Compromising Miss Tisdale (16 page)

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.

She made her way toward the servants’ stairs off the kitchens, rather than traipse through the foyer in her current state. She was momentarily startled by the sets of eyes that cast up at her as she entered, expecting the kitchen to be empty at such a late hour and forgetting that the ball necessitated the staff work later than usual. Most looked back down, but one particular cook stared a bit too long, neglecting her chopping. Ambrosia admonished her with a single glance, then walked regally toward the stairs as if she wore the finest silks and robes instead of the wet gown and soaked tresses that clung to her face and shoulders.

Confident in her clean escape, Ambrosia began her ascent up the dimly lit stairs, but abruptly stopped when she heard the murmur of voices coming from the shadows of the stairwell. She distinctly made out both male and female voices. Her mother ran the household with the precision of a commander and servants would never have been permitted to enjoy a bit of sport whilst there were guests to be served. She may have been chilled to the bone, but she could hardly let such an offense go unnoticed. It was as if her conscience had returned from its evening’s hiatus and was seeking some sort of moral vengeance, thus compelling her to intervene.

“You may both come out now. You’ve been discovered,” she commanded with unwavering authority.

The voices quieted and then there were whispers. Finally, she heard footsteps coming out from behind the darkness.

“Hello, Ambrosia,” the man announced his presence, stepping into the light. The female, apparently a parlor maid by her dress, scurried out from behind him making a quick exit through the kitchen.

“Lord Kenning?” she asked, more of an accusation than question.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” The tall, blond man smiled easily, joining her on the staircase and stopping just a few steps short of her.

His over confident and unabashed behavior was repulsive, yet completely predictable. “One could say the same about you,” she volleyed, arching an eyebrow. “It is my home, after all. Generally, that allows me access to all parts of it. Now you on the other hand . . . ”

He chuckled, holding out his hands and bowing slightly, allowing those crystal blue eyes of his to openly peruse her. James started at her hem, then moved his gaze up slowly to the top of her bodice, enjoying the site of her gown, now practically transparent and hugging every nook and curve of her wet body. He reached out with one hand like a fat child reaching to grab another biscuit.

She flinched, but he still managed to grab her gown and roll it about his hand.

“Why are you wet?” he asked while incredulously assessing her hair.

Ambrosia stood up even straighter and answered him the only way she could think how-by deflection. “Is Your Grace finding this evening’s festivities to your liking?”

He took a step back and started to grin, hesitantly, then arrogance set back in. “A Tisdale event always provides such enjoyable modes of entertainment. I dare say I have found your home to be most
accommodating
.” He drew out the last word, making it sound absolutely filthy to her ears.

His lechery made her nauseous. “Of course you have.”

“There could be some improvements, though. I have not seen nearly enough of the hostess.”

“I will pass along your requests to my mother,” she returned dryly.

“Not that hostess.”

She was not going to play this game with him, again. “Good evening, Lord Kenning.” Ambrosia turned and began walking up the stairs, not bothering to dignify him with a curtsey. Despite her outward self-assurance, she was wrought with apprehension at the thought of him reaching out to grab at her again. James was growing more and more intrepid with each encounter.

“Ambrosia?” he called after her.

She held her breath and against her better judgment, stopped and turned around so that he could address her.

“Dear, do make certain to get out of those wet clothes. You’ll catch cold.”

Ambrosia pursed her lips together, turned, and made a brisk exit up the remaining steps, making a mental note to speak with their housekeeper Mrs. Bates at daybreak regarding her maid’s dubious behavior with iniquitous men.

Chapter 15

Duncan had almost made it out of the home when he heard James’ voice calling out to him from behind.

“Ol’ boy! And just where do you think you’re going? You’re not shirking our plans, are you?”

He shrugged into the black great coat he was being offered by a footman. “Not now, Kenning.”

The Duke whistled. “You are the only man in all of London who dares speak to me so.”

Duncan snorted. “I am certain others would too if they got to know you better.”

James smiled, untouched by the insult. “Now, where are you running off to? I thought you had mentioned the two of us heading to some of the hells after all this nonsense. I’ve been looking forward to spending some more time with those
witty
girls from last week.”

“I had, but-”

“You’re wet.” James interrupted. It wasn’t as much a question as it was an announcement. It was the kind of tone one used to announce a discovery, such as
Look, land!
or perhaps
Gold!

Duncan laughed at his friend’s unexplained exuberance. “Soaked really. Which is the reason I won’t be able to join you tonight. I want nothing more than to head home and have my man draw up a steaming bath. However, I do have faith that you will successfully proceed to lose all your money and fraternize with women of ill repute without me.”

James didn’t laugh, his expression no longer jovial. “Why are you wet?” It wasn’t a question this time either, but rather an accusation.

“I was in the garden when it began raining,” Duncan answered without a second’s hesitation.

“Why were you in the garden? Since when did the Earl of Bristol start taking strolls to admire the shrubbery and flowers?”

James’ eyes narrowed and the inquisition was set in motion.

“I had left to find some air.”

“In the garden?”

“Yes, the garden. Is there an echo?”

“Were you alone?”

“I-”

“You weren’t, were you?”

Duncan looked over his shoulder, thankfully noticing his driver. “Oh, look, there’s my carriage.” He must have sounded a bit too excited, for James reached out to grab his arm and stopped him from exiting.

“She was with you, then?”

“Whom?” Duncan asked with thinly veiled innocence. He knew good and well that they both knew exactly whom he was speaking of.

“Don’t think me the fool, Duncan. I’ve just come from a chance encounter in the kitchen with Miss Tisdale and she too was just as wet as you are and equally evasive. She was with you in the garden, wasn’t she?

“She may have been.”

James’ grim look began to lighten, as if the admission of guilt was enough to appease him. “She was! Does this mean you did it then?”

“Did what?”

“Did you compromise her? Do we have plans for a wedding, then?”

Duncan exhaled deeply. He was cold and becoming more and more annoyed. “No, I most certainly did not.”

James’ eyes narrowed. “So, you’re telling me that you were alone in the garden with her, without anyone to accompany-”

“That’s generally what
alone
means.”

“And still did not seize upon a most perfect opportunity to compromise Miss Tisdale?”