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.”
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.
