“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 theton. “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, shewouldshoot 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.
5
What an unexpected evening.
Nick stretched out on the mattress in his guest room and felt the quake of the bed beneath him. He struggled to get comfortable, sighing in frustration as the frame creaked loudly, protesting his weight. His feet hung over the edge, the bed being built for someone of lesser stature. Governor Lord Corbett struck Nick as a bit of an ass, in addition to his other sins. While Lady Corbett considered Nick an honored guest, Lord Corbett probably instructed the staff to find the shortest bed available. No matter. Nick wasn't sleepy.
He blinked both eyes, relieved to be rid of the eye-patch if only for the night. He hated the heat on this island, detested the bugs, in fact, there wasn't much he liked in Bermuda. But he made a promise. A promise to his grandfather, Henry. A promise that lay upon Nick’s broad shoulders like the heaviest of weights.
“I would know the name of the man who dared to steal documents from the Duke of Dunbar.”
Nick wondered, in his youth, why his grandfather would have a secret list of English spies tucked into a false bottomed drawer of the desk in his study. He knew now, of course, and wished he did not. He could still see Henry pounding on the long, wooden table that graced the dining room, startling the servants and causing Nick’s sister to flee the room.
“The taint of treason. Your parents are dead because of some sniveling coward. I would have that man’s name!”
Actually, Nick thought his parents weren’t dead because of the traitor, they were dead because of being drunk and stupid. Phillip and Charlotte were both given to drink and gambling and shared an appetite for handsome stable boys. His parents’ debts were enormous before Henry cut them off from the Dunbar fortune. Nick had been sailing a toy boat in the park with his nanny when Phillipaccidentallyshot Charlotte, then himself, with a hunting rifle.
Henry took the news of his son’s death much better than he did the slur against the Dunbar name. He extracted a promise from Nick. “Find the man before I die. I would curse him and his descendants. I would take all from him that he took from me.”
“William Manning. Though I doubt that was the name he was born with.” Nick scratched at a bite on his arm. Howdidone live in Bermuda with the incessant biting insects?
Manning proved to be polite, charming and nothing more than a content, wealthy, merchant. Full of rum punch, Manning nervously regaled Nick with small talk of his years in the salt trade, which made him wealthy beyond comprehension. He mentioned his delightful daughter, Jane Emily. Jane Emily who was the future betrothed of Augustus Corbett. But, Nick noticed, Manning's eyes looked to the side as he spoke and his hand trembled.
Nick shifted on the bed, rubbing his left eye.
Jane Emily Manning. The girl who found his pursuit by the Sinclair sisters to be so amusing. She could be useful.
