Compromising Miss Tisdale (28 page)

Ambrosia remained unmoved by the act. Her mother had always been a bit over the top.

“Sometimes one just needs a little push out of the nest and I had so hoped that this might have been the opportunity that we’d been waiting for.”

“I’ve had opportunity before. This was not an opportunity, this was blackmail,” Ambrosia countered.

“But you’ve refused every man who has ever bothered to propose. As I have told you before, you could do far worse than Lord Bristol. He’s an Earl, after all. And really, at your age you cannot afford to dally any longer. Think of Thomas and where he was, what he had done at three and twenty. He was engaged to be married to that wonderful daughter of the Duke-”

“Mama.” Ambrosia stood up from the seat at the pianoforte. “I’m not Thomas.”

Flora’s rant stopped abruptly. “I never said you were.”

Ambrosia stepped out from behind the pianoforte and sat herself down next to her mother. “But you expected me to be. I am not Thomas. Nothing I do will ever come close, and I am finally acknowledging that. I’ve spent years trying to find someone that measures up to whom I thought would be the perfect husband. And I know that will never happen. Thomas can never be replaced, and I am no longer going to try. Even if it means not getting married. I would rather do that than compromise my ideals.”

Lady Tisdale reached out and took her daughter’s hands into her own. “I had no idea you felt this way. You must believe that all your father and I have ever wanted was your happiness. If you do not want to get married, then I will no longer speak of it.”

“Thank you,” Ambrosia whispered, suddenly embarrassed from her unexpected outpouring of emotion.

“If you eventually do choose to marry, please do so for love. That is all I ever wanted for you. To find a love like I share with your father, or Lillian shares with William. And no matter who the lucky gentleman is that captures your heart—I will be satisfied as long as he loves you. That is what Thomas would have wanted.”

Ambrosia nodded.

Tamsin suddenly burst into the room, wild red curls hanging down her back. The only evidence that her maid had even attempted to tame it was a displaced comb hanging about the back of her mane. “Good, I found you,” she declared, holding her chest as she tried to catch her breath.

“Where else would we be?” Flora asked, handing the girl a cup of tea.

Tamsin waved the tea away. “Brightly is an enormous estate with close to a hundred rooms. Surely you do not expect me to answer that.”

“What’s wrong, Tamsin?” Ambrosia asked, gesturing for her sister to take a seat.

The girl handed Ambrosia a letter and flung herself down onto a chair.

“It just came. I believe it to be from Lord Bristol. I recognized the carriage and the footmen’s livery who brought it.” Tamsin declared.

Ambrosia nodded, acknowledging that the wax seal was indeed that of the Earl’s. The women waited with bated breath as Ambrosia made quick work of opening the correspondence. She read the words, quickly at first, then carefully scanning each of them again. It was a short message, written in Duncan’s own hand.

She folded up the message and clutched it in the palm of her hand. “Richard Maddox died today,” Ambrosia announced to the others in the room. She hadn’t relayed the last part of the message in which he declared his love again, simply, but poignantly.

The words on the page etched themselves unto her soul as she read them. Each syllable, another dagger into her chest, reminding her of the pain that she so vigorously worked to ignore.

“We should visit,” Tamsin exclaimed. Flora nodded in accord.

Ambrosia rose from the settee, her throat feeling quite tight and the burning behind her eyes becoming difficult to tolerate. “I cannot,” she managed to get out before her voice broke and tears overcoming the dam of will she had mentally erected to hold them back. Ambrosia ran down the hall into the library and collapsed as soon as she was behind its closed door.

The dam was finally broken and she allowed herself to purge the tears that had threatened to come so many times in the past two weeks. She cried for herself and the pain that persisted, despite the conversations she carried on with herself, validating that she had indeed done the right thing, made the right choice. And she cried for Duncan.

He had lost the only family he had left in the world and she couldn’t imagine a more lonely feeling than that. Despite Thomas’s death, Ambrosia’s family had remained intact. A bit more sad perhaps, but still strong and bonded together tightly, even more so when faced with such adversity. But Duncan would not have the luxury of a family like the Tisdale’s coming together to assist in helping him navigate such lonely waters. She felt the urge to go to him, to provide him with that love and support she knew he so desperately needed.

But she couldn’t. She’d always believed herself to be a strong woman—strong mind, strong convictions, strong will. But at this moment, Ambrosia knew to see Duncan again would rob her of all that strength. She could not compromise herself in order to fill a void or ease his pain. Duncan would need to do that on his own, without her assistance.

Ambrosia dried her eyes and blew her nose, producing an embarrassingly loud noise and less than pristine handkerchief. She wouldn’t wait for him, nor would she run to him. When and if she ever saw Duncan again, she would leave it up to fate. She knew now that she could not plan for everything, or so she had been told. She would not harbor hope, but she would not purposefully dampen it either. For she was certain that if she were to see the Earl again—if it were to ever be made right, then he would have to prove to her beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the man she knew he’d been fighting to be. Especially since she now believed herself to be the woman she hadn’t allowed herself to be.

Ambrosia smoothed her dress and proceeded to take a turn about Brightly’s library. She inhaled deeply, the scent of leather-lined books permeating her senses and reminding her of their stolen moments together. The smell managed to evoke chills and a rush of vivid memories that promised to haunt her for years to come. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around herself, trying to remember the sensation of his touch on her bare arms, the feeling of his lips on her forehead, the heat of his breath, warm on her cheek.

It had been her fourth Season.

And there would not be a fifth.

Chapter 28

The stale summer air had been blown away by the crisp autumn breeze. Tree tops spotted with shades of vermillion, gold, burgundy, and orange lined the sides of streets. The ground became a bevy of tactile sounds and a kaleidoscope of color, matching that of the trees’ majestic hues.

It was the day of the annual fall harvest charity event hosted by the
The Organization for the Rejuvenation of a Virtuous Society
.

Ambrosia, though no longer chairperson or member of the organization, had remained involved as promised. She managed to recruit all her sisters, as well as Amelia, in building baskets of food for London’s neediest. Lillian was easy enough, Rose followed because following was what she did best. Tamsin was a bit more difficult, but negotiated a fair enough price for her participation. Amelia required little convincing and in fact, jumped at the opportunity. After confessing her misdeeds to Lord Middlebury, she was still vying to get back into his good graces, which made her a prime candidate for basket assembly and drop off.

Ambrosia proudly glanced around the carriage at the many baskets being held atop of their laps and nestled amongst their skirts on the floor.

“We should have ridden separately,” Tamsin announced, squirming to create more space between her and Rose.

“We are fortunate enough to have
one
carriage, let alone as many as we do,” Ambrosia admonished. “I will not boast of our fortune by taking multiple carriages through an impoverished neighborhood like some flotilla.”

Lillian laughed. “As if the gilded wheels and newly painted coat of arms isn’t boastful enough?”

She had to admit it was a bit hypocritical, but it wasn’t her fault her father liked to keep an extravagantly decorated carriage.

The carriage pulled up to the large church just on the outskirts of what was considered to be the respectable part of London.

The girls filed out, one by one, dressed in a vibrant array of colors amongst the dreary palette that made up the city’s poorer neighborhoods. Behind them, a flock of burgundy liveried footmen followed in suit with baskets present in each of their hands.

It was as close as a Tisdale could get to an unpretentious entrance.

Ambrosia had insisted on carrying in at least two baskets; a decision that was causing her much physical discomfort given the sheer abundance of food that overfilled the wicker vessels.

The building itself was in decent enough shape and once inside its cleanliness led one to believe it was well cared for by its clergy and weekly attendants. The church was alive with the hustle and bustle of determined women on a mission to feed the whole of London.

Ambrosia was greeted warmly—her absence from the society had not been a source of contention amongst the women. As she greeted each of them, she became more and more aware of the tremendous weight threatening to tear her shoulders from her body.

She managed to back her way out of the gaggle and found room on an empty pew to set her cargo. Once lightened, she eased her hand upon her back and allowed herself a moment to flex the twitch of pain away. She massaged her hand, trying to remove the embedded trails of basket weave from her palm.

From across the church, she heard girlish squeals. Ambrosia looked toward the din, curious as to what could have extracted such sounds from a typically somber group of women. Kittens? Perhaps a baby? Or maybe even
babies
?

And that is when she saw the source of the women’s commotion.

The only other thing in the world that could transform a matronly group of females to puerile school-girls.

A man had entered, carrying a crate full of food.

She was at too great a distance to discern his features, but it was easy enough to see what had diverted the attention of the entirety of the women’s society. He was wearing a coat, but it was pulled taught across his shoulders as the muscles flexed to accommodate the weight of what he carried. Once at his destination within the church, the man sat down his load. Similarly to Ambrosia, he too flexed his back to and fro in order to find relief. He stretched his arms, then ran one of his hands through his dark hair. It was a trifle too long to be considered fashionable.

Then he turned to her.

Ambrosia commanded her knees not to give way.

At least he wasn’t wet.

She watched, as he grabbed a nearby pew to steady himself, as if his equilibrium had also been disturbed. Just then, the new chairwoman, Lady Clarke, approached him and he had no choice but to divert his attention.

Ambrosia quickly scanned around the room for her sisters, or at the very least for Amelia, whom had dispersed themselves amongst the throngs of women, dry goods, breads, and baskets. No matter how hard she looked, she couldn’t so much as make out Tamsin’s hair, whose unique color possessed a lighthouse beacon-like quality amid large crowds.

Since last seeing Duncan, she’d tried to rebuild herself in a manner that would allow her to once again successfully navigate through the waters of her life. And suddenly it was as if her small dingy had just capsized in a giant ocean. She knew it wasn’t solid transportation, but she had yet to declare herself a ship as she was still in such a state of rebuilding.

“Ambrosia?”

The tenor of his voice solicited feelings she thought she had buried too deep to find again. He had quickly made his way over to her side, his sheer presence overwhelming her after being gone from it for so long.

She remembered her vow to acknowledge him as she would any stranger, suddenly regretting not opting to relocate to another country. How could she have ever thought she’d be capable of thinking of him as just another stranger?

“Lord Bristol,” she said quietly, not by choice but because that was all the strength she could muster to speak. “What are you doing here?”

He smiled. Not an overt smile, just a slight upturning of the corners of his lips. “I’m a member of the
The Organization for the Rejuvenation of a Virtuous Society
.

Shock and disbelief managed to flush out her anxiety rather quickly. “Pardon me?”

He chuckled. “I became involved after Richard died. I needed something to occupy my time and you had regarded it so highly.”

“But it’s a ladies’ society?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Common enough misconception. It appears that only women have ever pursued membership. The organization is actually open to both genders. I just happen to be their only male member. Ever.”

Ambrosia tried to resist, but no amount of will could keep her smile from erupting. “Why?” she asked, closer to hilarity than she would have thought possible at such a moment.

His eyes were intensely alive as he spoke, those gold flecks dancing about his irises. “I thought about what you said. It turns out that I just may have been a good man after all. I considered myself a rake, but would never engage in affairs with married women. I fought with men, but only if they started it. I gamble, but I never cheat. And I’d fought against caring for anyone overly much, but when Richard died . . . ” He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve never been more distraught. Except of course when you left me. And even though I tried to pursue you for all the wrong reasons, I did attempt to correct my error in judgment before it escalated. Unfortunately, I had greatly underestimated just how easy it was to fall in love with you. It would seem I do abide by a certain moral code. Maybe I am more of my uncle’s son than my father’s.”

Ambrosia felt the burning behind her eyes again. She had tried so hard not to submit to the urge to cry, to just settle into one of her sister’s shoulders and lose herself in racks of sobs. And she had succeeded.