Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers

4

Jemma stopped ten paces out of the drawing room and sniffed the air. A delicious, most welcome aroma filled her nostrils.

Oh my. That's chocolate. Simply loads of it.

Lady Corbett's cook outdid herself this evening, serving a wide array of desserts for the enjoyment of the Governor's guests, the foremost of which, were individual chocolate tarts. A favorite of Jemma's.

Actually, Jemma adored anything chocolate, she had since she tried her first bite of the dark, sweet treat when still a toddler. Her father insisted she stay active, recommending long walks and a most demanding regimen of dancing and piano lessons as protection against stoutness. She did well with dancing, but the piano lessons she found dull, so instead she begged Tally, her father’s man, to allow her to tag along with him as he fished or practiced with his pistols. Her father was most displeased when he realized she couldn’t play a simple tune and voiced his objections to her unladylike hobbies. He relented when he found out what a good shot she was. The piano collected dust in the Sea Cliff drawing room.

Jemma pushed aside all thoughts of the piano and regarded the sideboard before her. Silver trays still held a number of desserts as the servants had not finished cleaning the dining room. Lady Corbett, her mouth grim, had nodded in disapproval when Jemma asked for another dessert after dinner.

“Well, she’s not here now, is she?” Jemma spotted her quarry. A trio of lovely, round tarts of dark chocolate, powdered with sugar, shining like a beacon in the candlelight. She sniffed the air in appreciation and stepped closer.

“I feel better already,” Jemma said out loud to the empty room.

Approaching the tray of chocolate tarts as a hunter stalks its prey, Jemma took her time deciding exactly which treat would follow her outside to the gardens.

A stack of linen napkins, neatly folded, sat next to the tray. Jemma grabbed a chocolate tart, wrapping it tightly in a linen napkin.

A bit of chocolate and some fresh air will clear my head.

She held the napkin lightly in her hand, hoping she wouldn't see anyone as she made her way outside. She thought of the Sinclair sisters throwing themselves at Mr. Shepherd, and she clutched the tart tighter. “I only wish,” she said to out loud, “that Agnes and Bertie wouldn’t make such cows of themselves in public.” Liar, a voice whispered in her ear.

Jemma hurried down the hallway, towards the large French doors leading to the terrace and the gardens beyond. A male servant, headed to the dining room with an empty tray, quirked a brow at her but said nothing as she sailed past him, her treasure held firmly in her hand.

The doors to the Corbett gardens were slightly ajar. Torches lit the portion of the gardens closest to the house, though the paths remained in shadow. Jemma disregarded the darkened paths and instead slid towards the left where she knew a small bench sat facing an atrocious statue of a cupid. She often thought the statue an odd addition to the gardens as everything else, plants, fountains and other statuary was of exquisite taste.

Damn and blast! She could feel the chocolate seeping through the napkin. She looked down at her dress, praying none of the dark sticky sweetness marred the cream-colored taffeta. She'd never be able to explain the stain away.

“Oh bloody hell.” Her foot slipped over an uneven brick. The chocolate tart flew out of her hands, landing with a small smacking sound on the terrace. The cupid stared at her, seeming to chastise her clumsiness.

Jemma shot the ugly cherub a beleaguered glance, wondering where her treasure had landed. “I shall blame you. You are most ridiculous looking.”

“But you are not,” a whiskey-laden voice murmured from the shadows.

“Mr. Shepherd?” she whispered into a dark corner of the terrace as her heart skipped a beat. “What are you doing lurking about? I thought you were happily ensconced inside with the sisters Sinclair. Why you could be accosted again.”

A husky laugh came from in front of her, followed by a large, dark form. “Hello Jem.” He held aloft the napkin wrapped chocolate tart.

Jemma glanced at her treat and reached out, hoping he would hand her the chocolate and excuse himself. Hoping he would not.

“May I have that, Mr. Shepherd?” She nodded to the chocolate tart.

“Possibly. I too enjoy chocolate.”

He said chocolate in a most sinful way. In fact, every word the man spoke sounded sinful.

“Does your father know you traipse about dressed as a boy, shooting pistols and saving visitors to your fair island from thieves?” He tossed the chocolate tart up with his hand and deftly caught it. “I can't imagine he approves. Nor your Mr. Corbett.”

“My father's approval is none of your business.” She watched him fling her dessert up in the air again. “And he knows, as does Mr. Corbett,” she said glibly. “If you seek to discredit me you will be disappointed, Mr. Shepherd. My eccentricity is well known.” The terrace suddenly felt very warm. She couldn't breathe and thought the reason likely the tightness of her stays.

“Discredit you? Perish the thought.” Torchlight lit the side of his face, illuminating the pretended look of shock upon his handsome features.

“I’m curious, Mr. Shepherd,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. “Why are you in Bermuda?”

He tossed her poor abused chocolate tart between his large hands as he spoke. “I believe the entire dinner conversation was dedicated to my reasons for being in Bermuda. Lady Corbett interrogated me at length as to my connections, my financial status and my relation to the Cambournes. That lady would put the Spanish Inquisitors to shame. The sisters Sinclair displayed all the delicacy of the king's solicitors as they questioned every detail of my life to determine my suitability as a husband.” He peered down at her with a serious expression. “Were you not paying attention Jem? I could have sworn you were. Perhaps, I'm mistaken.” He tossed up the tart again.

“Arrogant dandy,” she scoffed. "You must think all women are as enthralled by you as the Sinclair sisters. I'm afraid I paid not a bit of attention to your conversation at the end of the table. I was much more interested in the soup course.”

“I'm sure you were,” he agreed.

“You are nothing more than a fortune hunter, a man with nothing to recommend him but a letter from one of England's famous families. Why, who even knows if it's real?” Jemma taunted.

“An excellent point. However, I assure you, I know the Dowager Marchioness quite well.” He dangled the tart in the air before her.

Jemma grabbed for it, frowning in frustration when he pulled it out of her reach. “The sisters Sinclair are fairly well off and their brother desires them out of the house. I'm sure either one would suit your purposes.”

“My purposes?”

“If the Sinclairs are not to your liking, you would do well to make sure that neither Agnes nor Bertie traps you in a compromising position. You'll find them much more dangerous than those two inept thieves I saved you from,” she shot back. “And I still don't believe you are properly grateful.”

“I appreciate the warning in regards to the sisters. But I am in no danger from the delightful Sinclairs, nor was I in danger behind the Green Parrot.”

Jemma bit her lip, fuming. He really was a most annoying, attractive man. “Truly, you are the most smug, full of himself, prancing—“

“I prance?” he stated in horror.

“—mincing,”

“Dear God, I also mince? You should have allowed Bobo and Wren to shoot me.”

“—ungrateful man I've ever met. I saved you.” She stressed the word. “From being stuck like a pig. Will your pride not let you admit it?”

The large man before her laughed quietly, a deep, rumbling that caused Jemma’s stomach to flutter in the most pleasant way.

“You are priceless, Jem.” He shook his head. “Forgive me for not being properly appreciative of your talents. I see this is most important to you." He held out the chocolate tart. "I gladly give you your just desserts.” He laughed again, a bit louder, proud of his joke.

“You are not nearly as witty as you seem to believe. Your puns are awful.” She snatched the seeping bit of napkin from his hand, knowing her dessert was ruined. “Please go and leave me in peace.”

“Why Jem, you speak as if you wish to be alone with a lover.”

She nearly dropped the poor ruined chocolate tart at his words, mindful of the way she tingled every time he called her Jem.

“Stop calling me that.” She tried to sound determined and haughty as Lady Corbett did when giving someone a set down. “My name is Jane Emily, or Jemma if you prefer, though I've not given you leave to call me anything but Miss Manning.”

“I prefer Jem. It suits you.” He moved towards her.

Jemma backed up in response, bumping into the edge of a garden trellis. I should not be out here alone, not with this man.

“No, you should not.”

The huskiness of his voice cascaded down her spine, causing her to shiver deliciously. How could he know what she was thinking? “Can you read minds then?” Her hands pressed against the edge of the trellis, holding on to it for dear life. Wishing she were more worldly, to better deal with such a man.

A gust of wind blew the dark strands of his hair about his shoulders, making him appear dark and demonic, a virtual Hades, before her.

“Just yours, Jem.” This time her name fell as an endearment from his lips.

Warm honey pooled between her thighs, a most disturbing and pleasurable sensation. She dropped the chocolate tart again to the brick of the terrace, not caring what happened to her treat. Inhaling she tried to take a deep breath and found she couldn’t. It was akin to being in the eye of a hurricane.

“Tsk tsk, Jem. It's a good thing you are not so careless with a pistol.” He bent, assessing the chocolate tart at her feet. “It appears ruined, and I did so want a taste.” The last part came out in a growl as he snatched her hand still hovering in the air. "No matter, I believe there is a bit left.” He brought her hand to his lips, “Here.”

Warmth engulfed her index finger as nearly the whole of it found its way into his mouth. He gently sucked the chocolate off her finger, his tongue swirling and caressing the extended digit.

Fascinated, she watched as her finger disappeared into his mouth, aghast that she allowed him to do such a thing to her. She slid down the length of the trellis, praying a stray thorn wouldn’t tear her gown.

He ran his tongue down the inside of her hand before stopping to press a kiss in the center of her palm.

“Delicious,” he whispered.

Jemma thought she would faint, and she had never fainted, not in the whole of her life.

“No you won’t.” He gave her a wolfish grin.

“Stop doing that.” Jemma snatched back her hand and braced herself against the trellis, welcoming its meager support.

“Kissing your hand?”

“Reading my thoughts,” she sputtered.

“Ah.” A wry smile appeared across the full lips. “Thank goodness. I thought you wished me to cease in my seduction of your person.”

“Seduction?” She nearly choked on the word.

“And that…won't do at all.” Grabbing her wrists in one fluid move, he pulled her arms over her head and pinned her against the trellis, effectively trapping her with his larger form.

He smelled of the cheroot, the sea and powerful male. As much as she objected to his pinning of her wrists, the sensation of being held captive by Nick Shepherd was not displeasing. In fact, it was quite the opposite.

"Your impropriety towards me is unseemly.” She pushed up at him, and her voice caught at the sensation of her breasts against his coat. “Release me now or I shall scream for help.” Her tongue tripped over the words.

“So determined to be waspish. Shush.” His mouth descended over hers.

Jemma did not realize until that very moment, that there was a distinct difference between the barely amorous press of lips from a boy and being kissed, really kissed, by a man. This was no prim peck, no courtly gesture of affection. No kiss she would willingly break from. She sagged, her body giving in to the feeling of his lips on hers.

Nick transferred both her wrists to one large hand, freeing his other hand to roam, unhindered, across the tops of her breasts. His finger dipped into the valley between them as if searching for something.

“I am an admirer of your bosom. Small and delightfully shaped, fitting perfectly.” He cupped a breast. “You bind them? When you wander about in breeches?”

“Sometimes,” Jemma panted, lightheaded from his kiss. She could not allow him any further liberties. What if someone came out? Dear God, what if Augie found her pinned to the trellis by Nick Shepherd? She moved her body to slip away. Futile as the gesture only served to bring her already sensitive body in touch with the hardness that was Nick Shepherd.

“Stop,” he said against her mouth, his tongue lingering at the corner of her lips. “You do not really wish to get away.”

And she didn't. Not really. She wanted to experience what he offered. Her body gave a deep sigh, recognizing the truth of his words. Jemma's legs fell open of their own accord, wantonly, spreading open to him beneath her skirts. She thought perhaps this was a dream.

He wedged his body between her legs, nudging the apex between her thighs. Jemma's breath caught in her throat. She moaned softly, submitting to him, her mind going blank to anything except the man before her.

He nipped her lips gently. “Open to me, Jem.”

Obediently, she opened her mouth, feeling the tip of his tongue touch her lips first, then twine around her own tongue.

He pulled away to nip softly at the nape of her neck. “Kiss me back.”

She complied, shyly pressing her lips to his, fitting her body to his larger form.

Carefully, he tugged at the edging of brilliants and lace at her bodice until the small mound of one breast popped free. He murmured something against her neck while his thumb found her nipple and brushed against the sensitive tip.

Jemma moaned softly and struggled to push herself closer as he toyed with her nipple, pinching and circling it with his thumb and forefinger, kissing her deeply.

Abruptly his mouth left hers.

“No, don’t—” she gasped as the wet heat of his mouth descended over the peak of her nipple. Waves of sensation rolled from her nipple, down her breasts and stomach to center between her thighs.

Dear God. This is why women allow themselves to be ruined.This is why they keep young girls away from men like Nick Shepherd, otherwise we would line up in droves to offer him our virtue.

He nibbled, making his way slowly around her engorged nipple. He suckled leisurely, licking around the areola. Releasing her wrists, he sighed in satisfaction. “I told you that you did not really wish to get away.”

Her hands reached up to touch his shoulders, feeling the press of his muscles against her palms, the silkiness of his dark hair as it touched her fingertips. A pressure built between her legs—painful and needful. She wanted something but didn’t know what it was or how to ask for it. The heat of Nick seeped through her skirts, winding around the aching apex between her thighs. She wished desperately for him to touch her. There.

His knee pressed into her skirts and the ache intensified.

“In time,” he whispered, pulling his mouth from her throbbing breast. Peering down into her face, he took a deep breath and pressed a kiss to her erect nipple before carefully pulling up her bodice.

The enormity of what had just passed between them, the liberties she’d allowed this man, a virtual stranger, shocked her to her core. "Are you a witch then, that you can read my thoughts, cause me to behave in such a way?"

A coldness descended suddenly, as if someone thrust a block of ice between them, and Jemma sensed she'd offended him in some way.

“Perhaps.” He adjusted her bodice, laying the lace back, minding the brilliants that dotted the edging. He did so efficiently as if he'd had much practice. Which, she thought with alarm, he likely had.

“What," she stuttered, confused at the intimacy that just transpired. “Is this?”

“Wanting," he said, digging a cheroot from his pocket and lighting it as if her flushed trembling body was of no import.

She winced at his nonchalance. Perhaps intimacies such as this happened all the time in London at the parties of the ton. “I should go,” she said unsteadily as shame replaced her wanton feelings of only a moment ago. “Augie will likely be looking for me to play charades.” She tried to match his casual tone and failed. Miserably. If only she could say something witty and stroll off as if he hadn't just kissed her breast and ravished her against a garden trellis, leaving her wanting. But for what?

“Charades?” Laughing, he flicked the ash of the cheroot. “The irony does not escape me.”

Confused, she waited for him to say more, but he only watched her as he smoked. “You'll excuse me.” Jemma smoothed down her gown, determined to appear as unaffected as he. “I am returning to the party.”

He said nothing, merely nodding to her in dismissal.

“Good evening, Mr. Shepherd.” The sting of tears filled her eyes as humiliation blossomed and took root within her chest. What had come over her to allow this man to take such liberties? She felt so foolish. So stupid. So reckless.

He stepped aside to let her pass, giving her no more attention than he would a servant. “Yes, you should go inside.”

Jemma tried to reply and found she couldn't. Years of careful coaching by Mercy and Lady Corbett on a lady's behavior proved useless when tested against a man like Nick Shepherd. How she failed those two women and their teachings. Her morals flew apart in the face of a practiced seducer of women, which Mr. Shepherd clearly was. He would joke about her attraction to him over drinks with his cronies in London no doubt. A feather in his cap, nothing more. If she had her pistols, she would shoot him.

“Move,” Jemma commanded, raising her chin and daring him to speak.

He stepped out of her way, the cheroot clamped firmly between his teeth. A smile played about his lips.

That smile stoked the flame of her anger. Jemma spun about, grabbed the skirt of her gown and turned her back on the arrogant and jaded Mr. Shepherd. Proudly and with purpose, she strode towards the lighted safety of the mansion. Glancing down at her bodice, she was grateful that only a slight flush across her breasts betrayed her actions in the garden.

I shall tell them I felt a bit unwell. Augie will feel so guilty for upsetting me earlier he'll likely not question me too much.

“Jem.” The voice lingered over the stone terrace.

She halted, her skirts swirled about her ankles, but she did not turn around.

“I’ve found something I desire much more than a chocolate tart. Have you?”

Jemma's heart thudded madly, and she swayed a bit but forced herself to move forward, away from the dark lure of Nick Shepherd.