Compromising Miss Tisdale Read online

  Table of Contents

  COMPROMISING MISS TISDALE

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  COMPROMISING MISS TISDALE

  JESSICA JEFFERSON

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  COMPROMISING MISS TISDALE

  Copyright©2013

  JESSICA JEFFERSON

  Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the priority written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-333-6

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is dedicated

  to my two best friends,

  Melissa and my husband, Matthew.

  And wine. Can’t forget wine.

  Acknowledgements

  I need to thank my husband profusely, who without complaint watched both the kids while I pored over rewrites. Okay, maybe not completely without complaint.

  I want to acknowledge my best friend, Melissa Jefferson, who not only let me borrow her name, but always lent me an ear. And to Candie, who let me vent via text message.

  I want to acknowledge my parents whose rearing provided me with years of awesome material to use in future books. My siblings—without them, I’d have no witty anecdotes. And my teachers, who taught me to use all that good stuff!

  And I especially want to acknowledge all of my work friends, who listened to me throughout the most surreal conversations—least of all being, “What about the hair on my hero’s torso?”

  Chapter 1

  Her fourth Season.

  Ambrosia Tisdale helped herself to a cup of lemonade.

  It was only four, after all, and not as grim as all that.

  She reached for a meringue.

  Five.

  Now, five would be appalling.

  But four?

  Four meant she was experienced, but not without hope.

  “Are you listening to me?”

  The voice of her irritated friend interrupted her silent rambling. “I do apologize, Amelia, but with such a crush it’s quite impossible to hear clearly. What were you saying?”

  Ambrosia’s statement was mostly true. There was a lull between songs at Lord and Lady Montgomery’s annual ball commemorating the start of another London Season, and it seemed everyone had taken the opportunity to search out refreshments.

  Amelia acknowledged the excuse with a dismissive wave. “I was just telling you about the most delicious on dit I came by earlier. It would appear that the Earl of Bristol is coming tonight.”

  Ambrosia choked on a sip of the sour lukewarm liquid. “That is an intriguing piece of gossip, especially with Lord Bristol being dead and all. You’d think, given a second chance, he’d find a place with more suitable refreshments.” She placed the glass on the tray of a passing footman.

  Amelia rolled her eyes. “Not that Lord Bristol, rather his younger brother, the new Earl of Bristol. You know, I met him once. He attended Eton with my brother and came to stay with us for a bit over the holiday.”

  Though Ambrosia disapproved of repeating gossip, she had no such aversion to hearing it. Fortunately, her best friend reveled in it and helped her to keep current with all the latest bits.

  “I remember him being terribly handsome, and if he’s inherited from his brother, then he’s certain to be rich as Midas. Yes, quite handsome indeed. He’ll make quite the prospect now that he’s found his way to London. His family’s reputation is still a bit scandalous, but it’s nothing that can’t be overlooked for such a title. He’s all anyone is talking about and the stories I’ve heard are positively shocking and . . . are you listening?”

  Half listening.

  Her attention had yet again been diverted, this time by a lively gaggle of young women clad in pastel colored gowns and the men who fawned over them. She had been there before—too many times before if one asked her mother. The setting was so contrived, yet she felt comfort in its predictability.

  She loved everything about the Season. She never tired of the parties, the people, or even the simple, modestly cut pallid gowns she wore year after year as an unwed woman. She always knew exactly what to expect and thrived upon such order.

  But for the briefest of moments, she felt a slight twinge of envy for the vivid peacock blue of her married friend’s taffeta. That feeling of envy was fleeting, however, replaced by an unexpected, violent pinch.

  “You haven’t heard a word of what I’ve said all night. Now, what could possibly have you so preoccupied?” Amelia probed.

  Ambrosia rubbed her upper arm. “I apologize for being so distracted, but I have far more important things to concern myself with than whom may or may not have made tonight’s guest list.” She dramatically produced a partially filled dance card.

  “You’re such a pessimist. Can’t you see the card as being half full rather than half empty? Besides, I thought you’d be happy. You hate dancing.”

  Ambrosia sighed. “I do not hate dancing. I simply hate bad dancers—there’s a difference. And it’s not the blank spots, but rather what they represent. Mama believes the empty spaces are further confirmation that I am destined for a life of spinsterhood. Both she and papa have been wooing eligible men all evening. The worst part is that they don’t seem to care to whom they marry me off, as long as they’re over the age of sixteen and under the age of ninety.”

  Amelia took a bite of another chocolate. “Well, you can’t entirely fault them for their efforts. This is your fourth Season, after all, and you have yet to accept a proposal. We’re all a bit concerned at this point.”

  The subject of her matrimonial status, or lack thereof, was always at the center of discussion within the Tisdale home. Her debut had initially been postponed in respect to her older brother’s unexpected passing. But now, she was nearly three and twent
y years of age, and there was simply no good excuse for an attractive girl with excellent breeding to remain unspoken for. And since her younger sister, Lilly, had married the year before, it was as if her lack of matrimony was on the tip of everyone’s tongue, including the whole of Mayfair.

  And to think the Season had just begun.

  “I’m simply waiting for the right offer to come along,” Ambrosia replied matter-of-factly.

  Amelia lowered her voice. “As your dearest, and dare I say only friend, I hope you do not take my words the wrong way. But it seems to me that it would do you good to consider any offer that comes your way.”

  Ambrosia mentally prepared herself for yet another lecture on husband-hunting by newly wedded expert, Lady Amelia Jeffers. The daughter of a Duke, Amelia had been blessed with privilege, as well as honey blond curls, big brown eyes, and a figure rivaling that of Venus. By no surprise, she had found herself a Marquis—rich, handsome, and . . . rich. Now an authority on all things related to marriage, she never missed an opportunity to educate her on the art of matrimony.

  “Please elaborate, Amelia.” As if she needed leave to do so.

  Amelia smiled graciously. “I’m merely referring to the fact that the proposals aren’t coming as frequently as they used to. England is an island, after all, and there are limited resources. Instead of waiting for the right offer to come along, perhaps you could do more to attract potential suitors. You could start by trying to a bit more approachable. You never smile.”

  “I smile when it is appropriate and the occasion calls for it. You know good and well that I’m a rather serious person, not some ninny that goes around senselessly grinning from ear to ear.”

  “That’s just it! Men aren’t looking for wives that are serious. They appreciate a woman who smiles and possesses a pleasant disposition.”

  “I’m pleasant,” she said flatly.

  “Men want to marry a delicate flower, a woman whom is demure and soft spoken-”

  “I am demure and soft spoken,” Ambrosia snapped.

  Amelia shook her head. “Frankly, your name is the only floral quality you possess. You know you have a tendency to come off a bit . . . ”

  “Proper?” Ambrosia volunteered.

  “I was thinking intimidating, rigid, or cold. But I suppose proper will do.”

  Ambrosia raised an eyebrow. “Some of us do not have the opportunity for frivolity that others do. You must remember that after Thomas died, the responsibility of being the eldest and setting the example for the younger girls fell to me. I take the subject of matrimony quite seriously. A poor match may have dire consequences for my younger sisters and heaven knows those two heathens need all the assistance they can get. I truly appreciate your words of advice, but if you’ll excuse me for a few moments? The humidity in this room is wreaking havoc on my hair and I must tidy up a bit.”

  It was a lie. Her appearance was always impeccable, and there was not one displaced curl from her elegantly coifed twist. But she needed a reprieve, even if it were just for a few moments in the ladies’ retiring room.

  She made her way through the dozens of well-dressed bodies packed tightly near the refreshments and into the hall leading out from the ballroom. She stopped immediately at the sight of a most formidable impasse.

  Her mother.

  Lady Flora Tisdale had aged with the grace of a fine wine, with only a few lines and sporadic grey hairs as evidence of her maturity. She had once been regarded as a diamond of the first water. Out of all the Tisdale girls, it was Ambrosia who had been fortunate enough to inherit much of that same beauty. Both shared chestnut tresses and creamy porcelain skin. And though all the girls inherited the dark blue eyes of their mother, it was Ambrosia who inherited both her slim figure and regal height. The pity, as her mother always put it, was that her eldest daughter hadn’t the luck of inheriting Lady Tisdale’s vibrant personality or sweet disposition.

  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 wi
dened, 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.