Page 17 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

The following afternoon, Gemma found herself seated in the bright and floral drawing room of the Winfield residence. The tea setting was exquisitely arranged as all the cakes and tea set were positioned as beautifully as a painter’s pallet.

Abigail sat comfortably looking radiant with her flushed cheeks from her recent ride in Hyde Park.

"Lord Hartley is quite the horseman," she said with a conspiratorial smile. "And dreadfully proper, but in the most charming way."

Gemma laughed softly, pleased by her friend's delight. "That sounds promising."

"It was indeed," Abigail said dreamily, selecting a small rosewater cake and placing it on her plate. "He asked if I would be at the Everly ball next week. I believe he means to call again soon."

"You should allow him," Gemma said. "He seems a sincere sort."

Abigail had been Gemma's friend since their introduction at Miss Harborough's Seminary for Young Ladies three years prior.

Where Gemma was reserved, Abigail was exuberant.

Where Gemma preferred books and quiet contemplation, Abigail thrived on society and conversation.

Yet somehow, their differences had forged a true friendship.

"And what of you?" Abigail leaned forward, her blue eyes bright with curiosity. "How goes life in the grand townhouse of Lord Brokeshire?"

Gemma hesitated, her fingers curling around the warm porcelain cup. "It is... quiet."

"That does not sound promising."

"It is not unpleasant," Gemma added quickly. “He is by no means cruel, on the contrary, he has been…generous and occasionally kind I daresay.”

This was true enough. Jameson had presented her with a household allowance far more generous than she had expected.

He had given her free rein of the library, a magnificent collection that occupied two floors at the back of the house.

And when she had mentioned missing her pianoforte, one had appeared the following week without comment.

"Only occasionally?" Abigail tilted her head, sending a perfect golden curl bouncing against her cheek.

“Even though he is distant and detached, I cannot claim that he is unfeeling.

I have seen him soften, when he thinks I am not looking.

Once, I dropped a book, and he bent to retrieve it before I could.

He said nothing, just left it on the table.

But there was something in his expression.

.." Gemma trailed off, recalling the moment.

The brush of his fingers against the leather binding, the slight pause before he withdrew his hand.

As if he wished to say something but thought better of it.

"People say he was to wed once. Lady Caroline Wexley," Abigail leaned closer. "She jilted him for a marquess with more land and fewer morals."

"I'd heard the name," Gemma said. "But not the tale."

In truth, she had heard whispers about Caroline Wexley from her lady's maid, Betsy, who had apparently once served in the Wexley household. Martha was a fount of information, some of it perhaps embellished, but much of it useful.

"It was quite the scandal. He hasn't entertained a serious courtship since. Until you."

Gemma sipped her tea, considering this. "It was hardly a courtship.”

Abigail's expression softened. "Oh, Gemma. I know the circumstances were not ideal. But perhaps, in time..."

"Perhaps," Gemma echoed, though she felt little hope.

Her matrimony had been a business transaction, plain and simple.

Her reputation would have been destroyed indefinitely, and Jameson Brookfield needed a wife of suitable background and temperament.

She was not entirely sure why he had taken her as his wife. It seemed that he had not much to gain.

"I do not know if he sees me at all," she confessed. "Not truly."

"Perhaps he is afraid to."

Before Gemma could question this curious statement, the door opened and Mrs. Winfield entered, accompanied by another visitor—Lady Harrington, a formidable dowager whose opinion was sought on all matters of society and propriety.

"Miss Sinclair! Or I should say, Lady Brokeshire now," Lady Harrington pronounced, lowering herself carefully onto a settee. "How fortunate to find you here. I've been most eager to make your acquaintance."

"Lady Harrington," Gemma curtsied. "The pleasure is mine."

"Hmm, yes." The older woman scrutinized her through a lorgnette. "You are prettier than I expected.”

Abigail shot Gemma a warning glance. Lady Harrington was known for her sharp tongue and sharper eyes. Nothing escaped her notice, and she wielded secrets like weapons in the battlefield of London society.

“A most interesting choice, your husband. Tell me, dear, are you happy?"

The question was direct, almost impertinent. Gemma felt the weight of three pairs of eyes upon her.

"I am content," she answered finally. "Lord Brokeshire is a fair man."

"Fair!" Lady Harrington laughed. "My dear girl, one does not enter into matrimony for fairness. One weds for advantage, or for passion. Which was it for you, I wonder?"

Mrs. Winfield intervened, her gentle voice providing welcome relief. "Lady Harrington, you must try these lavender shortbreads. Cook has exceeded herself."

The conversation drifted to safer topics—the upcoming season, the latest fashions from Paris, speculation about who might receive invitations to the exclusive Almack's assembly rooms. Gemma participated politely, but her thoughts kept returning to Lady Harrington's question.

Why had she entered into matrimony with Jameson Brookfield?

To save her and her family’s reputation, certainly.

Because she had not been wed in three seasons, yes.

But there had been something else, something she scarcely acknowledged even to herself.

She had been struck by the intelligence in his eyes, the composed dignity of his bearing.

He could hardly be called handsome in the conventional way, for his angles were too distinct and his stare too intense; but one could not deny the strong mark of character visible upon his countenance.

She had seen small signs, in the way he was kind to her in the most mundane ways.

Surely these small acts of kindness counted for something.

Perhaps it was not the romance that Abigail had but it was in its own way a sign of caring.

When William had proposed the match, with his disdain evident in every syllable, she had surprised herself by agreeing.

The carriage was waiting when their tea ended, and Gemma embraced Abigail warmly before stepping outside. Her journey home was quiet, whereas her thoughts were anything but.

Mrs. Winfield's townhouse was in Mayfair, not far from Berkeley Square, and the journey passed quickly. As they approached the Brookfield residence—her home now, though it still felt foreign—Gemma noticed another carriage departing. A glimpse of a familiar profile caught her attention.

"William," she murmured.

What business could her brother possibly have with Jameson? Their mutual antipathy was well-known in London circles. Had they argued? Worse, had they come to blows?

The carriage came to a stop before the grand entrance. Gemma gathered her shawl around her shoulders and descended, nodding her thanks to the footman who assisted her.

She entered the townhouse as the sky dimmed to a dusky lavender. Her footsteps echoed on the marble floor. The silence was thick, as it always was.

But tonight, she did not mind it.

If Jameson Brookfield was a mystery, then she would unravel him. Thread by careful thread. Because beneath the rakish coolness and clever remarks, she had glimpsed something else and she meant to find it again.

Handing her shawl to the waiting butler, Gemma inquired, "Is Lord Brokeshire at home, Reynolds?"

"In the study, My Lady. He requested not to be disturbed. Lord Sinclair came to visit earlier.”

Gemma nodded, surprised. "I see. Thank you, Reynolds."

Gemma climbed the sweeping staircase to her chambers, where Martha waited to help her change for dinner. As the maid unbuttoned the back of her visiting dress, Gemma found herself pondering the strange intersection of her old life and new.

"You're frowning, My Lady," Martha observed, helping her into a dinner gown of pale blue silk. "Was the visit not pleasant?"

"The visit was lovely," Gemma replied. "I'm merely thinking of... complications."

Martha's clever fingers worked quickly with the pearl buttons of the gown. "Would these complications have anything to do with Lord Sinclair's visit today?"

Gemma turned, surprised. "You know of it?"

"The entire household knows, My Lady. They weren't exactly quiet in their disagreement." Martha lowered her voice. "Mr. Reynolds had to send the younger footmen on errands to prevent them from lingering at the study door."

"What did they argue about?"

Martha shrugged. "Business matters, mostly. But your name was mentioned."

"My name?" Gemma stilled.

"Lord Sinclair suggested that Lord Brokeshire had overstepped in taking you as wife. That you were better suited to another match he had in mind." Martha's eyes flashed with indignation. "The nerve of him, speaking as if you were a parcel to be redirected!"

Gemma felt a chill settle in her stomach. What was her brother doing? Had William lost his logic? It was not in his nature to act so impetuously. "And what did Lord Brokeshire say?"

A smile tugged at Martha's lips. "He said that you were his wife now, and that Lord Sinclair had forfeited any right to concern himself with your welfare when he made it clear you were unwelcome in his home."

Gemma sat at her dressing table, absorbing this. Jameson had defended her? Or at least, defended his claim to her? It was an extreme stance, her brother had some right over her of course. But to hear that he had taken up responsibility of her was…Well. It was certainly something.

"His lordship also suggested that Lord Sinclair focus his attentions on matters of business, where he was already failing quite spectacularly without additional distractions," Martha added with evident satisfaction. "That's when the real shouting began."

The dinner gong sounded through the house. Gemma rose, allowing Martha to make a final adjustment to her hair.

"Will that be all, My Lady?"

"Yes, thank you, Martha."

Alone again, Gemma studied her reflection in the mirror. The woman who gazed back seemed somehow different from the one who had left the house that morning. She carried a look of strong determination and purpose.

If Jameson had defended her to William, perhaps there was more to their arrangement than mere convenience. With that thought warming her like a small flame, Gemma descended to dinner.

The dining room was cavernous for just two people, but Jameson insisted on maintaining proper formality. He stood as she entered, his posture impeccable as always.

"Good evening," he said, voice neutral but not cold.

"Good evening," she replied.

He held her chair, the gesture automatic but not without a certain grace. As she took her seat, she noted the slight tension in his shoulders, the faint line between his brows that suggested a headache.

"I trust your visit with Miss Winfield was pleasant?" he asked as the first course was served, a clear soup that smelled of herbs and comfort.

Gemma was momentarily surprised that he had remembered where she was going. "Yes, very pleasant. Lady Harrington was also visiting."

He raised his eyebrows, amused. "Ah. The indomitable dowager. Did she interrogate you thoroughly?"

"She... asked direct questions."

"And I'm sure she received oblique answers," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You are developing a reputation for composed discretion, you know. Lady Blackwood mentioned it at dinner last week."

"Did she?" Gemma asked, genuinely surprised. "I was not aware I had made any impression at all in society."

"You underestimate yourself," Jameson said, his eyes meeting hers briefly before returning to his soup. "Your calm dignity has been noted and approved."

It was perhaps the closest thing to a compliment he had offered since their wedding. Gemma felt a small bloom of pleasure.

"I understand my brother called today," she said, watching him carefully.

Jameson's expression hardened. “Yes. A brief, unproductive conversation."

"About business?"

"Among other things." He signaled to the footman for wine. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with."

"I believe I was mentioned," Gemma persisted gently. "That would seem to concern me."

Jameson's gaze snapped to hers, sharp with surprise.

"The walls have ears, I see," he said. "Yes, you were mentioned. Your brother seems to believe I've somehow swindled him by taking you as my wife. As if you were a particularly valuable asset he failed to properly secure."

Gemma stiffened. "I am not an asset."

"No," Jameson agreed. "You are not."

Their eyes met across the table, something unspoken passing between them. For a moment, Gemma felt as if she were seeing the real man beneath the controlled exterior, someone capable of understanding, perhaps even tenderness.

Then the footman returned with the wine, and the moment dissipated.

The next course arrived, roasted pheasant with glazed carrots and potatoes, and they ate in companionable silence for several minutes.

"Will you attend the Everly ball next week?" Jameson asked eventually.

"I had thought to," Gemma replied. "Abigail—Miss Winfield—is quite looking forward to it."

Jameson nodded. "Good. I shall be there as well. Perhaps..." He hesitated, seeming to choose his words with care. "Perhaps we might share a dance."

The suggestion, so ordinary between husband and wife, felt momentous coming from him. They had danced at their wedding, of course, but it had been a formal, distant affair, both of them too aware of watching eyes to find any pleasure in it.

"I would like that," Gemma said simply.

Jameson looked at her then, really looked, as if seeing her clearly for the first time. Something shifted in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a lessening of that careful distance he always maintained.

"As would I," he said quietly.

The rest of dinner passed with occasional conversation about inconsequential matters, the unusual warmth of the spring weather, a new exhibit at the Royal Academy, a book they had both read. Yet Gemma sensed something had changed. A door had opened, ever so slightly.

Later, as she prepared for bed, Gemma found herself thinking of Lady Harrington's question again. Was she happy? Not yet, perhaps. But it did not seem so distant a possibility now.