Compromising Miss Tisdale by Jessica Jefferson Page B

its meager intentions, the gown actually left little to the imagination. He found himself at quite a pleasurable vantage point of Miss Tisdale’s bottom.
    Which was quite a bit more substantial than he had initially thought.
    And that discovery pleased him more than he cared to admit.
    “Is this man your uncle then? I do say, you two could pass for twins,” he said, clearing his throat and refocusing his attention back to the discussion at hand.
    She turned back to him, her expression thoughtful. “Because we both take after our mother. This is a portrait of my brother, Thomas.”
    Duncan, surprised by her admission, sat up a little straighter in his chair. “I had no idea. I thought there were only Tisdale sisters , no brothers to speak of.”
    Ambrosia made her way back to her chair before explaining further. “There are only sisters . . . now. Thomas passed on a few years ago. It was an awful winter and we both fell quite ill. I recovered. Thomas was not as fortunate.”
    Ambrosia’s voice was no longer curt and polite, but soft and rich with emotion.
    “I am sorry,” he said in the obligatory manner one would expect when conversing about such a thing.
    He stared at her mouth, which from where he sat spoke volumes as to the degree of emotion she was feeling. Usually, Miss Tisdale kept her mouth quite firmly closed in a state of perpetual frowning. Her lips were undoubtedly sensual; plump and almost an unbelievable shade of red. But she kept them tightly sealed, as if allowing them the smallest bit of play would possibly permit an unwelcome smile.
    But now, now he watched in awe as she allowed her mouth to soften, her lips like a rose finally given the opportunity to bloom. It was extraordinary, really.
    “You must have loved him greatly,” he observed.
    “Oh, I loved him—envied him in fact.” Ambrosia refreshed her tea, taking the liberty to top his off as well. He hadn’t the nerve to refuse and possibly interrupt her candor. “Everyone loved him, it was impossible not to. He was one of those individuals that others always seemed to flock to. But how could anyone resist him? After all, Thomas was always so good at everything. He didn’t have to worry, for he never did wrong. He was practically perfect.”
    “How so?” he urged her on, genuinely interested in what she had to say. Duncan found himself mesmerized by the transformation. Ambrosia spoke with a far-away look in her eyes and allowed her posture to finally relax. The ice queen was thawing before his very eyes.
    And then he dared imagine her speaking of him in such a way—with such blatant adoration. No woman had ever remembered a Maddox man fondly, let alone with any kind of devotion. After all, adoration was something one had to earn, which generally necessitated some amount of effort. But it was a comforting thought for the moment.
    Ambrosia continued relaying tales of her brother’s heroics. He listened attentively, lost in the narrative of the Tisdale family and the woman who told them so superbly.
    “And then just short of my debut, we both became ill. Somehow . . . ” she spoke slowly as she cautiously teetered her way through the memory. “ . . . somehow I survived, while he did not.”
    Silence enveloped the room as they both sipped on their tea. Duncan recognized her guilt.
    He had it, too.
    “I lost my brother, also,” he said when the silence had become too palpable to bear. It seemed a paltry thing to say, but he felt obliged to say something after she had shared so much.
    Ambrosia looked at him, really looked at him as if she were seeing something in him that was new. “Yes, I was quite surprised when I heard he had died. He, too, was quite young.”
    Duncan hadn’t said those words aloud till that moment. His brother’s death was common knowledge now, retold countless times, undoubtedly because of the abruptness of the situation. But never before had he actually said the words. And now that he had permitted himself to do