Compromising Miss Tisdale (2 page)

Her heart started to race as she realized her mother was not alone. She was escorted by what appeared to be yet another potential suitor—a knock-kneed, bean pole of a fop who barely looked old enough to have whiskers.

After Amelia’s deprecating, yet well-meaning advice, she was hardly in the mood to entertain yet another inept suitor, and was unable to reenter the ball without walking right past them.

She looked down at the floor. Despite her silent pleas, it was not opening up to swallow her whole. So, she would have to find an alternate route from which to escape.

She casually began trying the door knobs that lined each side of the corridor, careful not to draw attention to her actions. The chance that any of the doors would be left unlocked was slim, but she was hopeful that amidst all the last minute party details, someone would have forgotten and left one open. People were highly undependable in that way.

Ambrosia tried the last doorknob, gave it a firm twist, and prayed for some sort of divine intervention.

Prayers answered—the door opened.

Chapter 2

Ambrosia shut the door behind her, leaned against the back of it, and allowed herself to exhale. If this was any indication of what to expect during the rest of the Season, then she certainly had her work cut out for her.

She had stumbled upon the library. A fire in the hearth threw a faint glow over leather-lined volumes that filled floor to ceiling book shelves. Lavishly upholstered plush arm chairs sat upon Aubusson rugs scattered throughout the room. A settee was positioned across from a giant stone-faced fireplace, where a shirtless man sat warming his hands.

Shirtless man?

Ambrosia blinked.

Certainly, her eyes were playing tricks on her.

Then the shirtless man turned his head, his eyes meeting hers.

It wasn’t a hallucination-he
was
real. She hadn’t been expecting to find a partially dressed man, and he obviously wasn’t expecting to be found. It was but a moment before the man’s expression began to soften and a wicked smile slowly crept across his lips.

A smile that stole the breath right from her.

Every gently bred fiber in her body screamed to turn around and run straight out the door. Hundreds of years of proper English rearing had produced a base instinct to flee when in the presence of an unknown male—especially one with so little clothing. But then he stood, cautiously, the way one does as if not to startle a deer. He was clad in nothing but buckskin breeches, the dim light from the flames playing over the sculpted muscles and sinew of his shoulders and chest.

Breeding be damned, her feet simply refused to budge.

He reached over and picked up a throw from a nearby chair, slowly wrapping it around his shoulders. “I apologize for my appearance. I thought I was alone.”

She had never seen an unclothed man before, but knew he had to be an exemplary example. She’d only seen physiques like his in books and on statues in gardens, and was certain that something so perfect did not warrant an apology.

“My carriage lost a wheel and in typical London fashion, the skies opened up while I was riding. The butler thought it was best I dry off here for a bit ‘til the lady of the house is available.”

So, he wasn’t a guest—wasn’t one of the
ton
. She assumed he was probably traveling into the city from the countryside for some sort of work. The light was dim, but she could make out that his skin was bronzed in a way that only came from laboring in the sun. Yet, the confidence he exuded, the way he held himself and spoke, contradicted all of that.

Who was this man?

His hair was slick and dark, the way rain-soaked pavement looked at night, and thick pieces clung damply to his brow. She allowed her gaze to drop down to his breeches, which were soaked through and clinging to the long muscles of his thighs and . . .

Ambrosia abruptly shifted her eyes back up, her face hot with embarrassment. She felt a bit as if she might swoon, but the vision of being found in a most improper heap on the floor, in the company of the opposite sex, was enough to keep her upright.

His smile widened, revealing rows of straight, white pearls for teeth. “You must be hiding from someone? That’s the only reason ladies seek cover in libraries alone during parties. Is it a scorned lover? Jilted fiancé?” He chuckled lightly. The deep, resonating sound did strange things to her stomach.

Censorious friend? Meddling mother?
“Something of the sort,” she stammered. Suddenly it was as if all sense of the English language deserted her. And since when had she started to stammer?

He took a step toward her, still slow and deliberate with his movements. “You seem nervous. Perhaps you would feel a bit more comfortable if we properly introduced ourselves.”

She simply shook her head, doubting her ability to form a sensible word.

He raised a cocky eyebrow. “After seeing me in such a state, I think it’s only civilized that we exchange introductions. After all, you already know quite a bit about me and I know practically nothing about you.”

The argument seemed almost rational when he put it like that. And Ambrosia whole heartedly agreed with his deduction. In the past few moments, she had learned quite a lot about him, actually. She knew he was handsome as the devil, sculpted like a Greek god, and clearly unaffected by the gross impropriety of their current situation.

She swallowed, taking time to find her voice. “I think it is best if we
don’t
talk.”

He was close enough now that she could distinguish more of the details in his face. His features were so angular; staring at him was truly a study in geometry. With high cheekbones, a strong chin, and an even stronger squared jaw, it was hard to look away. But it was his eyes that demanded her attention. Framed with thick black lashes, his were a unique shade of hazel—a virtual kaleidoscope of color, with gold flecks playing about them.

And every bit as devilish as his smile.

“I’m glad to hear you feel that way. I couldn’t agree more,” he replied in a husky voice. He was close now, so close she could smell the rain on him. He looked down from heavy eyelids to meet her gaze. Then he bent his head and crushed his lips against hers.

His kiss was hard, offending her naive lips. It was all so incomprehensible; the moment, the man, his kiss. She found herself devoid of all sense and thus reacted instinctually. She brought her hands to his chest and cautiously leaned into him. Without delay, she was responding to the coaxing rhythm of his expertise. The sweet taste of brandy, still warm on his breath, filled her senses, thus leaving her unsure if it was the brandy or the intensity of the moment and unfamiliar stirrings within her body that left her head swimming.

He let up a bit and the kiss turned into something different entirely. His mouth was leading her, challenging her inexperience. His tongue tentatively touched her lips, seeking permission. She allowed her lips to part and invited him in.

He moaned against her mouth, a primal sort of groan. The sound was unfamiliar, filling her with fear and logic all at the same time, breaking the trance.

What had she done?

She was acting like a complete henwit! How could she have allowed some man, not even a gentleman, but a common man to reduce her to a weak-kneed, blabbering mess? Not even Amelia’s brother, James, with his roaming hands and sugary words, dripping with guile, had earned such a response from her.

Without warning, Ambrosia pushed him away with all the force her body could muster, sending him stumbling backward.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieked.

He balked. Remnants of the passion shared just a moment ago lingering in his eyes, in his pained expression, in the tension in his body, and most prominently in his breeches. “I was kissing you. Surely, it’s obvious.”

“Why on earth would you do something like that?” Ambrosia took a step away from the door, arms akimbo.

“You said you’d rather not talk, and there aren’t that many alternatives. It made perfect sense at the time and I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

Her mouth gaped at the absurdity of his words. “Why
ever
would you assume that?”

He shrugged. “You’re obviously not some young chit out for her debut. And
you’re
the one who found
me
. Naturally, I assumed-”

“Well you assumed wrong! I am a virtuous,
young
lady.”

“If you were
that
virtuous, you would have turned around as soon as you saw me.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. He had a point, but she wasn’t about to let him know that.

“You, sir, are a danger to women.”

He smiled. “I’ve always thought of myself as more of a gift, really.”

She rolled her eyes, an urge she rarely surrendered to, despite the regularity of her desire to do so. Ambrosia Tisdale prided herself on being the epitome of calm and refinement, not succumbing to base behaviors. But if ever there had been a situation to warrant such conduct, this was certainly it.

The exasperating man was watching her with obvious amusement, finding depraved enjoyment in their situation. He stood with that wicked smile—virile confidence oozing from every pore, with not one single drop of remorse.

“If I wasn’t so concerned for the detrimental effects this little encounter would have on my impeachable reputation, you can be certain that I would scream bloody murder right now. But as the situation exists, I will refrain and simply walk out of this room. Make no mistake that I will personally notify the Lady of the house of her butler’s poor sense in allowing just anyone off the street,
a common laborer
, into her home. To think! There are decent people right on the other side of that door!” She pointed dramatically behind her.

He folded his arms across his bare chest. “Do what you must. I’m sure Lady Montgomery will be quite interested in knowing that I’m here.” His reply barely registered. She was too preoccupied with putting as much space between them as possible.

Ambrosia threw back her shoulders and stood tall. She smoothed the pleats in her gown and the few wisps of hair that had fallen from her chignon. “Good night to you, sir,” she said, bowing her head slightly in his general direction and slipping out the door, back into the hall.

She was, after all, a lady. And there was never an excuse for bad manners.

Chapter 3

Duncan Maddox hadn’t expected to see anyone else in the library, but the surprise was a pleasing one. Despite the chill he felt settling in his bones, he was still able to appreciate a beautiful woman. The light from the fire was dim, but he could make out enough of her soft features to know that she was indeed a lovely girl.

Woman, really. He assumed her to be a bit older since she was missing that vapid look so many of the young debutantes wore. Her eyes were blue. Not just any blue—but a deep, tumultuous hue. They were the sky over Dover, right before a storm. Her bold words had been his invitation to steal a kiss, and her slight tremble and ragged breath was all the prodding he’d needed to continue on.

It had been quite a while since he’d seduced a woman from polite society and by the way she reacted to his touch, virtuous was the last word he would have used to describe her. She may have seemed timid at first, but could hardly be considered a novice.

This girl was no English rose. She was too tall, too
brunette
.

Then suddenly, it had all stopped for what he could only assume was the blatant hypocrisy of London in the springtime. Young women didn’t mind stolen kisses in dark libraries, just as long as they were with appropriately titled gentleman.

Ahhh, yes. Now he remembered exactly why it had been so long since he had been in London.

He hated it.

He hated the smells, the noise, the dirty water of the Thames. The putrid air that surrounded the city.

And most of all, the equally putrid people. It was stifling—all the rules and regulations. Propriety was the façade the
decent
people of London used to cover their true motivations—lust and fortune. His parents had taught him that lesson well enough.

It had been easy to avoid, until now. He’d had the good fortune of being born a youngest son, his older brother in line to become the Earl of Bristol. After spending a brief time at Oxford, his parents had sent him packing to one of the family’s estates in the country, so he could better pursue his own interests. This left his brother, Jason, to deal with the family accounts, investments, to marry for wealth, and eventually produce an heir.

The arrangement gave him leave to entertain, avoid marriage, and live a life of leisure. Of course, being the youngest son, he did have to do a short stint on the Peninsula, but a fair enough price to pay for his lack of social obligation.

Then it had all changed last year. His brother had died rather suddenly. Duncan still found the idea ludicrous. His brother was bigger, stronger, and quite possibly the most virile man alive. One afternoon he had complained of some difficulty catching his breath, then simply collapsed. No illness, no forewarning—just a few moments of heavy breathing, then he’d died.

Just like that.

Men like his brother were supposed to die fighting valiantly for their country in war or while rescuing women and small children from burning houses. They were not supposed to simply collapse out of nowhere.

Their parents had died long enough ago, as was the case with the rest of the Maddox family. All that was left was himself and his father’s youngest brother, Richard. Of course, he still had his mother’s cousins, the Montgomery’s, but the Maddox family line was near obsolete. And the prize for last Maddox standing was the title of Earl—a distinction he had spent his entire life staying as far away from as possible.

“Duncan!” His Uncle Richard gave him a tight hug. “I’m relieved to see you. You were so late, I was worried. Thought you had changed your mind.” His uncle clapped him on the shoulder, outwardly appraising his appearance. “You certainly can’t attend the ball dressed, or undressed, like that! The guests will be disappointed. I told everyone you’d be attending tonight.”