“I was wondering about your nose,” Jemma retorted, irritated he’d caught her looking at him so thoroughly. "I was notassessingyou.”
A deep rumble of amusement sounded from his chest. “Mynose?”
“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.
