Page 15 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

Edward didn’t flinch at the conviction, he had seen it before.

That same quiet fury had driven Jameson in the years after his brother’s death, when grief had nearly hollowed him out.

Edward had seen a young man teetering on the edge of ruin and offered him something to climb toward—structure, control, purpose.

But now, that same conviction was tempered by something else. Something new. And Edward, ever the strategist, noticed.

“You must exercise caution,” he said finally. “You’re not as detached as you think.”

Jameson’s jaw twitched. “It is being managed.”

“Is it?” Edward asked mildly, sipping his brandy. “Or is the lady already beginning to unravel you?”

Jameson’s spine straightened. His expression shuttered.

“She is not Caroline.”

“No,” Edward agreed. “She isn’t. And that, I believe, is the problem.”

Jameson said nothing for a long moment. The fire cracked. A log shifted in the grate, sending a spray of sparks upward.

“She surprised me tonight,” he said eventually, quieter. “I spilled brandy on myself and she looked ready to be struck. As if she expected me to lose control.” He glanced up at Edward, the memory still playing behind his eyes. “When I didn’t, she seemed almost... bewildered.”

Edward’s brow furrowed faintly. “She’s grown up in a different world. One where control isn’t always a virtue.”

“She’s not weak.”

“I never said she was.” Edward set his glass down with a soft thud. “But you’re beginning to see her, Jameson. “ And that presents considerable risk.”

Jameson’s voice was low. “I cannot afford sentiment.”

“Of course not,” Edward said. “But sentiment rarely asks permission.”

They sat in silence after that, each man staring into the fire, the weight of unspoken truths thick between them.

Outside, the wind howled along the eaves, sharp and cold.

Inside, Jameson felt the flicker of something far more perilous stirring beneath his skin—not love, not as yet—but the first uncomfortable signs of interest. Of regard.

And Edward, who had watched empires rise and fall on lesser miscalculations, observed it too.

***

The next morning, Gemma entered the morning room to find it already bathed in pale sunlight.

The golden light filtered through the lace curtains in delicate patterns, softening the elegant lines of the furniture and the faint chill in the air.

The air smelled of toast and rosewater—refined, well-managed, and entirely foreign.

She had slept, to her own astonishment, rather well.

The bed had been plush and quiet. The linens smooth as cream.

Still, it had taken her far too long to fall asleep, lying rigid atop the covers like a sacrificial lamb awaiting fate.

The mere idea of sharing a room—never mind a bed—with Jameson Brookfield had been enough to make her heart beat in her ears.

Mercifully, they were not yet expected to live as…

man and wife, which was precisely what they were.

The mere realisation sent shivers down her spine.

She was by no means na?ve as she was well acquainted with the rituals carried out in the marital bed.

She knew what went on in the marital bed, in the vague, prudently veiled manner that young ladies were allowed to “know.” But understanding something in theory did little to quiet the panic at the thought of actually carrying out the act with a man like him , no less—who had likely seen more bedchambers than the local upholsterer.

She flushed, appalled by the direction of her own thoughts. Before dressing, she had taken a swift detour to the study. It was empty. He was gone. Good. Or not good. She didn’t quite know which.

Lady Belinda looked up from her embroidery as Gemma entered and greeted her with a smile far warmer than form required.

“Good morning, my dear. Come, take some breakfast. You must be famished.”

Gemma sat at the breakfast table, where toast had been arranged in an orderly stack, marmalade sat glowing in its little crystal pot, and the teapot steamed gently as if it had been waiting for her all morning.

It was all so composed and calm and… terribly strange.

She felt like an imposter playing at domesticity.

“Did you sleep well?” Belinda asked, lifting the teapot with her usual elegant efficiency.

Gemma folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, thank you. Quite well.” She hesitated, then added, more stiffly than she intended, “I didn’t see Jameson this morning.”

Belinda’s expression didn’t flicker with disapproval—thank heaven—but softened with something more thoughtful.

“He had an early start. He’s always been rather exacting with his mornings. As a boy, he used to rise before the staff. He believed breakfast was a waste of daylight.”

Gemma reached for a piece of toast, feeling a prickle of curiosity. “He must have been very diligent.”

“Diligent?” Belinda gave a light laugh. “Yes. He had to be. His father died when he was sixteen, and his brother not a year after. There was no time to be a boy after that. He took on everything—business, estate, responsibilities. Grief doesn’t wait for adulthood to arrive.”

Gemma lowered her toast, suddenly more cautious. “I didn’t realise…”

“Few do,” Belinda said gently. “Jameson doesn’t care to speak of it. He learned to bear things quietly. But it changed him. Hardened him, perhaps, though not entirely. He had a few wild years in his youth—London parties, endless invitations, fast friends.”

Gemma suppressed a scoff. His mother seemed unaware that he was still known as a rake.

Of course he had wild years. He was the type.

Tall, confident, with that careless sort of charm women fell over themselves to catch.

The opposite of her person actually .She, who had been raised to avoid scandal the way one avoided rats in the pantry.

She’d never so much as been kissed, never dared linger too long in any gentleman’s gaze.

Reputation was everything. She’d guarded hers as if it were spun glass.

“And then,” Belinda continued with a more subdued tone, “came Lady Caroline.”

Ah. The mysterious specter. There had to be one. She tried not to be bitter.

“She was his fiancée?” Gemma asked delicately.

“Nearly. It was assumed. But she left him quite spectacularly. No warning. No reason. Just a note, and a wedding that was broken off.” Belinda’s expression was unreadable. “He does not speak of her, either. But he’s been… closed ever since.”

Gemma, unsure of how to respond, gave a small nod and busied herself with buttering toast she no longer wanted. What was she supposed to do with that? Be understanding? Sympathetic? Set herself apart from Lady Caroline by being dazzlingly charming and deeply unthreatening?

Before she could arrive at any solution, the door opened.

Jameson entered, every bit the portrait of masculine ease. His coat was perfectly tailored, his hair artfully tousled, and not a trace of fatigue showed—except, perhaps, in the way his gaze lingered for a beat too long on her before flicking away.

“Ladies,” he greeted with a polite bow.

“We were just speaking of you,” Belinda said with cheerful treachery.

“Should I be concerned?” he asked, amused.

Gemma, without looking up, replied, “Not unless you’ve given us cause.”

The words left her lips before she could call them back. Heaven above. She had to stop doing that.

Jameson raised his eyebrow. “Duly noted, madam.”

He reached for his gloves on the sideboard. “I shan’t linger—I’ve an appointment near the docks. Some matter involving shipping ledgers and self-important men.”

“How thrilling,” Gemma said blandly, surprising herself again.

“I shall try to survive the ordeal.”

With a final nod, he departed, leaving Gemma in quiet contemplation, her fingers gripping her teacup, her thoughts far from the offered toast; he possessed a charming and easy demeanor, almost too polished to be entirely genuine, yet beneath that smooth exterior lay something elusive that sparked not fear, but a compelling curiosity she was determined to satisfy, come what may.

***

That afternoon, Gemma sought refuge in the library.

The drawing room was too stifling, filled with the ghosts of half-finished conversations and faint perfume from unfamiliar upholstery. The garden, though charming, felt exposed—too open for a woman with a hundred unvoiced questions and no inclination to answer any.

But the library, ah, the library was a balm. Silent, warm, and sweetly perfumed with old paper and beeswax. Here, one might pretend the world outside did not exist, or at the very least, that it could be postponed.

She wandered along the shelves like a monk at vespers, trailing her gloved fingertips across leather-bound titles.

Aristotle, Byron, Locke. Her hand paused upon Paradise Lost , a heavy selection, yes, but somehow fitting to the moment.

Was she not, in her own small way, cast out from the life she had known?

She carried it to the window seat and folded herself into it, tucking her legs primly beneath her skirts, the book open across her lap.

Yet no matter how she tried, the words refused to anchor. Her eyes slid over the lines. Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven , and there she stopped.

Her thoughts, traitorous things, wandered instead to her husband. Her husband. A title still strange to wear.

His voice echoed in her mind—low, smooth, threaded with some quiet amusement. “Ladies,” he had said that morning, with the easy confidence of a man quite accustomed to his effect upon a room.

And that smile, devoid of mockery or coldness, was unsettlingly warm. She had never kissed a man. She had never wanted to do so. Her entire life had been a careful series of impeccable choices. Reputation was everything. She had taken pride in that restraint, and had worn it like armor.

And yet…she flushed and turned a page, seeing nothing.

Sitting in the, in the sanctuary of his study, Jameson poured brandy into two glasses and handed one to Christopher. The fire hissed softly. Outside, the wind pressed against the windows like a beggar at a feast.

Christopher took his glass with a nod of thanks and settled into the chair opposite. “William was seen at Brook’s last night.”

Jameson arched a brow. “My dear brother-in-law William? What’s he plotting now?”

“He wasn’t alone. Thorne joined him. They were entertaining three of the Harwood investors. Looked rather cozy, from what my source said.”

Jameson swore under his breath, low and clipped. “They’re consolidating.”

Christopher sipped his brandy. “Quite. I daresay they suspect the merger talks. Or at least that something is shifting in our favour.”

Jameson’s jaw tensed. “If they gather enough support, they’ll be in a position to block the expansion entirely. Or worse, undermine our holdings from within.”

“We’ll have to move quickly,” Christopher said, watching him. “You’ll need to stay alert.”

Jameson’s fingers drummed once against the rim of his glass. “I intend to.”

A silence passed but Christopher didn’t look away.

Jameson didn’t respond and Christopher leaned back in his chair, watching. “You are distracted.”

Jameson did not look at him. “Nonsense.”

“You wear that same look you did when Lady Caroline abandoned the match. Only now, there’s less despair and considerably more intrigue.”

Jameson smiled wryly. “This is not the same.”

“No,” Christopher agreed. “Caroline sought admiration. She demanded it. Your new bride, I suspect, would recoil from the notion.”

“She is composed,” Jameson said quietly. “Guarded. She watches the world as though waiting for it to falter.”

“Perhaps she has cause.”

“She likely does.” He drained his glass. “But she is not what I expected.”

“Does that displease you?”

“It unsettles me.” He looked back at the fire, his expression unreadable. “I am used to knowing how a woman will move, what she will say, what she means when she does not say it. But she...”

“She is not a game,” Christopher said, his tone even.

“No,” Jameson agreed, almost to himself. “She is a puzzle.”

Christopher said nothing more. It was not necessary.

***

An hour later, Jameson wandered into the library and stopped short. Gemma was seated in the afternoon light, wholly absorbed in her book, one foot tucked beneath her, curls escaping her chignon.

He cleared his throat and she looked up, startled. "I didn’t hear you."

"Apologies. I didn’t mean to intrude."

She marked her page. "This room doesn’t belong to me."

"It can, if you like."

She blinked. "Pardon?"

"If you find comfort here, make it yours."

Gemma studied him, unsure what to make of the offer. "I was just reading Milton. My father used to recite it."

Jameson stepped closer. "You were close to him."

"Very. He was the only one who believed I was more than ornamental."

"You are,” he said simply.

It was a simple statement, but it unsettled her.

"You surprise me, Lord Brokeshire."

"Good. I’d hate to be predictable." They shared a brief smile. For a moment, something shifted. “And it’s Jameson.”

“Right. Jameson. You surprise me.”

His name had never sounded as appealing as it did coming from her lips. But then, as if the warmth had startled him, Jameson straightened. He could not let his guard down. "I should return to my work."

"Of course."

He hesitated, then left. Her husband was an odd man she realized.