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 saidJemcaused 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. Iadorefreckles, 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, andwhere?”
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. “Youaredepraved.” 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.
