firmly believed in overindulgence through hospitality, so dozens of footmen had been made available to see that no glass of champagne ran dry and no guest went hungry. No invitation dare be declined, resulting in hundreds of guests circling Mayfair, waiting to be seen making their fashionable entrances into the grand home. An invitation from the Viscountess was highly coveted since she only ever hosted two events a year—the spring ball and an exclusive house party at the family’s country estate, Brightly.

  Ambrosia descended the grand staircase, escorted by her father. When she arrived at the bottom, she was rushed by groups of gentleman requesting their obligatory daughter of the hostess dance, which she dutifully muddled through with the necessary grace and decorum. She had become quite adept over the Seasons at fooling others into thinking she was a satisfactory enough dancer.

  From there the night progressed rather uneventfully.

  “You look quite pretty tonight, Ambrosia,” Amelia said later over a plate of tarts. “Did your sister Lillian have anything to do with your choice in gown?”

  Ambrosia frowned.

  Was it that obvious?

  “It was a collaboration,” she said flatly. “And you, also look . . . very nice.” Only, Ambrosia didn’t quite mean it. Amelia had curled every inch of her hair in tight ringlets that framed her round face in a most unflattering way. It would appear that married life was treating her quite generously—at least in the areas where nourishment was concerned. The dear girl had put on nearly a stone, thus resulting in her puce dress being a bit too snug for her already ample figure that threatened to expose itself with the slightest jiggle.

  “Why thank you! I had it made right before the wedding. It’s lovely that French fashion is once again en vogue since those are the styles that truly exemplify my figure. Look at this bodice. It does wonders for my natural assets, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Ambrosia was convinced that Amelia’s bursting bosom was certain to make its appearance at the first notes of a quadrille. She’d have to advise the orchestra as such.

  “A wonder indeed,” she replied graciously. Sometimes less was more . . . more polite, anyways.

  “Don’t you fret, Ambrosia. When you are married, you will be able to wear gowns constructed in the most daring of fashions. Which reminds me, have you noticed any prospective husbands tonight?”

  “Not yet, but the evening is still young and full of promise.” Ambrosia answered matter-of-factly and really quite convincingly. So much so that she nearly believed it herself.

  “My brother should be in attendance tonight, but unfortunately will be coming sans escort. I’m afraid Lady Kenning was feeling quite poorly, but does send her regards.”

  “Please convey to her our warmest wishes for a quick recovery.” And that she did mean. Lord Kenning was far better behaved with the watchful eye of an escort than without.

  Amelia nodded. “Of course.”

  Lord Middlebury, a tall man with decently handsome looks, sauntered up and took his wife by the hand. “Might I borrow Amelia for a dance? I do miss her company, terribly.” He dramatically presented a pout to his wife.

  Ambrosia felt warmed by the sincerity in his voice. It was quite fortunate that Amelia had found such a loving husband in the Marquis. She could have had any man she wanted, but Amelia’s interests were such that she was motivated by incentives far less noble than love. Amelia would have married a ninety year old, portly, bald lecher if his accounts were large enough. But the Marquis had fallen in love with her at first sight, and luckily had a large enough fortune to keep her interest.

  Amelia slapped her husband playfully with her fan. “It’s not proper to adore one’s own wife in public.”

  “Then perhaps we could pretend that you are my mistress?”

  “Oh, you’re wicked!” Amelia giggled wildly as Lord Middlebury led her back toward the dance floor.

  Ambrosia remained where they had left her, alone, despite the numerous guests that surrounded her.

  She looked about the room, casually searching through the visitors for nobody in particular, or so she tried to convince herself. She quickly ascertained that Lord Bristol was not in attendance despite his assurance to be otherwise. Not that she was intentionally looking for him, or that it mattered overly much.

  Though the casual observation did give her the smallest sense of disappointment.

  Her parents were off dancing, as well as her sister and Lord Colton. After Thomas died, Ambrosia had grown distant from her friends. As a consequence, she often found herself alone at social gatherings. Only, before she hadn’t minded. But as she watched Amelia spinning ‘round with her husband and the women from the Ladies’ Society engaged in dances with their respective husbands, she felt a yearning that she hadn’t experienced before.

  She wanted to dance.

  It was as if the entire world was on the dance floor and she could only watch from the fringes.

  Foolishly, she thought the evening could not get any worse.

  “Ambrosia?”

  She shut her eyes tightly, refusing to turn to meet his voice.

  The man stood closely behind her, his soft voice brushing the skin on the back of her exposed neck. “Why is it the most beautiful woman in the room is standing in the corner like some common wallflower?”

  Ambrosia pretended to be engrossed by the slow steps of the dance unfolding upon the floor before her. “Because she’s just danced several times in a row and desperately needs a rest.” Still, she did not bother to turn and acknowledge the man from whence the voice came.

  “Then how fortunate for you I have come bearing ratafia,” Lord Kenning stepped out from behind, producing a tempting glas
s of the red beverage and blocking her line of vision.

  Ambrosia swallowed with some amount of difficulty. She was terribly parched, but to accept the ratafia from James was tantamount to becoming his mistress in his depraved mind. “What a kind offer, Your Grace, but I am afraid I must decline. I have already had some ratafia and though it was quite delicious, I’d hate to be a glutton.”

  “Very well, then,” James took the ratafia and drank it quickly before setting the empty crystal glass on the server of a passing footman. “Now that my hand is once again empty, we can take advantage of this talented orchestra and have a dance.” He reached out and grabbed her by the gloved hand, tugging her in the direction of the dance floor.

  She planted her feet firmly on the ground and gently tugged back so not to be caught off balance. “I apologize, yet again. But, I was resting through this song so that I might enjoy more dancing later. You see, my new slippers are being most unkind to my feet.”

  James’ confident smile did not falter, but the slightest narrowing of his hard, blue eyes indicated that the privileged Duke was indeed becoming quite vexed over her disinterest. His was the type of confidence that was bestowed upon birth, not earned. James’ smile oozed with entitlement, relaying to all that he fully expected to get exactly what it was for which he asked. Rejection was not part of his repertoire.

  “Very well, then. Perhaps I may have the pleasure of your company during the next song?”

  It was not merely a request, but a command.

  Luckily, Ambrosia had considerable experience with rejecting powerful men. After all, the paltry refusal of a dance was insignificant when compared to the crushing rejection of a marriage proposal.

  “Taken. Again, I do apologize. My dance card is already quite full and I fear I may not be able to accommodate your request for the remainder of the evening.” Her words were polite, but the tone by which they were spoken was thick with disdain. With each interaction, she was finding her contempt for the man more and more difficult to disguise.