Compromising Miss Tisdale (15 page)

This must have been her sitting room.

It was in the next room, the emerald green room, where he found his uncle gathered with a small group of other elder gentleman. Richard was smoking a pipe, looking as if he could doze off at any moment.

“Richard, my head is aching. I just wanted to let you know I’m going to leave so that I may get some rest.”

His uncle eyed him, instantly suspicious. “Perhaps if you’d distance yourself from the brandy, your head wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Touché.

He ignored the remark, especially since it was so very true. “It’s not that—completely. I’m afraid I may still be recovering from the injuries I sustained the other night and just need to lie down for a bit.”

“From falling down the stairs?” his uncle asked coolly.

Was that the story he had concocted for his uncle’s benefit? He had almost forgotten.

“Truth be told, I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave so soon,” Richard continued. “Some men are gathering in Lord Tisdale’s private chambers for a few hands. It could be most beneficial for you to stay and gain some recognition from some of the more influential men in the group. Besides, I believe your friend and accomplice, the Duke of Kenning, might join us for a few games. Actually, I’m quite certain he will.” He took a long drag off his pipe. “After all, Lord Kenning never misses a chance to lose his money.”

Duncan shook his head. The effects of the brandy were becoming readily apparent and he was hardly in a state to play cards . . . well. “It does sound promising, but I’m afraid I simply couldn’t bear another five minutes of it all. Perhaps another time?” He patted Richard on the shoulder and made a hasty exit, not wanting to see the disappointment he knew would be so obvious on his uncle’s face.

He turned down the first hallway he came upon. It was unfamiliar, but he hadn’t the nerve to turn around and chance another encounter with Richard’s disapproval. He told himself leaving was for the best and that staying would jeopardize him even more in the eyes of his uncle. He was hardly in a decent enough state to socialize and didn’t want to risk being labeled the inebriated fool at the party. Duncan cursed himself for not having more restraint. An Earl should know better than to throwback glasses of brandy as if they were lemonade. It was further proof that he was never supposed to be the Earl.

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?”