Page 1 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
The true grief of losing a beloved one lies not merely in the celebrations of birthdays or anniversaries, but in the constant void felt even amongst life's simplest, most ordinary moments.
Take a Tuesday morning for example, with a deafening silence or even a crowded ballroom where one's absence feels louder than the music.
Lord and Lady Ashbury's townhouse was alight with the peak of the Season, the air thick with perfume, laughter, and the clink of crystal.
It was teeming with the cream of London society—peeresses clad in the finest of satin, ambitious mamas, and young gentlemen with carefully tousled curls and well-rehearsed compliments.
Amidst them stood Miss Gemma Sinclair, her expression serene and posture immaculate as she engaged in quiet conversation with her dearest companion, Miss Abigail Winfield or at least, she appeared to.
In truth, Gemma was staring somewhere just above Abigail's eyebrows—an expertly chosen point that gave the illusion of rapt attention while her mind wandered elsewhere.
Her late father would have had a name for this expression. "Society Smile No. 3: Alert but Not Invested." He used to tease her about it as she sat through tedious dinner parties with the patience of a governess and the wit of a general.
The memory coaxed a smile to her lips—soft, bittersweet, which quickly disappeared. How different life might have been if he were still alive.
Not far from her, Helena Sinclair hovered like a fretful sparrow adorned in silk. Gemma's mother wore the same pale lilac she had chosen for three seasons in a row. It was a color meant to symbolize dignity and mourning, though by now it mostly signaled frugality.
Was Helena worrying about her brother? William had disappeared upon their arrival. He had grown accustomed to such acts of making himself scarce at social gatherings lately, and it rendered both Gemma and her mother anxious.
Her mother’s hands clutched her reticule somewhat a bit too tightly, her eyes flitting from guest to guest with barely concealed anxiety. When Helena’s gaze lingered on an eligible bachelor before quickly darting to Gemma, Gemma realized that her mother was not worrying about her brother.
Ah, there it is , Gemma mused silently. The annual Sinclair panic: 'Marry or perish.'
This was her third Season. Statistically speaking, she ought to have been wedded or betrothed by now.
"—and then Lady Harrington had the audacity to suggest her daughter's watercolors were superior to mine," Abigail was saying, her eyes bright with indignation. "As if smudged landscapes and lopsided teacups could compare to my botanical studies."
"Absolutely unforgivable," Gemma replied automatically, her gaze drifting across the ballroom. I wonder how many of these fine gentlemen would still smile and bow if they knew our house is mortgaged to the hilt and William's gambling debts could sink us all.
"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Abigail nudged her ribs gently.
Gemma turned, genuinely apologetic. "Forgive me. I was contemplating whether I could fashion a new bonnet from the drawing room curtains. The trim would make a divine embellishment."
"Your resourcefulness never ceases to amaze me." Abigail laughed, the sound bright and free in a way Gemma had almost forgotten to allow herself to laugh freely as well. "Though I was actually telling you that Lord Hampton seems to be looking in your direction with marked interest."
"Lord Hampton is looking in the direction of my dowry, which he incorrectly assumes to be substantial." Gemma sipped her lemonade, the tartness matching her mood. "His estate borders Sinclair Park. He's been eyeing our east fields since Papa’s demise."
"Such cynicism for one so young," Abigail tsked softly. "One might think you—"
Her words died abruptly as a hush fell over the ballroom, as the plethora of guests parted slowly like the Red Sea. Gemma followed her friend's widened gaze to the entrance, where a tall figure now stood beside Lady Belinda Brookfield.
Lord Brookfield, Baron Brokeshire, had arrived.
And so enters the villain of every matchmaking mama's nightmares, Gemma thought, taking in his broad shoulders and the slight dishevelment of his dark hair that seemed too artful to be accidental.
"They say he once climbed out of the Duchess of Merrivale's bedchamber window," Abigail whispered, leaning close. "In nothing but his waistcoat."
"I doubt that very much," Gemma replied dryly. "One would certainly catch a chill in this weather dressed so impractically."
The infamous Baron's ill repute preceded him very much like a foul miasma.
Stories of gambling, drinking, and scandalous liaisons with opera dancers, widows, and occasionally both simultaneously.
Yet there he stood, looking frustratingly respectable in impeccably tailored evening clothes of midnight blue.
His pristine cravat added the final touch to his impeccable attire.
His expression bore the look of polite boredom as he surveyed the room with his piercing green eyes, which did not accord with the remainder of his countenance.
Those eyes, they didn't match the rest of him. His eyes possessed a sharp keenness which seemed overly observant for a dissipated rake, such as himself.
"His poor mother," Abigail murmured. "Lady Belinda looks as though she's escorting an untamed wild creature rather than a son."
Indeed, Lady Belinda's smile was varying and brittle as she navigated the social currents around her notorious offspring. She nodded graciously to acquaintances who either pretended not to notice her son or observed him with poorly concealed fascination.
Across the room, Gemma spotted Lord Christopher Hartley, a lean, fair-haired gentleman whose amiable demeanor was much sought after in society circles. To her surprise, Lord Brokeshire made his way directly to Christopher, where the two men and greeted each other in a heartfelt embrace.
"How curious," Gemma observed. "Lord Hartley is known for his impeccable character. I wouldn't have expected him to associate with—"
"A scoundrel like Brokeshire?" Abigail completed, her eyes twinkling. "Perhaps there's more to our rakish Baron than meets the eye."
"Or less to Lord Hartley," Gemma countered, though without conviction. She surveyed closely as the two men conversed, their expressions suddenly serious despite the festive surroundings. "They appear to be discussing something of grave importance."
"Business matters, I expect. They're both investors in that trading company... Hawthorne, I believe?"
Before Gemma could respond, the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz. Couples slowly began forming on the dance floor, ladies dipping into curtsies as gentlemen bowed before them.
"Oh!" Abigail's grip on Gemma's arm tightened painfully. “Pray, do not look now, but ...”
Naturally, Gemma looked. And found herself staring directly into the green eyes of Lord Brokeshire, who was making his way through the crowd—directly towards her person.
Surely not, she thought, glancing behind her to see who might have caught his attention. But no eligible beauty stood in her vicinity, only Mrs. Weatherby, who was approaching her sixth decade and third husband.
The Baron stopped before her and executed a bow of perfect depth—neither too shallow to be insulting nor too deep to be mocking.
"Miss Sinclair," he said, his voice a pleasant baritone that carried just a hint of gravel. "Might I have the honor of this dance?"
Gemma felt the weight of every gaze in the room upon them. Her mother's worried frown did not lessen her predicament. Abigail's wide-eyed astonishment. Lady Viola Montford's calculating stare from across the room, already mentally composing tomorrow's gossip.
This will either elevate my standing or ruin me entirely, Gemma thought with the odd detachment that came from two years of constant financial anxiety. Either way, it shall be something different, at least.
"You may, My Lord," she replied, placing her gloved hand in his outstretched palm.
His fingers closed around hers with surprising gentleness as he led her onto the floor. Gemma was acutely aware of his height as he positioned them for the dance, his hand resting lightly at her waist.
***
Meanwhile, on the polished ballroom floor, Abigail was mid-turn in the arms of Christopher Hartley.
He really was the sort of gentleman who wore ease like a perfectly tailored coat.
Gemma’s gaze caught on them as they passed, his dark head bent slightly as he murmured something that made Abigail laugh outright, a clear, unrestrained sound that turned a few heads and, Gemma suspected, made more than one chaperone wince.
Abigail, for all her vivacity, danced with the lightness of someone thoroughly amused rather than deeply enchanted.
And yet there was something in the way her fingers rested just a moment too long on Christopher’s sleeve as they completed a turn.
There was something in his countenance which betrayed his depth of enjoyment whenever he looked upon her, as though surprised by the depth of his own enjoyment.
Their conversation was inaudible over the swell of strings, but Gemma knew Abigail’s expressions well enough to read the familiar rhythm of their exchange: his teasing remarks met with quick-witted rejoinders, her brows lifting in mock outrage before dimpling into laughter.
It was a private sort of language, forged in banter and laced with an energy Gemma could not quite name, something bright and unspoken humming beneath the surface.
They interacted with the kind of ease that made one wonder if love might a deep, caring attachment might not be long in forming.