Finally, he came across a room with an apparent exit to the outside. Duncan stepped out of doors onto a patio, anchored to the surrounding landscape by pots of topiaries, and breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t the way to his carriage, but at least he was alone.
He descended the two steps leading from the patio to the gardens. He followed the paths, not caring if he got lost or not. It mattered little the destination; it was the distraction he sought.
He happened upon a small nook at the end of one of the paths. A stone bench sat empty while a woman stood near it, her back toward him.
Her ivory gown was cut in a manner so that it hugged her body from the draping back to the gathering of fabric falling about her feet. A creamy expanse of back shined ethereally in the dimly lit garden, leading his eyes up her softly curved neck to the thick pile of curls sitting regally upon her head. Even if he had not known her identity, he was certain that this woman was breathtakingly beautiful. For her not to be would be one of God’s crueler jokes.
But he did know her.
A gentle breeze sung through the night air, the lady’s perfume wafting upon it.
Mint—the subtle scent of Miss Ambrosia Tisdale.
He stepped forward, a twig snapping under the force of his right boot.
She startled and turned.
She’d been crying. Even in the shadows, he could see that her eyes were red and face blotchy from the trails of tears. For once, Miss Tisdale did not look her best, and in that imperfection he found her to be the most enticing she had ever been.
Duncan fell into her eyes, endless pools framed with wet clumps of black lashes that drew him toward her. And then her lips, already full, now swollen from her sobbing, parted slightly.
He was lost. God help him, he was no longer intoxicated by brandy alone, but rather the beauty of one woman.
He reached up and cupped her face in his hands. Without any words or pretense, he simply swooped down and kissed her. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, nor was it rough. It was certain and decided. He kissed her ardently, holding her face and savoring the salty taste of her tears still wet on her lips.
He waited for it to stop, for her to slap him or push him away. But then she did something totally unexpected. She grabbed his arms and kissed him back. The action left him disarmed and completely infatuated. This was the woman from the library whom he had come to remember. And her kiss was not tentative as it once was—but firm and without trepidation.
He allowed his hands to travel, running down the long, ivory column of her neck and over her narrow shoulders, his fingers tracing her bare collarbone and back again. His fingers followed the path down her arms, stopping at the inch of exposed flesh between her cap sleeves and gloves. His calloused fingers touched the satin that was her skin, lingering in that small area, drawing circles and tracing the tops of her gloves. He simply could not get enough of the feel of her skin under his hands. Her skin was smooth, untouched, unmarred by anything. He was certain he had never touched anything finer, and probably never would again. Then he allowed his hands to fall to her sides, holding her waist, and letting them rest on the hips that were as much a diversion to him as any spirit he dared to imbibe.
Her hands had moved to his chest, grabbing the fabric of his waistcoat, pulling him closer. She allowed his kiss to deepen, welcoming his tongue when it was offered, and returning it fervently. This was how he had imagined she would be. She was wanton and without care, consumed by the pleasure. He brought her toward him, his hands cupping her bottom and rendering her immobile against him. He could feel all of her through the light material that made up her gown. She had since moved her hands to his neck, allowing her breasts to press fully against his chest. It was all he could do not to rip off his coat and shirt linen so that he might feel those perfect breasts against his bare chest.
His kisses became more urgent as need filled his body. His mouth left her lips and traveled down the neck that he so often admired. He paused for a moment to worship at the enticing hollow of her neck, only then realizing how he had longed to taste it with his tongue since he had first seen her. Once he had, he could not bring himself to stop. He ran his hands up along her waist toward those perfect breasts. He explored gently at first, allowing his hands to graze their sides, then squeezing them lightly till he could feel her leaning into his hands, urging him on. The light play progressed until he was soon grabbing and kneading each one of the full orbs, drawing out throaty moans of desire from her throat. He ran his fingers over her nipples, coaxing them into hard pebbles, drawing his head down to devour the now heaving tops of her breasts above her gown.
She was no longer languidly allowing her hands to run through his hair, but now she was grabbing him, holding his attention to her breasts. He pulled the top of her gown down, along with her chemise, exposing her breasts to the night air. They were exactly as he had imagined, each one full and shaped like tear drops, with dusky pink nipples perfectly situated at their centers.
He sucked one nipple into his mouth, while his hand cupped her other breast. He sucked softly at first between licks, taking more and more of her breast into his mouth at a time. He looked up to find her head thrown back, eyes closed, and her mouth partially open. He took his focus to the other breast, this time allowing his hand to begin caressing her hip. When he had had enough, he stood back up, cupped the back of her head and drew her mouth back to his. He kissed her again, deep kisses, desperate with desire.
His body throbbed with urge, every nerve on end, burning for want of her. Duncan buried his hands into her hair, destroying her elegant style and causing those rich curls to spill over her shoulders and crushed her mouth with his own.
He had lost the last shred of rational thought and was now being controlled by impulse and pleasure alone.
Which is exactly why he never heard the rumble of thunder in the distance or notice when the wind began to pick up.
Chapter 14
Let it be anyone else but him.
She had known, even before she turned to meet the footsteps, that it was indeed Lord Bristol. After all, he always seemed to make an appearance when she least desired it.
Despite the pitch of night, she saw the intensity in his eyes as he approached her. It was intimidating and she instinctually knew she should have feared what was behind it. She knew she should have turned her head away.
But she hadn’t.
Because she wanted him to kiss her. Again.
She wanted this gorgeous man, who’d been nothing but a bother to her since she’d first laid eyes upon him, to kiss her to the point that she forgot about everything else in her life. And she knew he was the man who could do it since he had done it to her before.
Once it started, her mind finally stopped its incessant rambling. She stopped thinking about marriage, setting an example, and her family’s expectations. Thoughts of fear and doubt were suddenly replaced by new feelings—pleasure and desire. She could taste freedom on his lips. She held onto his jacket as if it would keep him closer, for she knew that if his kisses stopped, reality would come barging in.
His hands were warm and rough as they explored her body. Aside from Lord Kenning stealing a touch or two whenever the opportunity presented itself, she hadn’t ever felt a man’s hands on her bare skin. James’ hands had been soft and smooth, while the Earl’s were strong and felt overtly masculine. The sensation made her blood sing. She began to protest when he removed his lips from hers, but she was instantly silenced when his kisses resumed again upon her neck and began traveling down. Her limbs became weak, her body trembled and she felt sensations in her most private of areas, warmth spreading down her belly and through her thighs.
She felt his attention at her breasts and could remain silent no more. She heard moans escape her own throat, but could do nothing but close her eyes as she felt an unfamiliar pressure build inside her. Her mind was reeling, overwhelmed by new sensations, wanting even more. She tried to push up against him, trying to be as close as
possible, but not able to get close enough.
He came back to her mouth, thrusting his tongue deep inside, tasting every part of her mouth. His hands were in her hair, grabbing her, pulling her closer and closer.
She was warm, no hot—she was on fire and she could feel his body under her roaming hands and it was . . .
Wet.
He was wet.
Ambrosia’s eyes flew open. He was soaked!
It was raining.
She quickly pushed him away, breaking their kiss and the spell. Reality wasn’t simply barging in-reality was pouring in with a vengeance.
And with the rain came the disheartening realization that she was truly a wanton.
She saw nothing wrong with the diversion of a simple kiss, but this had gone quite a bit further than that. His hands had touched her bare arms, his lips had touched her . . .
Breasts!
She reached down and tugged her dress over her bare breasts, humiliation manifesting itself in blotches all about her chest and neck. How could she have allowed it to go so far? Nearly compromised. And in her own garden! Out of doors! What if someone had seen her? What if her mother had seen her?
Her hands flew to her hair. The once elegant styling was now hanging in a stringy mess about her back and shoulders, the decorative gold beads now forever lost in the pavers. Ambrosia took a steadying breath and tried to regain some of her composure. She was a lady, even in her current state of disarray, and a lady must always act with composure and without any kind of hysterics. Anxiety or panic were not an option if she had any hope of escaping the situation unscathed. This was a simple enough disaster and could be easily remedied by a level head. She would first put her appearance back in order, and then simply return inside as if nothing had happened. It was a sprawling home, after all, and the odds of being seen by anyone on her way to the family’s living quarters during the ball were negligible at best. The odds were in her favor, and she always was quite skilled with numbers and games of chance. This was merely another form of gambling, and she rarely lost when given the opportunity.
Now, if only her trembling fingers would cooperate, it would be so much easier to dress herself!
Duncan reached over to try and assist, but she pushed his hand away. Bewildered, he took a step back. “I’m only trying to be of some assistance.”
“I do not need your assistance, my Lord,” she said calmly, still fighting with her bodice.
He took another step back. The rain was heavier now and they were both quite thoroughly drenched. He looked just like he had upon their first meeting, dark hair falling about, wet with raindrops. “Please, call me Duncan,” he asked softly, almost inaudibly over the rain.
“I will do nothing of the sort,” she returned, not bothering to look at him.
“What has come over you? Could you be so kind as to tell me what is the matter?”
His kindness was almost implausible. She stopped trying to put herself back together and looked at him, arms set akimbo. “You couldn’t possibly be serious? Did you really just have the nerve to ask what has come over me?”
“I’m afraid I don’t . . . ”
Then she smelled it. Somehow, above the fragrance of the garden’s new blooms and the fresh scent of rain, she was able to detect the distinct smell of brandy on him. And it wasn’t slight by any means, it was quite noticeable now that she was thinking more clearly. She ran her tongue along her lower lip, the sweet taste of the drink still remained. “Lord Bristol, have you been imbibing?”
He looked perplexed. “I’ve had a few glasses, yes. What does that have to do with anything?”
“A few glasses? Just how many are a few?”
“More than one and one less than many.”
She struggled to keep her voice from becoming shrill. “Despite your inebriated state, you should still be able to figure out why I’m irate. Just look at me! I’m in complete dishabille caused by some man deep in his cups and a most unexpected downpour. This regretful experience has rendered me incapable of returning to the ball.”
“Regretful experience?” he repeated slowly as if the words were foreign upon his tongue.
“Yes, my actions are most regrettable. I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking sensibly.”
“Weren’t thinking sensibly?” he repeated still.
“I was incapacitated.”
Even in the rain, his smirk was readily evident. “Is that what we’re calling being in the throes of desire now?”
Her jaw dropped. “I wasn’t truly myself, and therefore my thinking . . . ”
“Not yourself? Then when will I meet the true Miss Tisdale, for the woman I keep running into has yet to reject my kisses!”
She restrained herself and spoke through tight lips, narrowing her eyes. “I told you, I apologize for my actions and I regret letting things go on as they did.”
“Are those your true feelings then? You regret kissing me?”
“Most certainly. I needed this ball to find a husband and instead I’ve been out here wasting my opportunity-”
“Wasting? You consider your time with me wasted?” His voice had escalated to compensate for the din caused by the rain. “I’ll have you know, I’ve spent time with many a woman and not one ever considered her time wasted when it was spent being kissed by me.”
She realized the error with her choice of words, but hadn’t time to pacify some libertine’s bruised ego. “I’m sure they all thought quite highly of your . . . ” she cleared her throat, “ . . . skills. But I am different. I have expectations . . . ”
“Do you think I don’t know about expectations? I ask you, Miss Tisdale, what is so damn difficult about your plight? Why exactly is it that you are wound so tight? Is it these expectations you speak of that weigh so heavily upon your shoulders that you cannot find it within yourself to have any sort of pleasure? So you must find a husband? So you’ve missed your party? How awful your life must be! Your pretty hair is mussed and your gown is ruined. I’m certain you’ll have more opportunities to go on breaking men’s hearts without the fortune or title to suit your expectations. How heavy this burden you are carrying! Your life is only practically perfect—how do you ever manage?”
His words cut her deeper than she could have ever imagined.
“How dare you?” Ambrosia yelled, pointing toward his chest. “How dare you think for a moment that you know anything about my life and make assumptions as if you do? You do nothing but trivialize me by doing so.”
“You trivialize yourself. You are so afraid of living life that when you finally let it in, you’re ashamed! You’d have me believe that you possess no fondness for me, yet your actions indicate that somewhere beneath that inch of ice surrounding your body there might just be the smallest inkling of affection. Why is it then that you treat me with indifference, yet you fall into my arms at every opportunity?”
Ambrosia’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t very well defend herself given the overwhelming evidence presented before them both. “I freely admit to being guilty of exceedingly poor judgment and flawed will. Typically, I have always made a concerted effort to keep my distance from any situation that may result in a seduction . . . ”
He snorted. “Darling, that was hardly a seduction. If I were to seduce you, believe me, you’d most certainly know it. And I can promise you that we wouldn’t be arguing afterward because it would surely render you speechless.”
“My apologies,” she snapped. “Clearly, I am still rather naïve as to the intentions of men like you.”
“Men like me? Pray tell, who is guilty of making assumptions now?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, her body shaking from the chill. “Only my assumptions are based on fact. The assumptions you made regarding my character were insulting and couldn’t have been further from the truth. You mock me without truly knowing anything about me. I do not reject proposals for spite nor vanity—I refuse simply because I believe I can have better than what I have been offered.
I do want a perfect marriage and I know better than to find that stealing kisses from you in the dark. You forget, my Lord, I am only a woman. All I have are my pretty dresses, and dancing, and balls, and embroidery, and love . . . ”
She took a deep breath before continuing as to not get too carried away. “I know my trials are far less than others. I know to you my life looks practically perfect—and compared to most people’s it is. It is indeed a practically perfect prison. But you wouldn’t know anything about that. You don’t live for anyone other than yourself, do you? You speak of expectations? What exactly are yours? What sacrifices do you make? Because what I can see from my vantage point is that you have none.”
The rain was letting up, but still she spoke loudly.
He was quiet for a moment, his features thoughtful. “I never claimed otherwise.” Duncan took another step back. “You’re completely accurate in your assumptions. I am a rake, a scoundrel, a dissolute individual—take your pick of descriptors. I will never make any woman happy, nor will I please my family. But at least I am true to my character. At least I live.”
“Do you?” she asked, far quieter than she had been.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came.
Content that their conversation was at an end, Ambrosia curtsied most properly, removed her slippers, and ran away from him, down the path, the hem of her skirt splashing water behind her.
Ambrosia entered through the dining room and ped carefully through the halls, leaving a trail of puddles in her wake along the travertine floors. If she wasn’t so thoroughly chilled, she would certainly believe she was in some sort of dream. His touches, those words—all unreal to her. Her wanton behavior, her touches, her sounds? Unbelievable that she had permitted a man to elicit such raw desire from her, unbelievable she even contained such a predilection for pleasure.
She had expected to feel shame, but did not. Instead, she felt hungry for more. There was a longing inside her, both physically and emotionally, for him to complete whatever it was that he had started. She had relinquished control and for a moment tasted utter abandon.
Compromising Miss Tisdale Page 12