Free Compromising Miss Tisdale by Jessica Jefferson Page A

caller, Miss Tisdale,” the butler announced from the doorway of the drawing room.
    “Who is it?” Tamsin asked earnestly.
    Ambrosia continued her embroidery. “It is inconsequential as to whom it may be. It is Tuesday, after all, and we do not entertain callers at this hour on Tuesdays.” She finally put the hoop down and turned her attention to the butler. “If you would be so kind as to obtain our guest’s card, I shall return the call as I see fit.”
    Ambrosia kept a schedule and only an act of God could keep her from it.
    The butler brought a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “I cannot do that, Miss Tisdale. Lady Tisdale has instructed that no gentleman callers be turned away.”
    Or, the act of a relentless mother, it would seem .
    “It’s a gentleman!” Tamsin said derisively, tossing her embroidery aside in a hopeless tangle of rainbows on the floor.
    Ambrosia bit her lip. Her mother must be growing desperate.
    She picked up her hoop and began untangling a strand of vermillion embroidery floss. “Of course, how foolish of me. I must have forgotten. You may show the gentleman in.”
    The butler bowed and disappeared from the doorway.
    “I thought you’d rejected all the men in London? Surely, none of those poor gentleman would return for a second refusal?” Tamsin shook her head, causing red curls to escape a poorly constructed bun at her nape. “Men! Not a lick of sense amongst the lot. You’d think once would be enough, but they just don’t give up, do they?”
    Ambrosia sighed heavily. “I have not rejected every man. Granted, there may have been a significant number of men, but that’s no reason to resort to exaggeration. And you make it sound as if I’m cruel about it.”
    “Hardly cruel,” Tamsin agreed. “Your refusals are some of the most polite I’ve ever heard. So polite I’m certain they thank you after you’ve broken their hearts and shattered their dreams.”
    Ambrosia stretched her neck a bit, trying to loosen the growing tension. That same tension had a tendency to develop whenever Tamsin was near. “Kindly resume you’re needlework.”
    “The Earl of Bristol,” the butler announced without any sort of vocal embellishment, as would be expected. Yet the response those words incited was comparable to that of announcing the Prince Regent himself.
    Ambrosia drew a sharp breath and clutched her chest. Tamsin, not nearly as refined, gasped aloud.
    How did he find her?
    The answer was obvious—her mother had , after all, sent him an invitation to their ball. The more sensible question would be why was he here? He had teased her mercilessly in the park and her only defense was cold indifference. But he spoke to her so frankly, she found it impossible to resist sparring back. She had to hand it to him—the man knew how to get under her skin.
    And if he was so adept at something like that, it made her question what else he’d be able to get under?
    “Miss Tisdale,” Lord Bristol bowed upon entering the room. The man was dressed casually, sporting a navy coat instead of his typical black. His hair appeared to be slightly wet, remnants of a morning bath, and was tucked casually behind his ears. It was not the current style by any means, but somehow it suited him.
    Of course, a man that exuded as much confidence as he could pull off a shaved head and wheat sack and look just as alluring.
    “And you must be . . . ” he directed his attention to her sister.
    “One of my two younger sisters, Miss Tamsin,” Ambrosia finished, gesturing for him to take a seat in a nearby chair. “Rose is, well, Rose is somewhere around here.”
    Tamsin beamed genuinely and without refinement. The girl had always found it impossible to reign in her smile, so when she grinned, it whole-heartedly exposed two complete rows of perfectly shaped, bright white teeth. “So, you’re the Earl of Bristol, then?” she asked in a tone that could only be described as accusatory.
    Ambrosia felt a