Devil of a Duke by Kathleen Ayers

8

Jemma told her body to cease the sudden longing that burned through her the moment he spoke her name in that dark voice that conjured up a certain wildness within her. She’d prepared a speech of course, a massive set-down meant to put him in his place after their last meeting. Not a word of it did she remember now.

“Mr. Shepherd,” Jemma said crisply, determined to maintain her composure. She made a show of examining each of his arms as if searching for something. “But where are Agnes and Bertie? Have they tired of your company so soon? A difficult decision to decide which one to assault on a dark terrace, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Assault?” A half-smile crossed his lips. “I need a trellis in order to assault a female properly. Alas, there are none to be had here.”

“What a difficult decision you have before you,” Jemma continued, ignoring the glorious ache stretching across her body as she thought of him pressing her against that trellis. “You can't marry both, but they each have large dowries.”

“Jealous Jem?”

“Of being courted by a fortune hunter? Hardly.” She turned her back on him, afraid of losing her resolve.

Shepherd leaned down and said against her ear. “Where's young Mister Corbett? Did he leave you to wander about by yourself?” His breath tickled the hairs against her neck.

Jemma reached behind her, swatting at him as if he were a mosquito.

“Oh, that's right,” he said, his tone smug. “I believe I saw him get into a carriage with Preston Jones. I’m sure they’ll have a delightful ride about town.”

“I’m not sure the whereabouts of Mr. Corbett is any of your concern,” Jemma retorted, annoyed that he knew Augie left her alone.

“Oh, it isn't. My interest in Mr. Corbett is purely tied to my interest in you.”

Jemma took a deep breath, willing her heart to stop thudding so hard in her chest, and turned to face him.

“You should know.” He sighed as if disinclined to give her bad news. “Your man's a gambler, and not a good one. He's terrible, in fact.” Shepherd nodded knowingly.

“Augie doesn’t gamble.” She could still see Augie's expression earlier, and his dismay at seeing Preston Jones, and knew she was wrong and Shepherd right.

He shrugged. “Your father's much better at playing his cards close to his chest, but Augustus couldn't bluff a child." The brilliant blue eye sparkled down at her.

“Why are you telling me this, Mr. Shepherd? I am well aware that you were playing cards with my father and the Governor last night. I find it possible you cheated them. I expected no less.”

“What makes you think I cheat at cards?” An incredulous look came across the handsome face. “I’m rather good. I've no need to cheat. In fact—“ He stepped closer.

“That's far enough.” Jemma brandished the parasol, the tip pointed directly at his midsection. “Our conversation is over, Mr. Shepherd. Good day.” She tried to turn gracefully but caught her heel in the back of her skirt instead. She swung the parasol wildly in one hand while trying not to spill the mug of cider clasped in her other hand.

“Good lord.” He took her elbow to steady her. “Stop swinging that thing about.” Shepherd sidestepped the parasol, but not before it hit him on the leg. “You're going to hurt someone, namely me.”

The press of his hand against her elbow caused the most delicious sensation to run down her arm. She shook his hand off even as she peered up at him.

Shepherd’s hair, shaggy and carelessly cut, hung in a haphazard dark mass to brush against his shoulders. She could see the shadow of his beard and the little knot in his crooked nose and wondered if he broke it in a fight. The eye-patch was as crooked as his nose, and she resisted the urge to reach up and straighten it. The finely cut coat he wore stretched tight across the breath of his shoulders, testament to either the bulk of muscles bunched underneath the fabric or perhaps the man just needed a good tailor.

Jemma thought the former.

Mr. Shepherd wore an odd-looking ring on his thumb, dull and worn with age. It shone like old silver. Had she noticed that before?

“Are you quite done with your assessment of me?” The full mouth drew up into a boyish grin.

“I was wondering about your nose,” Jemma retorted, irritated he’d caught her looking at him so thoroughly. "I was not assessing you.”

A deep rumble of amusement sounded from his chest. “My nose?”

“Yes,” she said, ignoring the skipping of her heart against her ribs. “You've broken it, at least twice.” She cocked her head. “You’d be surprised at the number of fistfights one witnesses as a boy. I’ve seen literally dozens of broken noses.”

“Have you indeed? I forget that you have more experience in such things than other women.” A large hand waved at a mosquito that hovered in the air about his head.

“Did it hurt?” Jemma raised a finger up, then just as quickly put it down, unnerved by her own actions.

“A bit.” The deep voice murmured. “Walk with me?” He crooked his arm, meaning for her to take it.

Jemma looked away and ignored his offer. The man’s allure was greater than an entire tray of chocolate tarts.

“I promise,” he said, “to keep you in full sight of the festival and all of your curious neighbors. As I said, since the current festivities lack a garden trellis, your virtue shall remain quite safe, Miss Manning.”

“As you wish.” She shrugged her shoulders carelessly, but her body hummed as a bee when it nears honey. Damn him.

“And close the parasol Jem." His tone became overly familiar once again. “You’re likely to put out my other eye the way you wave that thing about. Clearly, you are unaccustomed to using a parasol properly as most young ladies are wont to do.” He took the parasol from her and folded it up neatly. “I’ll carry it.” He placed it under his arm. “Your dress is quite fetching.”

Jemma looked down at her muslin day dress of light green. She doubted seriously he gave a fig for her gown. “I’m told the color brings out the green in my eyes and downplays the fact that I am not as pale as porcelain.”

Mr. Shepherd nodded. “It does indeed. Yet, I sense you prefer to run about in your breeches and boots.”

“I do.” Jemma tilted her chin. “Some find it eccentric. Odd. Reckless.”

“Not odd. Different.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Reckless? Perhaps a bit. But, think how boring the world would be if we all followed rules.”

“I have never been very good at following the rules.” Jemma picked up her skirt in her free hand.

“Nor have I,” he said in a thoughtful voice, leading her forward.

Before Jemma could think of how improper her behavior was, she found herself strolling in the sun beside the tall form of Nick Shepherd. He took a path that bordered King Square, far enough not to be overheard, but close enough so they stayed in plain sight of the food and beverage booths. The grass scrunched under his large booted feet as they walked towards the shelter of a large tree. He took great care to match his longer strides to her shorter ones, pointing out a stray branch or rock so that she didn’t trip.

“Certainly, your father did not teach you to shoot?” Shepherd leaned towards her.

Jemma shook her head. “No.”

“You're quite a good shot. Better than most men. So who was it? That dour man who accompanied your father to the Governor’s last night?”

“You mean Tally. He’s been my father’s man since before I was a child. I think of him as an uncle, of sorts. He taught me to shoot, use a knife, and I even fence a bit, though not well.” She waited for Mr. Shepherd to react with scorn as most men would at her list of unladylike accomplishments.

“Go on,” the whiskey laced voice encouraged her. “Why would your father allow such an unorthodox upbringing?”

“Papa wanted to keep me occupied, I think.” Before she could wonder why Mr. Shepherd cared to know such things or why she felt the need to tell him, she told him more. “He grieved deeply and for many years after my mother’s death. I suppose it was a way to keep me from being underfoot. And, Tally didn’t mind.” She shrugged. “There is also the matter of my sweet tooth. It is hard to become stout when one is always running around outside chasing skinks and such.”

“Skinks?”

“Lizards. Big ones. They’re everywhere.” She lifted her skirt away from a bramble. “Tally surmised that following him about in a skirt would be problematic, so he brought me breeches and boots. No one cared for the longest time. Except Lady Corbett. If she knew I still wore my breeches the knowledge would give her fits. She worries overmuch for my complexion as well.”

“I did wonder about the hat.” Mr. Shepherd twirled the parasol about in the grass.

“The hat?” Jemma puzzled, not sure what he meant.

“I thought it odd a boy would wear a hat with such a large brim, and I was correct.” His gaze roved over her body. “You are not a boy.”

“Would that I were as then there would be no lemon juice on my face,” Jemma retorted.

“I for one am happy that you are not.” He stopped in front of a juniper tree and leaned against the trunk.

Jemma inhaled sharply at the soft tone of his words. Once again that odd feeling overtook her, as if she and Nick Shepherd were the only two people in the world.

“Your complexion will be safe here,” he waved up at the thick canopy of green above their heads,” though I happen to be overly fond of freckles.”

Jemma grasped the mug of cider tighter. She’d forgotten she held the cup entirely. Taking a deep breath, she said, “If I asked you a question, Mr. Shepherd, would you reply honestly?” She brushed one foot over the grass, enjoying the feel of it against her shoes.

He didn't answer for the longest time. “Will you call me Nick?”

Jemma stopped waving her foot and looked at him

“That is my price for your interrogation,” he countered. “And I must be allowed to ask a question in turn. One for one. Agreed?”

“As you wish, Mr.—I mean Nick.” His name flowed smoothly from her lips. She cleared her throat. "Do you not have the use of a valet? You are nearly always in need of a shave.”

“You wonder about my crooked nose and whether I have a valet? Those are certainly,” his mouth quivered, and she could see he was trying not to laugh, “probing questions.” He crossed his long legs in front of him. “I do not currently have a valet, I am borrowing the Governor's man, who finds minding me a bit of a chore. The man’s dislike is quite apparent. I’ve no desire to have my cheeks and chin covered with cuts, so I've resorted to the distasteful task of shaving myself, apparently with mixed results. Are you applying for the position? You could stand on a box or something.”

Jemma ignored his outlandish comment. “Is that your question to me?” she said boldly, taking a sip of cider. “Then I shall answer.”

“No. I retract the question.” He grinned wickedly down at her, looking like a child about to cause trouble. “Though I do wonder what my shaving habits discern about me.”

“That you are used to having a valet because you do such a poor job. A man of lesser fortune would have learned to shave himself by now. Which begs the question of whether you were raised with wealth and lost it, or you are just mimicking your betters,” Jemma stated tartly.

“Clever girl.” Nick bowed.

“Will you answer?”

“No. That's two more questions, Jem.”

The way he said Jem caused her toes to curl. The breeze lifted a dark curl against his cheek. She wished to pull it back behind his ear.

“Now it's my turn,” the dark voice whispered.

Jemma looked towards the festival and noticed Mrs. Stanhope had caught sight of them. The vicar’s wife held her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun and watched their every move.

“Mr. Corbett will be back soon. I should go.” What a ruckus it would cause if Mrs. Stanhope took it upon herself to march out across the grass and lead Jemma away.

“Doubtful. Mr. Jones has quite a lot to say to your Mr. Corbett. I know that because Mr. Jones mentioned as such when I told him where to find young Augustus.” Nick proceeded to twirl the parasol about. “Silly bit of fluff and quite useless. I adore freckles, by the way.”

“Yes, you've mentioned your affinity for them." A languid heat wrapped itself around her, even as her mind urged her to flee. What if he tried to kiss her? In full view of Mrs. Stanhope?

“Now.” He stroked his chin. “It’s my turn." He must have sensed her urge to leave because he said, “You did promise to answer a question.” The whiskey of his voice seeped into her skin, warming her all the way down her spine. "Did you like the way I touched you?” The brilliant blue eye bored into her. “You must answer honestly.”

Jemma trembled, but not with fear, something far more dangerous, desire. A consuming need to know what this man offered her. “Yes.” She clutched her mug of cider tighter, unable to look away from Nick.

“You've lovely breasts, by the way,” he murmured, sliding up from the tree to step closer to her. The brilliant blue gaze flicked down her bodice.

A burst of warmth spread down her neck and around her breasts. “You are incredibly forward and possibly depraved, Mr. Shepherd,” she whispered.

“Nick. And yes, I suppose I am. Next question.” His voice became gravelly. “Would you like me to kiss you again, and where?”

Jemma blinked at his outrageous, inappropriate question. “That's two questions, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Nick.” He gave her a wolfish smile.

“I will answer the first.” Would he kiss her again if she goaded him? Suddenly she cared little that Mrs. Stanhope watched. “Yes.” She hesitated before continuing, “Under this tree.” Boldly, she named the location and did not look away.

Nick shook his head and moved to stand in front of her. “No, I meant—” a long slim finger reached out to trail against the line of her bodice. “Where?”

Jemma dropped the mug of cider, the contents spilling across Nick's boots. “You are depraved.” A trickle of perspiration fell between her breasts, the nipples becoming taut as she remembered his mouth on the sensitive peak. “Are you deliberately trying to shock me?” Frozen in place, she feared if she moved it would be into Nick's arms.

“Yes. Did I mention my predilection for your freckles?”

“Several times. But they are unfashionable,” she said stupidly.

“Are they?” Nick bent over, picking up her now empty mug. “First the chocolate tart, and now your cider. I find it utterly amazing you ever manage to put a forkful of food your mouth.” He stood, leaning over her. He cocked his head, his lips grazing over the base of her ear. “I wish to kiss every freckle, Jem, that marches across your nose. And anywhere else you may have them.”

“I—” She snatched the cider mug out of his hand. “You—" She panted helplessly as her body tingled from the brief touch of his lips. “You are forward, Mr. Shepherd.” Jemma took a deep breath, causing her breasts to push across her bodice.

Nick's gaze flicked down immediately.

“Do not.” He gave her a hungry look. “Pretend ignorance of what lies between us.”

“There is nothing between us.” Jemma tried desperately to compose herself. “You are a bloody horrible man," she spat weakly.

“Yes. I am the very Devil himself.” His forefinger lingered against her arm.

Heat seared into her skin from his touch. She must get away from him, though she longed to have him strip the clothes from her body. Lay her down in the tall grass around the tree. Show her the things her body yearned for. A host of wildly provocative thoughts ran through her mind none of them appropriate for a virginal, nearly betrothed young lady.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must find Mr. Corbett.” The words were shaky, skittish. “I have lost my taste for the festival and wish to go home.” She shied away from him, terrified of the feelings he invoked in her. “Please give me my parasol.”

He held out the much-abused accessory. “Jem.”

Jemma's heart stopped. Why must he call her that? Why speak as if it were an endearment?

“You must stop calling me that,” she said firmly, though her knees were wobbly, and her legs quivered like a bowl of jelly. Afraid he’d see how her eyes filled with tears, she turned away. “Please stop this senseless baiting of me.”

“It is not senseless, and it is not baiting. It is something else entirely. Were you not so innocent, you would know the difference.”

Jemma jerked the parasol from his hands, his words shaking her to the very core of her being. Because he was right.

Nick bowed to her, his glorious hair twinkling with hints of red. “Good day, Miss Manning. I am sorry if I caused you any distress.”

He didn't mean it. He wished to distress her endlessly. Jemma could tell by the quirk of his lips. She wished to ask him what there was between the two of them but wasn’t sure she should hear the answer. Nodding to him politely she headed back in the direction of the festival, wishing again she'd shot him instead of Wren that day behind the Green Parrot.

* * *

Nick did not returnto the festival, instead he walked around the perimeter to his horse in order to avoid Jem. He'd no wish to see her with Augie. Particularly now.

Marching back to Corbett’s brougham, her skirts swinging from her long unladylike strides, she did not look back at him. Thank God, she did not, for he might have run to her and kissed her senseless.

He’d planned to meet her today. He wished all of Hamilton to see them. He'd even thought that he would seduce her under this very tree, hoping the vicar's wife or some other upstanding citizen would discover them. That had been his plan at any rate. Only when the chance had come, he found himself unable to act, or at least act with most of Hamilton in plain view.

If only Jem were empty headed, dull and common. Lovely but stupid, as so many women he met were. If only he didn't actually like her. Whatever transpired now between he and Jem would not be done for revenge. He had not thought he would want her so much. Or have a care if he hurt her.

I will hurt her whether I wish it or not.

He thought back to last night at the Governor's mansion and the game of cards he’d played with Augie, Manning, and Corbett. Manning's hands shook so badly his cards kept fluttering to the table top, though the man tried to keep his voice even. He grimaced every so often in pain that led him to reach up and rub his chest with his free hand. Manning’s eyes were bloodshot, and his skin held a grayish hue. The man was not well and would likely die soon, whether at Nick's hands or not.

Corbett the elder regarded Nick with the assessing gaze of a cautious alligator who wonders the price if he leaves the water to eat a tasty pig on shore. The Governor drank heavily, his words to Nick rife with meaning and innuendo. He was uncertain whether Corbett knew who he was but suspected he did.

Augustus, unaware of the undercurrents swirling about the table played poorly and stupidly, allowing the others to win nearly every hand. Nick assumed Augustus played dice the same way, which was why Preston Jones wished to speak to young Corbett. Nearly half the men in Bermuda held Augie's markers. Just how in debt was he?

Nick had gone to his room after the last hand, wondering how much more subterfuge he could tolerate. He wished to make both men suffer, and to do that he needed to ruin the traitor's daughter. He would force Manning to confess his sins and leave the man to die on this island, his daughter ruined. Nick thought he would just strangle Corbett outright. Perhaps make sure he had an accident on the stairs or something.

At least that had been Nick's plan when he left the Governor's mansion this morning. And it had seemed a solid plan, one in which he would relish torturing the men who had dared injure the Dunbars.

“Please stop this senseless baiting of me.”

“Bloody hell.” Nick spat and climbed his waiting horse.

The more I speak to her, touch her, the more I desire her. Her father destroyed mine. This should be simple. Ruin her and delight in my revenge.

Nick gripped the reins of his horse tightly, causing the animal to dance beneath him. A fierce longing rose up in him for Jem.

He would fulfill his promise to his grandfather, but not at Jem's expense. Not after today. Not now, after he knew that what was between them was more than attraction, more than a flirtation. Now that he knew he had the power to break her heart.