Compromising Miss Tisdale (12 page)

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 glass 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.

Still sporting his arrogant smile, James bent his head low, his warm breath moist against her neck, causing the fine hair upon her body to stand on end with apprehension.

“Oh, my darling, Ambrosia,” he whispered in her ear, far too close for her comfort. “I plan on getting my dance. Whether this night or another, rest assured, I will have what I want.”

His tone was laced with malicious intent—his whisper, a warning.

“Your Grace has always been most tenacious,” she tried to temper his threat with flattery. In her experience, flattery meant a great deal to men of a certain distinction, especially those whom wore their vanity like a badge of honor.

James seemed pleased enough with the compliment. “Yes, I am. I’ve been told it is one of my more admirable qualities.”

If not the only one.

“Of course it is,” she smiled politely and curtsied. “If you would be so kind as to excuse me, I believe I see your sister.” She gestured toward the edge of the room and began heading in that general direction.

He tried to follow her line of vision into the crush. “I do not see her . . . ”

Ambrosia made certain before he uttered the last syllable that she was safely
en route
toward the refreshments. There she was finally able to remedy her parched throat with a glass of ratafia and regard all those who passed with a dutiful, yet passive acknowledgement. It was a blissful and brief moment of calm.

Then she felt him.

Chapter 12

It was peculiar to Ambrosia, that she could feel someone’s presence without actually seeing them. She glanced around the room, stopping when she locked him into her line of vision. Then he turned to meet her gaze. Dancing couples occluded her line of site, only to part and teasingly reveal him, over and over again.

His hair was somewhat mussed, black locks casually tucked behind his ears. There was the smallest hint of yellow under one of his eyes. Undoubtedly, the remnant of his past week’s brawl as reported in the broadsheets—so she had heard from Tamsin. His clothing was simple, but it fit him well and exemplified his trim figure. His was indeed quite a fine build, possibly the finest in the room. Possibly all of England for all she knew. In a place where all the men were just as gussied up as the women, his lackadaisical approach to dress made him stand out—like a wolf amongst a herd of pampered, impeccably groomed sheep.

Why did he have to look so . . . wild?

He started moving through the dense crowd toward her. She unwittingly held her breath, waiting for one of the dancers to accidentally clip him, but they never did. It was as if he parted the dancers like Moses had the sea.

For heaven’s sake, a metaphor of biblical proportions? Even she was becoming nauseated by the sentiment of her internal dialogue.

Duncan strode toward her, not once taking his eyes off her. She set her cup down on a passing server and calmly waited for him, his destination obvious if only to her. She immediately started smoothing down her skirts, surprisingly self-conscious. She knew her gown was beautiful and had been told she was beautiful wearing it. But under the intense scrutiny of his hazel gaze she felt unsure, uncertain.

Completely exposed, if only to him.

“Miss Tisdale,” he announced with a sweeping bow.

“Lord Bristol.” She dipped. “What are you doing here?”

Admittedly a poor choice of words, but it was habit.

“I was invited, don’t you remember? Or perhaps you’ve forgotten about me already? Besides, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. After all, I heard your mother serves the finest ratafia in all of London and I could hardly miss a treat like that.”

A lie. The ratafia was warm and contained more water than any other ingredient.

Obviously, ghastly ratafia could hardly be his primary motivation. Ambrosia eyed him suspiciously. “I know you were invited, and so my question still stands—what are
you
doing here? Aren’t they expecting you at White’s? Or perhaps a club with a more dubious distinction? I did happen to hear how fond you were of boxing.”

He laughed. “I no doubt deserve that. But you cannot believe everything you hear or read. It was a hardly a fight,” he said pointing to his eye. “I would refer to it as more of a misunderstanding, really. I had hoped to spend some time with you this evening, if only to clear up some of these misconceptions that seem to follow me around like dogged companions.”

“They couldn’t
all
be misconceptions, Lord Bristol.” She crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips.

The music began to start up again. It was a waltz.

“May I request the pleasure of having the most beautiful woman in the room dance with me?” he asked, bowing with exaggerated flourish.

She exhaled through her nose, steadying herself. He was quite clever. Now that he had made his little fuss, she could hardly reject him without causing a scene and giving him an unintentional cut direct.

“Fine,” she answered with typical London blasé. Yet, her heart’s fervent drumming against her chest implied anything but ennui.

“I knew you would,” he smiled, looking more like a boy of twelve than a mature man. It was insufferably charming. She feared her chest would implode at the sweetness of it all.