Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers
2
“Dear God, Mercy. I wish to actually breathe tonight.” Jane Emily Manning grasped the solid mahogany post of the bed and felt wood bite into her fingers. She held on for dear life as her maid pulled the stays of her corset tight.
“Miss Jemma,” Mercy used her childhood nickname, “if I don't pull, you won't fit into your gown. Don't you want Mr. Augustus to think you beautiful? You have to—”
“Yes, of course," Jemma cut her off. “By all means we should make sure that I am properly coiffed—” She winced as the stays cut into her waist. “For Augie's sake. Though I imagine he would prefer that I don’t faint into the fish course.”
Mercy frowned, her coffee colored skin wrinkling across her broad brow, giving her the appearance of a worried tortoise. “You're not too old for me to put over my knee, missy.” The maid gave one final tug, grunting in satisfaction as she nearly pulled Jemma off her feet. "Mr. Augie is a good man. He’s handsome and has nice manners. He’s the son of the Governor.” Mercy tied off the stays. “And he’s mad in love with you.”
“Mad in love with me? Mad in love with Sea Cliff,” Jemma muttered under her breath, referring to her home.
Mercy strode over to the dressmaker's model where Jemma's gown hung and tossed the layers of frothy, cream colored taffeta over a muscular arm. “Most women would kill to have a man like Mr. Augie. Every girl on the island wishes he were courting her. So what if he loves Sea Cliff as much as you? It’s gonna be his when you marry. You don’t want him to sell it like Joanna Parson’s husband did. Now that was a bit of a shock to us all. She married a fortune hunter and no sooner did they wed than he sold her inheritance and took her to London.”
“I remember.”
“Well, Mr. Augie won’t never sell Sea Cliff. He won’t leave Bermuda. He’s not some man coming here to make his fortune.”
Not like Mr. Shepherd.Mercy’s words conjured up the image of the large, dark man with the eye-patch, bringing to mind their meeting of little more than a week ago. He certainly was just another gentleman hoping to make his fortune in Bermuda by wedding an heiress. Bermuda, situated amongst multiple trade routes, bred wealthy merchants by the dozens. The islands were also a major source of salt for the British Empire. Jemma’s father himself owned several salt operations. The island saw a fresh crop of fortune hunters every year or so. A well connected man could marry his wealth rather than work for it.
“I suppose that’s true.” But Mr. Shepherd hadn’t struck her as the typical fortune hunter either. She obediently stood, arms out, to step into her gown.
Mercy gave a snort. “It is true. Besides, I don’t know any other man that allows his betrothed to run around in breeches shooting skinks.”
“Future betrothed.” Jemma frowned. What else was she supposed to use for target practice if not the large lizards that dotted the island?
“You two have an understanding. Everyone knows it. Mr. Augie puts up with your nonsense, is all I mean.”
“I prefer to call it an eccentricity,” Jemma countered at Mercy’s reference to her preference for wearing breeches in order to hunt. She was proud of the fact that she could shoot as well as any man. She could even hit a quickly moving skink with a thrown knife. Not an easy feat.
Mercy buttoned up the gown and said nothing.
“So what if I like to do a bit of hunting and fishing?”
Mercy smoothed down the silk around the buttons. “You promised your father you would stop now that you're grown and about to be married.”
“I’m not about to be married. Yet. And I can't go sneaking behind a skink in a dress, wearing gloves. Honestly Mercy,” Jemma cajoled. “I know you don’t like it. But no one sees me. I promise.”
The maid adjusted the fit, tugging down the bodice until the tops of Jemma's breasts were partially exposed. "Oh they see you, they just pretend not to. I hear about it. We servants talk, you know. Best you not let Lady Corbett find out.”
Looking down at her exposed bosom, Jemma sighed at the mention of her future mother-in-law. “Why must you do that, Mercy?” Jemma tugged the bodice up. “You find my hunting attire to be scandalous but baring my chest to all of Bermuda is acceptable? I look quite wanton.”
Mercy clucked her tongue. “Now Miss Jemma, they aren't big.” She nodded towards Jemma's breasts and pulled the bodice down again. "But most men still want to see a bit of them. That’s not being wanton. That’s just showing what the Lord gave you.” Mercy held Jemma's chin, looking at her charge’s face intently. “Told you to put some lemon juice on your arms and face. Told you to wear a hat.”
“I did. I swear. The brim covered the whole of my face. Not a bit of sun touched my cheeks.”
Mercy dropped her hand. "Why, you're nearly as dark as I am. That won't do. And look at those freckles.” She shook her head. “I suppose there's no help for it now.”
“No, there isn’t.” Jemma turned about, the layers of fabric swishing about her ankles. The dress was a creamy confection, sewn through with brilliants in a diamond pattern across the skirt and bodice. The gown was incredibly beautiful and had cost her father a fortune, but it did draw attention to the honeyed tone of Jemma's tanned skin. Lady Corbett, Augie's mother, was apt to have a fit when she saw the march of freckles across Jemma's cheeks. Honestly, Jemma tried to stay out of the sun. Truly. But it was incredibly difficult to shoot a pistol while carrying a parasol in the other hand.
“It’s not that bad. Stop exaggerating.” Jemma pursed her lips in rebuke and turned her head to the side to study her cheeks.
Mercy raised one dark brow and started to work Jemma's light brown hair into an elegant chignon.
“Stop being so disapproving.” When the maid didn't respond, Jemma continued, “Fine. I'll let you put lemon juice all over me tomorrow. I promise.”
Jemma glanced into the mirror again, noting the folds of silk piled around her hips. Dear God, I appear to be sitting in a bowl of whipped cream.
Mercy twisted Jemma’s hair expertly, arranging it so that a small wisp of curls caught at the base of her neck. “And Lady Corbett will have something to say about those freckles. If you'd just put that paste on your skin like I've asked.”
"You mean that horrible smelling concoction Lady Corbett raves about? No, thank you.” Jemma wrinkled her nose. “It smells terrible. Like seaweed and lemon. Besides, one day freckles will be all the rage. I’m sure of it.”
Mercy's lips pressed together, but her eyes were merry. “You are the most contrary child.” She kissed Jemma's cheek. “Always have been. Wait until Mr. Augie sees you in this dress. Why, he’ll go down on one knee and propose I bet.”
Jemma sincerely hoped not. She realized she was the only one not anticipating the marriage of Augustus Corbett and herself. The entire population of Hamilton, and indeed all of Bermuda, seemed poised for the event. The marriage of William Manning’s daughter to the son of the Governor was akin to royalty being wed—at least on Bermuda. Everyone wished the marriage, except Jemma herself. She adored Augie, truly. But she felt not the slightest hint of passion for him. Shouldn’t she feel passion? Shouldn’t there be more? He didn’t make her heart leap or her palms sweat.
Not like Nick Shepherd.
The image of that man popped into her head again. How unnerving their brief meeting had been. And it wasn’t because she’d shot a man defending Mr. Shepherd. It was Mr. Shepherd himself.
Large, handsome gentlemen sporting eye-patches weren't all that common in Bermuda, unless you counted the retired pirates who diced and drank in seedy environs at Hamilton’s wharf. But Mr. Shepherd was no retired pirate.
He was certainly a gentleman, for his clothes and accent marked him as such. And he was no dandy. Few dandies that passed through Bermuda sported a crooked nose like a prizefighter. Fewer still bore scars across their knuckles as if they’d fought often with their hands. The sheer size of him also left her in awe. He was at least a head taller than Augie and broad of shoulder. A man like that could easily defend himself. She supposed he'd really not needed her assistance. “And arrogant,” Jemma murmured under her breath. “So full of himself.”
“Miss Jemma?” Mercy's eyes watched her closely, her hands still on Jemma's hair. “You're blushing.”
“I’m just a bit warm," Jemma stuttered, feeling the heat in her cheeks at the thought of Mr. Shepherd’s mocking smile across his full lips. He had made her feel warm that day in the alley as well, and now the mere thought of the man set her cheeks to flame. “I should have shot him.”
“Miss Jemma?” Mercy placed a hand on Jemma's arm. “Who should you shoot? You look strange. Are you ill?”
“I missed a wild pig just the other day. I waited too long to shoot,” she said automatically. Mr. Shepherd. Arrogant man. What would it be like to kiss him? To have that brilliant blue eye look down at her while he pressed his lips to hers? The thought unsettled her.
“Mmm.” Mercy answered as her hands flew back over a stray curl, pushing a final pin into place. “You should be thinking about babies and not hunting pigs. Lord! What will your father and Mr. Augie do with you?”
Jemma lifted her chin and regarded her cream-colored reflection in the mirror. She wondered if Mr. Shepherd realized she was a woman that day and not a lad and if he would recognize her if their paths crossed. Why had she given him her name? “Jem” had popped out of her lips without thinking.
“What does it matter?” she answered Mercy, not really thinking of her father or Augie, but of Nick Shepherd. It didn’t matter, for Jemma doubted she'd see Mr. Shepherd again.
