Page 13 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
The table, though narrow and a trifle too short for the number of guests attempting to gather round it, had been dressed with respectable care.
A white linen cloth concealed the rather battered surface, and at its centre stood a silver epergne borrowed from Lady Danforth’s footman under urgent pretence.
There was an array of delicacies, cold roast fowl, a glazed ham of superb perfect sheen, a tower of seed cakes, and a trifle trembling slightly under its own moral burden formed the centrepieces of a spread that strove, valiantly, not to look assembled in haste.
“Ah,” murmured Mr. Lennox, one of the distant cousins dug up from a neighbouring county to pad the guest list, “nothing like a good ham to sanctify a matrimonial union.”
Lady Sinclair, seated at the head of the table with a fixed smile that suggested she might scream if one more person mentioned the weather, gave him a tight nod. “Quite,” she said. “And let us pray it is less salty than some of the remarks made this morning.”
A strained chuckle travelled the length of the table.
Gemma, now Lady Brokeshire—a title that still felt ill-fitting and strangely heavy—sat beside her new husband with a posture so straight it could have been used to measure the table legs.
She picked at a slice of pigeon pie, the crust delicately flaking but rather dry, and attempted to make sense of her new place in the world.
It was not the food that turned her stomach—it was the effort to appear entirely unaffected by the monumental shift in her life.
Gemma’s hands were folded lightly in her lap between courses.
Her face bore the perfect mask of a well-bred lady, composed and serene, but Abigail, seated just across from her, saw past it.
Abigail noted the slight tightness around her friend’s eyes, the way her wine remained untouched, along with the forced curve of her lips when addressed.
Abigail’s heart twisted with helpless affection.
She had dreamed of laughing beside Gemma on her wedding day, not watching her smile through a storm of private resignation.
Across the table, Christopher Hartley studied Abigail with quiet curiosity.
Her attentiveness to the bride had not escaped him, nor had the subtle crease in her brow.
As the footmen cleared the dishes for the final course, he caught her eye and offered the smallest of smiles, a silent, steadying gesture.
Abigail blinked, surprised by his gentleness, and allowed herself a faint smile in return.
Their gaze held for a moment longer than convention allowed, yet no one remarked upon it. It was a moment of shared compassion, one that neither needed to explain. They both knew the air was too heavy with what might have been.
Gemma, unaware of the exchange, glanced briefly at Jameson.
He had turned his attention to the Earl of Marbury, engaging in a subdued conversation about estate matters.
She wondered, not for the first time that morning, whether this man —this stranger to her in many ways—truly understood what he had taken from her. And whether he regretted it at all.
Gemma found herself acutely aware of her sudden and new husband’s presence next to her. His sleeve brushed against hers as he reached for his wine glass, and she felt that same inexplicable warmth rush through her again.
"You look lovely today, Lady Brokeshire," he murmured, his voice pitched low for her ears alone, using her new title for the first time.
"Thank you, My Lord," she replied stiffly, unused to the intimacy implied by his proximity.
"Jameson," he corrected. "We are husband and wife now. I believe first names are permitted."
Gemma met his gaze, searching for any hint of mockery, but found only a trace of warmth. "Very well... Jameson."
His name felt foreign on her tongue, yet strangely intimate.
She watched as a small, genuine smile briefly replaced his usual practiced charm.
For that fleeting moment, Gemma glimpsed something real beneath the facade—something that made her wonder yet again about the true nature of the man she had wedded.
Across the table, Abigail caught Gemma's eye and offered an encouraging smile.
Beside her, Christopher was engaged in polite conversation with Helena, his manner easy and charming.
Gemma noticed the way her friend's gaze kept drifting to Christopher when she thought no one was looking, the soft blush that colored her cheeks when he occasionally turned his attention her way.
The subtle dance between them was a reminder of what a natural courtship looked like, Christopher and Abigail had a gradual building of affection and understanding rather than the abrupt, scandal-driven union she now found herself in.
As the meal progressed, William rose to offer a toast, his voice slightly strained despite his efforts at congeniality. "To my sister and her new husband. May your life together be... prosperous and content."
The lukewarm blessing hung in the air for a moment before glasses were raised. Gemma noticed Jameson's knuckles whiten slightly around the stem of his wine glass, though his expression remained pleasantly neutral.
"And to new beginnings," Jameson added smoothly, raising his glass once more. His eyes met Gemma's over the rim. "And unexpected journeys."
The subtle emphasis on "unexpected" was not lost on Gemma. Indeed, nothing about this match had been expected or conventional. Their eyes held for a moment longer than strictly necessary, and Gemma found herself wondering what thoughts moved behind those inscrutable green depths.
After the breakfast, there was little time for prolonged farewells.
Jameson's carriage waited to take them to his London townhouse, where Gemma would begin her new life as Lady Brokeshire.
Her trunks had been sent ahead that morning, along with Betsy, who would continue carrying out her duties as her lady's maid.
As Gemma embraced her mother, Helena whispered tearfully, "Remember, my darling, you will always have a home here if you need it."
The implication behind her words was clear—if her matrimony proved unbearable, she could return. Gemma merely nodded, unable to voice the tumult of emotions constricting her throat.
William's farewell was stiffer, his manner suggesting there was much left unsaid between them. He clasped her hands briefly, murmuring, "I hope you will be happy, Gemma."
"Take care of Mother," she replied softly. "And yourself, William. Please, be careful."
He looked uncomfortable at her veiled reference to his dealings with gamblers and people such as the likes of Thorne. He nodded once, squeezing her hands before releasing them.
Abigail's embrace was fierce and tearful. "I shall call on you tomorrow," she promised. "And you must tell me everything."
Gemma forced a smile, grateful for her friend's steadfast support. "There will be precious little to tell after one day, I assure you."
Abigail's eyebrows rose meaningfully as she glanced toward Jameson, who stood conversing with Christopher near the door. "I believe there may be more to your Baron than meets the eye," she whispered. "Did you notice how he was looking at you during the ceremony?"
"With resignation, no doubt," Gemma replied dryly, though her friend's words stirred a curious flutter in her chest.
"If that was resignation, then I am Queen Charlotte," Abigail retorted with a small laugh. "No, there was something else there entirely."
Before Gemma could respond, Jameson approached, offering his arm. "Are you ready, Lady Brokeshire?"
That was who she was now. Lady Brokeshire. How could things change so much, so fast? It was maddening.
Gemma placed her hand lightly on his arm, the firmness of his muscle evident even through the layers of his coat. "Yes, Lord Brokeshire."
The journey to Jameson's townhouse passed in relative silence, both occupants lost in their own thoughts. Gemma gazed out the window at the familiar streets of Mayfair, each turn taking her further from the life she had known and closer to an uncertain future.
She cast a sidelong glance at her new husband, wondering if he, like so many gentlemen of breeding, harbored peculiar habits.
Did he insist his bootlaces be tied with precisely seventeen loops?
Did he require all the candlesticks to face north during dinner?
Would he expect her to listen attentively as he read aloud from his doubtlessly tedious collection of hunting journals?
And what of her social duties? As Lady Brokeshire, she would be expected to entertain.
Gemma suppressed a shudder at the thought of arranging dinner parties where the guests would undoubtedly subject her to careful scrutiny, searching for evidence of her unsuitability.
She could picture Lady Harwick's lorgnette already, examining her every gesture for signs of improper breeding.
Her new bedchamber presented another realm of uncertainty.
Would it be decorated in the hideous crimson damask so favored by gentlemen of a certain age?
Would the bed curtains be embroidered with ancestral crests, allowing long-dead Jameson forebears to observe her nocturnal activities with disapproval?
And speaking of nocturnal activities—Gemma felt her cheeks warm considerably and promptly directed her thoughts elsewhere.
Beside her, Jameson seemed equally contemplative, his usual mask of charming indifference temporarily set aside in the privacy of the carriage.
Gemma stole occasional glances at his profile, still struggling to reconcile the notorious rake of London society with the man who had spoken his vows with such quiet intensity.
The carriage finally drew to a halt before an elegant townhouse on a fashionable street. Compared to the modest Sinclair residence, Jameson's home was decidedly grand—four stories of gleaming white stone with tall windows and an imposing black door flanked by potted topiaries.
Jameson alighted first, then turned to offer Gemma his hand. As she stepped down from the carriage. Unexpectedly noble of him, she thought.