The kiss was soft and quick, over just as soon as it began. But it was potent, leaving them both speechless and staring at each other.
She swallowed, appearing to want to say something, but did not. Her quickened pulse was obvious in that thin, white column of exposed neck. He knew she was affected. Greatly. Ambrosia was always so confident that the few moments when she actually showed self-doubt were particularly endearing.
“I really should be getting back. I’m sure mama has spoken on my behalf and filled my dance card with a throng of random gentleman by now.”
“Dance with me again,” he implored, grabbing her hand.
She stared at her hand in his, frowned, but did not make the effort to remove it. “I cannot dance with the same gentleman twice. It would be highly improper and I fear that it would send a most false message.”
“Perhaps it isn’t false. Perhaps it is exactly the message I hope to send.”
She inhaled sharply. “You speak with a silver-tongue, my Lord. I doubt you yourself even know what manner of message you want to send.” With that, she finally took back her hand and joined the rest of the guests, quickly becoming lost amongst the crush.
Despite his efforts, she obviously had reservations concerning his intentions.
Clever girl.
For he wasn’t even sure the manner of his intentions.
Ambrosia’s mother had indeed spoken for her and taken the liberty of promising the next dance to Lord Kenning.
“Your Grace,” she acknowledged as they took their position amongst the other dancers.
“Ambrosia,” he bowed. “You look lovely tonight. Did you find my sister then?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Is the duchess terribly ill? Amelia relayed to me that she could not be in attendance this evening.”
He shook his head. “I am afraid she has a cold.”
“Pity.”
“I shouldn’t think so,” he said casually. “I saw you dancing with Bristol earlier.”
She glared at him. “I dance with many men.”
“Yes, but only save kisses behind plants for the very special ones.”
Ambrosia almost stopped mid-step. “Did he tell you that?”
Kenning smiled. “Of course not. I saw you two with my own eyes. Tell me, is he the prospect you’ve been waiting for?”
She kept a straight face and continued with the series of steps. “I don’t see how that is of any of your business.”
“Of course it isn’t. I do apologize if I have upset you in any way.” He allowed his hand to graze the back of her skirts as she passed in front of him. “I care only for your welfare.”
“I’m sure you do,” she responded coldly. Ambrosia went through the motions while keeping a frosty distance. She couldn’t help but compare the two men—Kenning lacked the inherent grace the Earl possessed and the dance felt more like a chore than a pleasure. Upon reflection, dancing had always been a chore. Of course, she had never been as good at it as she had other skills, but could hardly be considered inept. But she had always found her partners to be lacking and so dancing had always been more of a duty than a diversion.
Tonight, Ambrosia had learned to love dancing.
Though not with Lord Kenning.
The music from the orchestra came to an end on a high note. Ambrosia began to distance herself from the duke, but his hand seized her elbow as quick as a viper. “You should know that I care for you a great deal.”
Ambrosia looked around, sensing the curious stares of the other dancers boring holes into her gown. “I am well aware of that fact. You’ve always been an attentive friend.”
“I would be far more than a friend to you,” he said the words softly, but sternly. “If only you would give me the opportunity. I have plans for my future. A future I hope to share with you in certain capacities.”
He dropped her elbow, more gently than he had first grasped it. Ambrosia curtsied and left the dance floor, her impeccable manners challenged by his bold effrontery.
Duncan finished drinking yet another cup of ratafia. It was swill, but made considerably more tolerable with assistance from the flask he concealed within his coat. He casually strode through the rooms, mamas and daughters reflexively fanning themselves as he passed.
Duncan had watched Ambrosia ceaselessly throughout the evening. Studied really. He was fascinated, never having seen anything like her before. She was polite to everyone, greeting every guest with the same amount of attention and distance, never engaging in the typical gossip mongering her fellow sex seemed so fond of.
And he watched as she danced with other men. Each time he saw her take to the dance floor with some boorish fool, it incited a bit of jealousy inside him. But, he could see detachment, and knew none of the dances she engaged in could hold a candle to the one they had shared.
And then Kenning had danced a quadrille with her. James had looked utterly captivated and that is what triggered his rage.
Kenning’s hands were touching her at every pass, his gaze directed at the very assets Duncan had begun taking pride of ownership in. Kenning was bold, forward, and certain to illicit gossip. He was in fact doing everything that Duncan himself had set out to accomplish.
“Were you dancing with Miss Tisdale?” Duncan met James as he exited the ballroom. James considered his question, then admired his perfectly manicured nails. “I suppose I was. Is there an issue?”
Duncan tried to act casual while fighting the urge to physically assault his dear friend.
He had never been jealous before in his life. If his brother had a toy that he wanted, he simply got another toy. If a friend was better at a sport than he, Duncan would find a new sport to play. Why on earth he was suddenly enraged at the vision of another man dancing with Miss Tisdale was beyond him.
“No issue. I was just curious as to why you chose to dance with Miss Tisdale, that is all.”
James snorted. “Because I had to dance with somebody. You didn’t expect me to stand planted on the side of the room like some wallflower. She was available and made an acceptable enough dance partner. We do share a common history together, after all.”
“Yes, old friends.” Duncan’s brow furrowed. “She shared with me a story from her childhood where she played card games with you.”
James laughed out loud. “Is that how she described it?”
Duncan suddenly regretted telling him anything at all. “Why? Is there more to the story that you would like to add?”
His lips upturned at the corner in a sort of leer. “Yes, Miss Tisdale is quite skilled when it comes to . . . cards.”
The not-so-subtle innuendo wasn’t lost.
James continued. “She has a certain gift for cards, especially when it comes to wagers. She’s a most proficient gambler.”
Duncan hadn’t been expecting that. “Pardon?”
“When she was but ten years old, I lost nearly three guinea to the girl. She’s a true ingénue when it comes to games of chance.”
Duncan felt the laugh start in his belly and work its way up till he was rolling with laughter. “Miss Tisdale—the virtuous Miss Tisdale? The respectable Miss Tisdale? An avid gambler?”
James nodded. “Of course, she is much more discreet about it now, but I pity any unsuspecting man who dares to challenge her to a game of piquet.”
Duncan had never been more envious of his friend. Jealous that James had gotten the opportunity to discover something about Miss Tisdale that he himself had not yet uncovered.
Miss Tisdale held secrets behind that straight-lipped expression she constantly wore. He wanted to discover what more she was hiding from the world, and why. She presented herself as a marble statue—eternally perfect, never a piece of hair out of place or clothing mussed. But he had uncovered cracks in her exterior, and for some reason she had allowed it to happen. Why? Why did she wear this façade of stone?
He wanted to uncover more. He wanted to chip away at the stone until she was completely exposed to him—but not to the
world. Duncan found perverse pleasure in being the only one who knew Miss Tisdale’s secrets.
She was supposed to be merely a means to an end. He required from her a dowry and should have wanted nothing else. But here he was, imagining more, and that just wouldn’t do. Men like him did not deserve anything as unique as Miss Tisdale. She was far too . . . perfect. Duncan hadn’t thought women like her could exist, that families like hers could exist, but now he knew the truth. And he also knew that he simply could not be trusted to care for anything as special. He was a scoundrel, a cheat, and a liar. And even worse . . . he was proud of it. Even as a young boy, he had aspired to become the greatest rakehell the Maddox line had ever seen. And that was saying quite a bit.
Frustrated, Duncan just shook his head and left James standing in his wake of anger and self-loathing.
Chapter 13
After freeing herself from the enamored duke’s clutches, Ambrosia freshened herself up a bit in the retiring room. But she just couldn’t find it in herself to return to the ball straight away. It felt too congested, too suffocating. She was filled with something so large it required more space to breathe than her enormous home could provide. Her pulse quickened, remembering the Earl’s hand about her waist, his nimble fingers softly caressing her back and side. Instantly, she felt flushed and warm, the same sensations she had discovered upon their first encounter in the library. She needed air, chilled air to help ease her pulse and bring back clarity of thought, for it was utterly lost in such a state. She needed to regain control.
Fortunately, it was her home, so she was knowledgeable as to what escape routes were readily available.
Ambrosia exited through the French doors off the morning room and stepped into its rear gardens. Torches lined the walking paths, but hundred-year-old hedgerows and a starless night made it easy enough to escape into darkness. Ambrosia continued down a path away from the house toward a relatively private nook. A small stone bench accented the landscape heavy with flowering bushes and sporadically placed pieces of rock.
She chose to stand, wrapping her arms around herself tightly to protect against the night’s chill. The evening was quiet with only the gurgling of a nearby fountain to break up the silence or interrupt her wandering thoughts. She needed to focus and stop musing about the Earl. She was a determined, motivated, unmarried young woman whom did not have time to waste in reverie over wayward men.
It was only marriage. She simply needed to make her selection, flirt a bit, wait for the proposal, then actually accept said proposal.
Not nearly as difficult as what she had made it out to be. But she knew it was so much more than that. There were rules and obligations and expectations.
The crushing expectations.
They were never voiced, nor written, but simply implied. It was not enough to marry well. She was the eldest Tisdale and therefore represented the greatest of hopes for her family. She wanted her parents to be proud of her choice, and proud of whomever the individual was she introduced into the family. And though she could not control her parent’s expectations or the precedent that her brother had set, she could control whom she chose and whether or not she loved him. Because that too was a factor.
After all, that’s what her parents had, and their parents before them. And if Thomas had survived, it would have been his destiny as well. But he hadn’t, and she had. His destiny was now hers.
And there it was—exactly what she was waiting for. And the only man she had ever felt anything more than agreeable toward was a rake of epic proportions. She knew men like that didn’t believe in fidelity or love or any of the fairy tale notions that eluded a society marriage. But they were indeed prerequisites for a Tisdale marriage and something she just couldn’t compromise.
She felt a swell in her throat begin to rise. She recognized the rare sensation of tears forming and tried desperately to swallow them back down from whence they came.
But she couldn’t. The pressure had been building far too long.
Four Seasons, to be exact.
Duncan poured himself another finger of brandy and downed it all at once.
From the moment he’d been announced, he’d been barraged with women. Young ones, old ones, fat ones, thin ones—he could easily have written a children’s verse about the mass of unwed ladies that seemed to pursue him at these types of functions. Not that he minded. In fact, he had always enjoyed the attention he received from women. His parents weren’t good for much, but they had at least blessed him with a pleasant enough appearance and a certain charm. It had been his experience that most women did not seem to be overly concerned regarding the hint of scandal that surrounded him. If anything, controversy seemed to be an aphrodisiac to young women.
But he couldn’t bring himself to consider even one of them. He couldn’t even bring himself to ask one of those insipid girls to dance as a courtesy. All he could do was obsess about Miss Tisdale and her chestnut curls and flawless skin. And her dignity. By God, he had never imagined coming so close to someone so utterly pure and good, nor had he dared to want to.
Miss Tisdale was no longer a mere object to him, but rather a person.
A desirable person, but a person none the less.
The farce had gone too far.
He listened to the orchestra cue up a waltz and poured himself another. This time it wasn’t just a finger. Rather, it was a whole hand of brandy.
He knew he could not chance seeing her again. He had hoped she would be the prim type that would turn in at some absurd hour to read her prayer book, but that thought only managed to conjure up visions of Miss Tisdale’s breasts, high nipples seen through the sheerness of a white nightrail, which complicated things with a whole new layer of distress.
And there was the looming disappointment of having to confess to his uncle that he had yet to secure a lucrative betrothal because he had allowed feelings for his unsuspecting target to obstruct progress. It was all too much to deal with and rather than face his feelings and his obligations like the Earl his uncle expected him to be, he would handle the situation like the Maddox he knew he was. He intended to discreetly exit the Tisdale home and salvage what was left of his evening with a group of friends, another bottle, and if all went well, a generously endowed woman, who would make him completely forget the sweet scent of innocence that resembled mint and lingered long after Miss Ambrosia Tisdale had gone.
He swallowed the last gulp of amber liquid and went to set his empty glass on a nearby table. He had underestimated the distance between himself and the surface of the table, nearly dropping his glass to the floor. Somehow, the glass found its way to its intended destination and he decided to find a way out of the ball.
Duncan made his way through the series of drawing rooms in attempt to locate his Uncle and inform him of his departure. Each room led to another—every one of them brilliantly decorated with its own personality. The Tisdale’s drawing rooms were as different as the Tisdales themselves. He first walked through a red room, decorated with plush seating and ornate carpets. Strong paintings hung on the wall—formidable portraitures of ancestors come and gone. The next room was a bit more tranquil, light and airy, with paintings of cherubs and crystal vases filled with plump balls of pink flowers sitting about. Then he reached the room he had met Miss Tisdale in just a few days prior. It was a subtle primrose with damask covered seating. The painting of her brother, Thomas, looked out onto the room from its vantage point above the mantle. There was nothing delicate about the room—no ornamentation was without purpose. It was perfectly prim with no extraneous frills.
This must have been her sitting room.
It was in the next room, the emerald green room, where he found his uncle gathered with a small group of other elder gentleman. Richard was smoking a pipe, looking as if he could doze off at any moment.
“Richard, my head is aching. I just wanted to let you know I’m going to leave so that I may get some rest.”
His uncle eyed him, instantly suspicious. �
��Perhaps if you’d distance yourself from the brandy, your head wouldn’t hurt as much.”
Touché.
He ignored the remark, especially since it was so very true. “It’s not that—completely. I’m afraid I may still be recovering from the injuries I sustained the other night and just need to lie down for a bit.”
“From falling down the stairs?” his uncle asked coolly.
Was that the story he had concocted for his uncle’s benefit? He had almost forgotten.
“Truth be told, I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave so soon,” Richard continued. “Some men are gathering in Lord Tisdale’s private chambers for a few hands. It could be most beneficial for you to stay and gain some recognition from some of the more influential men in the group. Besides, I believe your friend and accomplice, the Duke of Kenning, might join us for a few games. Actually, I’m quite certain he will.” He took a long drag off his pipe. “After all, Lord Kenning never misses a chance to lose his money.”
Duncan shook his head. The effects of the brandy were becoming readily apparent and he was hardly in a state to play cards . . . well. “It does sound promising, but I’m afraid I simply couldn’t bear another five minutes of it all. Perhaps another time?” He patted Richard on the shoulder and made a hasty exit, not wanting to see the disappointment he knew would be so obvious on his uncle’s face.
He turned down the first hallway he came upon. It was unfamiliar, but he hadn’t the nerve to turn around and chance another encounter with Richard’s disapproval. He told himself leaving was for the best and that staying would jeopardize him even more in the eyes of his uncle. He was hardly in a decent enough state to socialize and didn’t want to risk being labeled the inebriated fool at the party. Duncan cursed himself for not having more restraint. An Earl should know better than to throwback glasses of brandy as if they were lemonade. It was further proof that he was never supposed to be the Earl.
Compromising Miss Tisdale Page 11