Compromising Miss Tisdale (8 page)

Finally, the due diligence had paid off. The hunter had found its prey and his plan could at last be set in motion.

He had set an unfortunate precedent, having teased her mercilessly at every encounter. And there was the inconvenient truth of his reputation that he would need to overcome. But he still had quite a bit of charm, so despite the obvious barriers, the task of courting Miss Tisdale should have been easy enough. He was a celebrated rakehell, after all, and the seduction of some naïve chit was no match for his arsenal of well-honed skills.

Which is precisely why she should have blushed when he spoke of her beauty, not muttered some rubbish about the weather. And she should have giggled incessantly when he gave her his best smoldering look, not accuse him of being inflicted with some sort of infectious eye disease.

He could charm the chemise off a governess in less than an hour—Miss Tisdale should at least have the good manners to pretend to be affected.

All
should haves
and no action made Duncan an irritable man.

Fancying himself some sort of marriage mercenary, he adjusted his tactics and the compulsory small talk began. He asked after Amelia’s family, she in turn inquired after the well-being of his uncle, whose illness had recently become general knowledge throughout the
Ton
. All the while, he observed Ambrosia out of the corner of his eye, unwittingly cognizant of her evasiveness. She seemed to make every effort to avoid actually looking at him and never bothered to comment unless he actually questioned her directly. Even then, she gave a simple, one syllable response.

She was the epitome of civility.
Cold civility
.

But Duncan didn’t want civility. He knew underneath her gracious façade lay a streak of fierceness. And where there was intensity, there was passion. He wanted a reaction.

“Miss Tisdale, are you ill?”

She took a breath before looking at him. “I feel perfectly fine. Why do you ask?”

“You don’t seem to be acting yourself today.”

“May I inquire as to exactly just
how
I should be acting?” she asked curtly.

“Spirited.”

Amelia laughed and playfully smacked his arm with her fan. “Spirited? Miss Tisdale? Nothing could be further from the truth. Why, she’s the very picture of composure. Obviously, you do not know Miss Tisdale very well. Perhaps you have confused her with one of her sisters again.”

He nodded in agreement. “Perhaps. Though, I would like to clarify the issue further at Lady Tisdale’s ball. I would so like for us to become more familiar with one another. I feel we have a great deal in common.”

Ambrosia’s features seemed almost tranquil, not at all near the end he was working toward. “I can assure you, Lord Bristol, that we have little, if anything at all, in common. I doubt a ball would be of any help in proving otherwise.”

“Really, absolutely not one similarity,” Amelia added just for good measure.

Duncan thought for a moment. This meek girl was not the woman he had met before, which made him even more intent on provoking her. “Are you suggesting, then, that I come to call on you?”

The game was a bit like poking at a resting animal with a stick.

Ambrosia vehemently shook her head in disagreement, appalled by his insinuation. “That is certainly not in the least as to what I am suggesting.”

He smiled, genuinely entertained by her immediate response.

“But how else are we to learn more about each other if the ball is not the most appropriate place to do so?”

“There is little you need to learn about me, Lord Bristol.”

“Pish! I can think of any number of things. For example, do all your sisters have such lovely eyes?”
Poke
.

“Pardon me?” she stuttered, obviously taken aback by such boldness.

“Trouble hearing? Allow me to speak louder. I was referring to your eyes. They are the most lovely color of blue,” he bellowed, knowing good and well that she heard him just fine.

Ambrosia stood up a bit straighter, supported by what he assumed to be righteous indignation making her at least an inch taller. “I suppose I did hear you correctly the first time.”

“They’re the first thing I noticed about you. Could it be that all your sisters are so fortunate to have such stunning eyes?”
Poke
.

She glared at him. “There is nothing stunning whatsoever about my eyes. I have two of them as do all my sisters. Quite ordinary, really.”

“Your eyes are hardly what I would consider to be ordinary. They are such a deep blue—like the sea.”

Though at the moment, Duncan acknowledged that her stare resembled nothing of the sea. Rather, it was a bit like slate—hard and unyielding. But still, it wasn’t stone he was after. He knew first hand that behind closed doors Miss Tisdale was not stone. Ambrosia Tisdale was a bit more like clay—turning warm and pliable under his touch.

“So, it is settled. You promise to save a dance for me then?”
Poke
.

“I’ve done nothing of the sort!”

He arched an eyebrow. “Well, if you won’t save me a dance, then I will be forced to call on you at your home and discuss the matter further.”

There
was the flush of color he had been hoping to see! It spread across her cheeks and traveled downward till it vanished below the high neckline of her gown. Duncan found himself curious as to just how low that blush dipped.

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “I will save you a dance.
One dance
.”

“I shall hold you to your word, Miss Tisdale,” he threatened playfully.

“I’m certain you will,” she replied . . . not nearly as playfully.

“I shall also save you a dance,” interjected Amelia. “I simply love dancing. Mama made certain that James and I were instructed by the finest tutors from the continent. A reel, perhaps?”

He reluctantly shifted his attention from the uncomfortable Miss Tisdale to the uninspiring Lady Middlebury. The rest of the conversation was inconsequential, but was over soon enough when Amelia noticed an acquaintance of hers making her way down the walking path. Ambrosia bid him an enjoyable rest of the day, as was the expected response, and followed her friend.

Duncan watched Ambrosia walk away, her pace slow and deliberate. He had hoped that somewhere underneath her calm exterior she was the tiniest bit affected. Had he caused her even the slightest stirrings as he now felt? Could she be warm with the sensual memory of their tongues intertwining during that first meeting in the library?

He silently willed her to look back, just once, to validate his efforts. Just one casual glance over her divinely slender shoulder.

But she never did.

Duncan watched her walk for as long as she was visible. She nodded politely to those she knew and occasionally stopped to engage in polite conversation. He watched her disappear into the distance until she was nothing but an outline dressed in pale pink.

A perfectly shaped pink outline.

If he was going to be married, then he could do far worse than Miss Tisdale. Suggesting he seduce her into a compromising position was tantamount to asking a thirsty man if he’d care for a glass of water. Since that first kiss, he had remembered exactly how firm her waist felt under his hands. His fingers burned where they had grazed the gentle slope of her ribcage under her breasts. And her breasts . . . well, he hadn’t had the opportunity to feel them, but that hadn’t stopped his imagination from remembering just how magnificent they were.

Duncan quickly commanded his treacherous mind back to the task at hand. He wasn’t seducing Miss Tisdale for sport or personal pleasure. It was a means to an end. It mattered little his personal attraction, for their marriage would be based on simple convenience and nothing more. After all, he knew he would never make a suitable husband. The best he could ever offer a woman was his discretion.

Discretion was something his parents were never able to accomplish, he mused ruefully.

Duncan began walking in the opposite direction, leaving his book upon the bench. It had been a prop, a suggestion from Kenning to make him appear more cerebral and therefore less rakish. But then he stopped and looked back, as if he’d forgotten something.

He hadn’t forgotten, rather he was remembering. Duncan inhaled deeply, catching the distinct scent of mint in the air, the bouquet that Miss Tisdale left trailing behind wherever she went.

Chapter 9

“You have a caller, Miss Tisdale,” the butler announced from the doorway of the drawing room.

“Who is it?” Tamsin asked earnestly.

Ambrosia continued her embroidery. “It is inconsequential as to whom it may be. It is Tuesday, after all, and we do not entertain callers at this hour on Tuesdays.” She finally put the hoop down and turned her attention to the butler. “If you would be so kind as to obtain our guest’s card, I shall return the call as I see fit.”

Ambrosia kept a schedule and only an act of God could keep her from it.

The butler brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “I cannot do that, Miss Tisdale. Lady Tisdale has instructed that no gentleman callers be turned away.”

Or, the act of a relentless mother, it would seem
.

“It’s a gentleman!” Tamsin said derisively, tossing her embroidery aside in a hopeless tangle of rainbows on the floor.

Ambrosia bit her lip. Her mother must be growing desperate.

She picked up her hoop and began untangling a strand of vermillion embroidery floss. “Of course, how foolish of me. I must have forgotten. You may show the gentleman in.”

The butler bowed and disappeared from the doorway.

“I thought you’d rejected all the men in London? Surely, none of those poor gentleman would return for a second refusal?” Tamsin shook her head, causing red curls to escape a poorly constructed bun at her nape. “Men! Not a lick of sense amongst the lot. You’d think once would be enough, but they just don’t give up, do they?”

Ambrosia sighed heavily. “I have not rejected
every
man. Granted, there may have been a significant number of men, but that’s no reason to resort to exaggeration. And you make it sound as if I’m cruel about it.”

“Hardly cruel,” Tamsin agreed. “Your refusals are some of the most polite I’ve ever heard. So polite I’m certain they thank you after you’ve broken their hearts and shattered their dreams.”

Ambrosia stretched her neck a bit, trying to loosen the growing tension. That same tension had a tendency to develop whenever Tamsin was near. “Kindly resume you’re needlework.”

“The Earl of Bristol,” the butler announced without any sort of vocal embellishment, as would be expected. Yet the response those words incited was comparable to that of announcing the Prince Regent himself.

Ambrosia drew a sharp breath and clutched her chest. Tamsin, not nearly as refined, gasped aloud.

How did he find her?

The answer was obvious—her mother
had
, after all, sent him an invitation to their ball. The more sensible question would be
why
was he here? He had teased her mercilessly in the park and her only defense was cold indifference. But he spoke to her so frankly, she found it impossible to resist sparring back. She had to hand it to him—the man knew how to get under her skin.

And if he was so adept at something like that, it made her question what else he’d be able to get under?

“Miss Tisdale,” Lord Bristol bowed upon entering the room. The man was dressed casually, sporting a navy coat instead of his typical black. His hair appeared to be slightly wet, remnants of a morning bath, and was tucked casually behind his ears. It was not the current style by any means, but somehow it suited him.

Of course, a man that exuded as much confidence as he could pull off a shaved head and wheat sack and look just as alluring.

“And you must be . . . ” he directed his attention to her sister.

“One of my two younger sisters, Miss Tamsin,” Ambrosia finished, gesturing for him to take a seat in a nearby chair. “Rose is, well, Rose is somewhere around here.”

Tamsin beamed genuinely and without refinement. The girl had always found it impossible to reign in her smile, so when she grinned, it whole-heartedly exposed two complete rows of perfectly shaped, bright white teeth. “So,
you’re
the Earl of Bristol, then?” she asked in a tone that could only be described as accusatory.

Ambrosia felt a migrem coming on.

He met her smile with a rather charming one of his own. “You make it sound as if I’ve committed some sort of crime. Pray tell—is it such a bad thing to be the Earl of Bristol?”

Tamsin laughed, boldly. “Oh, I don’t think so! I would think it is quite a good thing to be as frequently talked about as yourself.”

“So, I’m the topic of much discussion?” he asked in a voice smoother than pebbles at the bottom of the Thames.

Ambrosia found herself turning liquid listening to the soft tenor of his voice. It was far more seductive than it should have been, but naturally a man like him knew how to use his appeal to get answers from women.

“Oh, you’re positively infamous! The broadsheets are practically obsessed with you, especially with your parents being who they were. But if we’re speaking freely, I’m sorry to say that you’re not at all as I had anticipated. I had rather expected to see you sporting a pair of pointy ears with a matching tail. Imagine my disappointment to find you are no satyr, but merely a man.”

Ambrosia had heard enough. “Tamsin, dear, please ring for tea so that we might entertain our guest a bit more
suitably
.”

“Perhaps some brandy as well?” the Earl requested, settling back in the chair and making himself more comfortable.

“You’ll take tea,” Ambrosia corrected. “We don’t serve spirits during the day.”

“Very well,” he replied through his smile. It was a polite sort of expression, not one of those more purposeful looks that he so often brandished with the obvious intent to inspire insipidity amongst young women.

“After our conversation the other day in the park, I wasn’t quite certain as to an appropriate hour to call on you. I do hope I did not catch you at a bad time,” the Earl dusted off the side of his weathered hessians. His boots had seen better days.