Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers
7
Augie steered the open brougham expertly through Hamilton, swerving to avoid the potholes that dotted the main street with a flick of his wrist. He tipped his hat to a group of gaily clad women.
The women giggled and waved in return.
Jemma frowned as the brougham sank a bit into a rut.
“Sorry.” Augie smiled apologetically, though Jemma doubted he was sorry. He adored being fawned over, and Jemma was sparse with her affection.
I shouldn’t begrudge him the admiration of others.
She gripped the edge of the leather seat with one hand while desperately attempting to keep her parasol over her head, Mercy's threats ringing in her ears.
“If you intend on going to that fair, then you must take a parasol, and I expect you to use it! I will scrub you raw with lemons if I must. Lady Corbett sent a note just yesterday. She is distressed you have ruined your complexion and the freckles are unseemly and I’m to make a special paste for you to use.”
“I will break another wheel on this road.” Augie flicked the reins. “I thought Father had all the holes filled.”
“Your attention wandered.” Jemma adjusted the angle of the parasol.
Augie shot her an apologetic glance tinged with satisfaction. “Don’t be jealous, Jemma.”
“I’m not. I would just rather you not tip over the carriage, and me with it.”
Augie leaned closer to her. “My goodness. I was just being polite.” His chest puffed out a bit. “And it is you I escort to the festival.”
Jemma gave him a wane smile. Truly, she didn’t care who Augie smiled at. That was the problem. A rather large problem.
The day was warm, and the sun strong, so that for once, Jemma was glad of the parasol's meager protection. A breeze sifted through the streets bringing the cooling relief of the ocean. She closed her eyes in contentment as the air pulled at her parasol and tickled the strands of her hair. She sniffed in appreciation at the aroma of fried conch fritters wafting towards her from the festival. Her stomach gave an unladylike grumble.
“I’m so glad you are heeding Mother's wisdom.” Augie nodded towards the parasol. “Not that I mind,” he assured her. “But Mother is quite concerned. She can be a bit forceful on such things.” He pushed the end of the parasol with the tip of his finger so that Jemma’s cheeks were more firmly covered.
Yes, I’d hate to give Lady Corbett any cause for concern.Jemma bit her lip to keep from voicing the thought out loud. Augie rarely went against his mother’s wishes. A trait of his Jemma never paid heed to, until recently. He’s such a little boy, constantly striving for Lady Corbett’s approval. “Yes, I would hate to disappoint your mother.”
Augie either ignored or didn’t notice the sarcasm in her tone. “Since you are following Mother's advice,” he continued cheerfully, “I hope that you will follow her direction on other things?”
The bloody betrothal.
Jemma turned away to stare at the expanse of ocean visible between the apothecary shop and the dressmakers. Not a day went by that Augie or someone else didn’t mention the upcoming engagement. Her father turned a deaf ear to her questions on the subject, no doubt not wishing to hear her continued reasons for delaying her marriage.
“Isn’t this just the most glorious day?” Jemma ignored Augie’s question regarding the betrothal and instead lay a gloved hand on his arm. The urge to flee Augie, and indeed all of Bermuda, threatened to choke her. She literally crossed her ankles to keep from leaping over the side of the brougham. “I've so been looking forward to coming today. Can't you smell the conch fritters?” She closed her eyes and sat back, allowing Augie a decent view of her bosom. “I’m terribly hungry.” Jemma opened her eyes and batted her lashes as she’d seen other women do. “I'll let you win me a trifle. I should so enjoy that."
Augie took the bait. “Well of course I'll win you a trinket. I’m rather good at the bottle toss. Perhaps a ribbon for your hair? Or some earbobs?”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Jemma said with false enthusiasm. In truth, she was much better at the bottle toss than Augie, but her suggestion seemed to steer him away from more discussion of their betrothal.
Studying Augie as he steered the brougham between two trees a short distance from the King Square where the festival was being held, Jemma wondered what was wrong with her. Every woman in Bermuda envied her relationship with Augustus Corbett, the handsome son of the Governor. Educated and possessed of boyish charm, he was considered the catch of the islands. She should be counting the days until they posted the banns. Instead, talk of marriage gave Jemma the most horrible feeling as if she were trapped in a pit of quicksand and struggled futilely against being sucked into its waiting depths.
“I’m so sorry your father was not up to joining us, though from last night’s adventure, I can easily see why not. We played cards well into the night with our houseguest, Mr. Shepherd.” Augie’s lips curled as he said the name. “He’s quite a poker player.”
Jemma raised an eyebrow at Augie’s revelation. Her father had never mentioned his playing cards last night. She thought of her father’s ashen skin this morning as they breakfasted, so unlike his usual ruddy complexion.
“Yes, I expect you all had a bit too much to drink as well. I didn’t realize Mr. Shepherd was still in residence.” Just the thought of Nick Shepherd, brought a delicious chill to Jemma’s flesh, though she hadn’t spoken to him since the night he accosted her against the Governor’s trellis. She had seen him though, just last week. He’d been watching her, his tall form leaning against a tree as she exited the dressmaker’s. The full mouth twitching in amusement at the sight of her as if she and he shared a private joke.
“Jemma?” Augie nudged her with his elbow, none too gently. “What in the world are you daydreaming about?” He jumped from the brougham and wound the reins around a small tree. “You have the oddest look on your face, as if you’ve been eating chocolate.” He frowned at her. “You haven’t, have you?”
“Haven’t what?” Good Lord! Must Augie question every bit of her life?
“Eating chocolate. You must try to tame that desire of yours. Mother says you’ll become so stout you won’t be able to sit a horse.” He eyed her slim figure in concern.
“Lady Corbett should worry about her own stoutness,” Jemma muttered under her breath.
Augie’s nostrils flared. “What did you say about Mother?”
“I said your mother was kind to worry about my future stoutness. I shall take her guidance to heart.” Jemma took his hand as he helped her down from the brougham, careful not to hit him with her parasol, though she longed to do so. She found Augie unbelievably annoying today and…boring. When did being in his company become such a chore?
After I rescued a one-eyed stranger from a pair of thieves and I was nearly ruined against a garden trellis.
“Mother thinks I should start to take over some of the pressing needs at Sea Cliff. Your father could certainly use the assistance, I think. I will be running the estate one day, after all.”
Jemma stifled the urge to kick him in the shin. Instead, she took a deep breath. “I must thank your mother for the cakes she sends to Papa.” Jemma continued. “He adores them. I believe she used to make them for my mother as well."
“Yes, Mother claims it is a secret family recipe. I don't know that she's ever made them for anyone but your parents.” His brow wrinkled. “She's never made them for me, certainly.”
“Perhaps she’ll teach me to make them,” Jemma said hoping Lady Corbett would never wish to share the particulars of cake making with her as Jemma had little interest in learning such a thing.
Pleased with her answer, Augie pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “How delightful that would be.” He tucked her hand into his waiting arm and led her towards the festival.
Paper lanterns in bright reds and yellows dotted the branches of the trees that surrounded King Square. Streamers woven through the shorter brush around the area, fluttered in the ocean breeze. Former slaves, sailors, servants from the various estates, shipbuilders as well as merchants and their families, all mixed together in a cacophony of accents, gossip and frivolity. A group of young boys played hide and seek, darting back and forth amongst the tents, while several older men sat on a log with their pipes and ale.
“Hello Jemma.” Mrs. Stanhope, the vicar's wife waved. Her plump figure waddled next to her husband's. “Bring that darling young man over here and have some cider.” Mrs. Stanhope laughed merrily, wiggling her fingers at Augie as she stood by a brightly colored tent.
“Oh my,” Augie said, hearing Mrs. Stanhope’s flirtation. “I do hope Mr. Stanhope isn't the jealous type. He may challenge me to a duel of bible verses.”
Jemma giggled. That was the first truly funny thing Augie had said in ages. Her heart warmed with sudden affection. The appearance of Nick Shepherd and her interactions with him had unsettled her and caused her to perhaps judge Augie and his intentions a bit harshly. She squeezed Augie’s arm, feeling a bit more light-hearted than she had earlier. Perhaps she was being a bit too hard on him.
As they moved in the direction of the Stanhopes, Jemma’s eyes discerned a tall form walking away from one of the booths, a Sinclair sister clinging to each arm.
Nick Shepherd.
Jemma’s pulse leapt, and she could feel again the press of his lips and body against hers.
The Sinclair sisters each sported a clutch of colorful ribbons. Agnes giggled loudly at some comment Shepherd made while Bertie stroked his arm.
Jemma willed her racing heart to calm down. After all, Nick Shepherd was only a handsome fortune hunter, and clearly, the Sinclair sisters were more than willing to be his prey. I hope he ruins them both. What a scandal that will cause, when he can only marry one.
“What is wrong with you?” Augie hissed. “Stop pointing that parasol as if you are brandishing a sword.” He followed her gaze to where Nick Shepherd walked with the Sinclair sisters. “Oh, yes. There’s mother’s houseguest and the unfortunate Sinclair sisters.”
“Unfortunate?” Jemma smoothed her features lest Augie guess her interest in the trio. “How so?”
“Well, it’s clear the man is only after a rich heiress, isn’t it? He’ll likely marry one of them, then abscond with her dowry to points unknown. Their brother is simply desperate to marry at least one of the two off, even if it’s to a scoundrel like Mr. Shepherd. Why, we don’t even know if his connection to the Cambourne family is a real one. Mother insists I’m wrong. I daresay she’s just being hopeful.”
“Oh?” Jemma pretended disinterest. “Did he reveal nothing of himself while you played cards?” Nick Shepherd probably made advances to half the women on Bermuda by now, an incredibly disappointing thought.
“No.” Augie’s face took on an ugly cast. “He tells quite a tale about his relation to the Dowager Marchioness, but I don’t believe him. Neither does my father. Or yours.” Augie shrugged and his features relaxed. “The Sinclair sisters keep coming by for tea in hopes of seeing our houseguest. Mother is at wits end with their visits.”
Jemma clutched her parasol tighter. Mr. Shepherd does not concern me. He is of no import. “I’m sure you are right, Augie. I feel pity for Agnes and Bertie, to be so taken in.”
Liar.Her own voiced mocked. You dream of his mouth against your breast, of the way his hair felt against your fingertips. You are sorely disappointed he's not sought you out, even to kiss you again.
“Bloody hell.” Jemma said without thinking.
Augie’s lips tightened in disapproval at her outburst. “Jemma, you must watch your tongue. I allow you latitude when we are alone, but not in public. You are quite improper.”
The warm feelings towards Augie of a moment ago evaporated at his chastisement of her behavior, especially since he had no idea how incredibly improper she really was.
“My apologies, I must have stepped on a bit of shell," she said, trying to sound duly contrite, though she didn’t feel sorry at all. She simply wished to avoid the inevitable argument that would follow, with Augie listing her eccentric behaviors. She thought briefly of pleading a headache in order to return home, but had no wish to leave the festival. So instead, Jemma took Augie’s arm and smiled brilliantly. “I blame my lack of decorum on the fact I am starving.” Jemma lifted her nose and sniffed the air. “Can’t you smell the conch?”
Mollified by her response, Augie stroked her fingers. "You are forgiven, minx, and I know you cannot resist fried conch.”
He led her into the tent, regaling her with the latest gossip about the Latimers’ daughter who fled to America with a ship’s captain, and Horatio Caldwell, the magistrate who was busy romancing the widow who ran Hamilton’s boarding house.
Holding on to her tightly, he neatly dodged two elderly men wobbling drunkenly about the stalls as they argued over some past grievance with each other. Augie expertly maneuvered her towards the far side of the tent where it opened up to a copse of trees. Rows of tables and benches sat amongst the tall grass where groups of people sat enjoying a cool drink or munching on fried conch. Stalls flanked either side of the opening, offering a variety of delights.
Mr. Brixton, a large, heavy-set man and a close neighbor of Jemma's, stood at one of the stalls between two large barrels. A servant girl, her dark hair woven with flowers and ribbons, filled mugs from one of the two barrels at Mr. Brixton’s direction while the merchant collected the coin.
Next to Mr. Brixton, the Downey family, the best fishermen in Hamilton, sold conch fritters. The six Downey sons formed an assembly line of sorts with their mother at the head, taking each customer’s order, down to their father at the end who handed out the finished product. The delicacy, dipped in cornmeal and fried until crunchy, were Jemma's favorite. Scores of people floated through the tents laughing, their mugs raised in merriment.
Augie collected two mugs from Mr. Brixton, cider for her and ale for himself.
“And where's Mr. Manning today, Miss Jane Emily?” Mr. Brixton, his round face red and shiny with the heat of the day, smiled down at her.
“Busy, I'm afraid Mr. Brixton, but I shall tell him you asked after him.”
“Tell him,” he deftly collected several coins from Augie’s outstretched hand. “That he missed the best cider on the island. Now you.” He pointed a finger at Augie. “Need to quit dilly dallying and marry this lovely girl.” Mr. Brixton took out a handkerchief and mopped the sweat from his brow.
Jemma forced a polite smile to her lips and said nothing.
“Soon enough, Mr. Brixton. I’ll expect a large barrel of your ale as a wedding gift!” Augie laughed and held his mug aloft, toasting the older man. "And you to be our honored guest.”
“Yes of course.” Mr. Brixton laughed, pleased at the compliment. “And a dance with the bride.” He nodded towards Jemma.
She kept her lips frozen into a smile, not wishing to hurt Mr. Brixton's feelings, for he meant well. He was only giving voice to what the entire island assumed would come to fruition. The urge to drop her mug of cider at poor Mr. Brixton’s feet and run as fast as she could caused her feet to dance beneath her skirts.
Leading Jemma down the row of stalls, Augie lifted his mug once more in farewell to Mr. Brixton. “Really, Jemma,” he hissed in her ear, “we must set a date. I tire of everyone assuming it is me who delays our betrothal.” He waved at Mr. and Mrs. Reckitt who waved merrily back. “Mother is positively in fits over having the wedding before the next rainy season. She says we may honeymoon in London and visit Dorthea. Doesn’t that sound lovely? Our houseguest,” a derisive note entered his voice, “has told Mother he'll write us a letter of introduction to the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne as a wedding gift."
Jemma stopped cold. “Well that's certainly kind of him.” The thought of Nick Shepherd’s acceptance of her marriage left her feeling betrayed, a silly notion. They’d shared a kiss and nothing more. Well, a bit more than a kiss, she thought, feeling a blaze of warmth on her cheeks. “I think I need to eat something. I've rather a headache.”
“I should say so,” Augie agreed. “You’ve been quite ill tempered today.”
Jemma bit her lip. She hadn’t planned on being so off today, but thinking of Nick Shepherd gave her such an unsettled feeling, as if the earth moved beneath her feet and she couldn’t find her balance. “I just don't believe that someone like Mr. Shepherd has such a connection and your mother's hopes will be dashed. Why, he probably cheats at cards.” She smoothed down her skirts. “Shall we have our fried conch now?”
Augie stopped abruptly, his features carefully blank, but a curious light glowed in his eyes. “Why would you say that?” The muscles of his arm went taut beneath her fingers.
“Well, a man like him, if his connections are false, must need to make a living somehow. Gambling would seem to be the obvious choice. Aren't most gamblers accused of cheating at one time or another?” She took a step towards the Downey family and their fried conch, but Augie didn’t budge. “What of it?” Jemma spun to face Augie. “You played cards with him last night, didn’t you?"
“A hand or two. And it was only a friendly game. You know I don't gamble.” He didn’t meet her eyes and his fingers drummed against his thigh.
Jemma thought Augie a terrible liar. Every time he stole a sweet or punched another boy as a child, and lied about it, he drummed his fingers. All of Hamilton whispered that Augie gambled, though no one had said so to her face. She’d put it down to gossip and nothing more. Her eyes flew to his fingers beating against his thigh.
Apparently, she’d been wrong.
“Why are you so interested in what Mr. Shepherd does?” He put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and changed the subject.
“Mr. Shepherd? I thought we were discussing your playing cards?” Jemma replied evenly.
“I did not miss his interest in you the other night.” He ignored her question and pouted childishly.
“Don't be silly.” Afraid that her attraction had been evident, she shrugged carelessly. “He may have shown an interest in me, but I’m afraid if he did, I found him to be rather arrogant and crude. My only concern is that he’ll hurt either Agnes or Bertie. Or even your mother. I fear her hopes are misplaced in his having any connections, and I should hate it if she is taken advantage of.” She let the topic of Augie’s gambling slide, for now. She would ask her father later if he’d heard the rumors.
His stance softened at her words. “I stand corrected, Jemma, and I apologize. It’s just that you don’t seem in any hurry to marry, and I’ve noticed that half the women on the island seem to find him appealing.” He ran a hand through his hair and gave her a sideways glance. “I suppose next to him I appear a bit boring.”
“Mr. Shepherd does not hold any appeal for me.” She squeezed Augie’s arm, feeling guilty. “Not a bit.” Jemma hoped that would satisfy him, for she did not wish to discuss Nick Shepherd any longer.
Augie pushed a lock of brown hair off his forehead. “Forgive me for being a jealous dolt. I am just anxious for us to become man and wife. Come, let’s walk a bit then we’ll find you something to eat?”
Jemma kept her features bland as Augie proceeded to parade her about the festival, a smug expression on his boyish face. He made sure everyone saw them together, clutching her possessively to his side to solidify his claim on her. How many times had he paraded her about in such a fashion? She thought the number very high, and she had never really taken note. Until today. The Governor’s son and the prize catch of Hamilton, the richest heiress in all of Bermuda.
He whirled her about, speaking to nearly everyone, while she smiled automatically as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Augie’s grip on her elbow never lessened, his hold akin to that of warden with a prisoner. And that’s what she was.
How naïve I have been.There was no choice about her marriage. Not really. Augie was not a choice—he was the only choice. Their parents had decided years ago that she and Augie would wed. No other man dared to approach her, the understanding between the Mannings and the Corbetts dissuading all other suitors. If she didn’t marry Augie, who, exactly, would she marry?
Her gaze wandered over the clustered groups at the festival, noting the lack of eligible bachelors. She thought of her friend, Martha Covington. A lovely girl who'd been married off to a man old enough to be her grandfather. Martha now spent her days playing nurse, wiping drool from his chin. She thought of her papa's business associates from America. Mr. Morley and his son, the father a widower and the son a bachelor. The pair eyed Jemma as if she were a fat goose ripe for roasting. She'd been grateful for Augie's claim on her at the time.
I have only been delaying the inevitable. Father will only indulge me for so long. I would wish to have the love my parents did, but I shall have to settle for familiarity.
The idea made her incredibly sad.
“Why hello there, Corbett.” A beefy ginger-haired man clapped Augie on the shoulder, interrupting Jemma's self-pitying thoughts. He shot Jemma a toothy grin. “Good day, Miss Manning.”
“Jones!" Augie gave the man a wan smile, clearly not happy at all to see Mr. Jones. “What an unexpected pleasure to see you here.”
Preston Jones wobbled a bit but held steady as he shook Augie's hand forcefully. Mr. Preston Jones was short and round and clothed in a jacket of green and gold plaid. The waistcoat stretched snugly across his belly. An oval shaped sticky looking red stain spotted the waistcoat with several small crumbs stuck to it.
Cherry tart,Jemma surmised, thinking that Preston Jones looked like a large leprechaun. She sniffed the air. A leprechaun that fairly reeks of rum.
Wealthy and spoiled, Preston Jones was known to be a bit of drunkard. And a gambler. Though he was married, his wife, Susan, was constantly pregnant and rarely left their estate.
Jemma gave a small sigh. Augie really was the best Bermuda had to offer.
“Glad to see you here, Corbett. I've some business to settle with you from the other night.” A meaty hand clapped Augie on the shoulder.
Augie stumbled in the dirt, and his arm fell from Jemma’s elbow.
Surprised, she raised a brow in question. She’d not known that he and Preston Jones did business together. Or were even friends.
“I'm a bit busy, Jones. Now is not a good time." He gave Jones a pointed look. “Can’t you see I am escorting Miss Manning today?”
Mr. Jones laughed, though his eyes remained hard, all trace of amiable drunkenness gone. “Well, now. Miss Manning wouldn’t mind if I borrowed you for a moment, would you Miss Manning? Just a bit of business.” He winked at Jemma. “Won't take more than a moment.”
Augie moved back and forth on the balls of his feet, nervous as a rabbit after scenting a hunter. “If you insist.”
Jones smiled but his response was curt. “I do.”
“You don't mind, do you?” Augie's voice wavered.
“Of course not.” She was actually relieved to be free of Augie under the circumstances, no matter that her salvation took the form of Preston Jones. “If you and Mr. Jones have business to discuss I'll leave you to it. I believe I'll have another cup of cider and I am rather hungry. I’ll have a twist of conch with Mrs. Stanhope.” She nodded to Augie. “Find me when your business is concluded.”
“I won't be long.” Augie took her hand, squeezing softly. “I promise.”
Clapping Augie on the shoulder, Jones pushed him towards the other side of the festival where a carriage sat waiting. Turning, he doffed his hat to Jemma. “I’ll make sure he stays out of trouble, Miss Manning. I wouldn't let anything happen to your betrothed.”
Jemma inclined her head politely and turned towards the main tents. She did not care for the way in which Preston Jones looked at her, nor the highhanded way in which he strolled away with Augie. She swung her parasol, swatting at the long grass somewhat viciously, thinking how trapped she felt. A month ago there had been no such discontent about her future. What had changed?
Nick Shepherd.
She found Mrs. Stanhope and finally sat down to enjoy a twist of fried conch with the vicar’s wife but caught herself reluctantly searching the tents for a tall, dark form. Appalled at her actions, she turned back to Mrs. Stanhope and the conch fritter and allowed herself to be peppered with questions about Augie. After nearly an hour, Jemma excused herself. Where in the world had Augie gone?
Wandering idly through the aisles of stalls, she took in the display of wares displayed by the local artisans of Hamilton. She visited Mr. Brixton again, accepting another mug of cider before she made her way to one of the stalls displaying jewelry made from shells.
A pair of earrings caught her eye. The shell was cut into small circles and burnished until it shone with several rings of color. As she was admiring the way the sun reflected off the colored rings of a shell, a large shadow fell over her, blocking the sunlight. She didn't need to turn around. The skin on her arms and neck tingled immediately as the scent of a cheroot and citrus tickled her nostrils, and a husky whisper murmured her name against her neck.
“Hello Jem.”
