Page 18 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

The morning light filtered through the cream silk curtains of Brokeshire House's morning room, casting a gentle glow upon the breakfast table where Gemma found herself seated between her new husband and mother-in-law.

Three days had passed since she had taken up residence in the grand townhouse, and while the physical surroundings grew more familiar by the hour, the company remained decidedly. .. awkward.

Even though Belinda Brokeshire was a pleasant person, she too found herself in a difficult position as she was at a loss as what to do after they had dispensed with the informalities of small talk.

Gemma lifted her teacup to her lips, the delicate porcelain trembling slightly in her grasp as she surveyed the room's other occupants over its gilded rim.

Lady Belinda Brokeshire sat with perfect posture, methodically spreading a thin layer of marmalade across her toast with such precision one might have thought she was creating a miniature painting rather than preparing her breakfast. Across from Gemma, Jameson appeared engrossed in his newspaper, though she had noted he'd been staring at the same page for a quarter-hour at least.

How utterly fascinating that three intelligent adults can be rendered mute as newborn babes when placed at the same table , Gemma mused. One might imagine we had each been informed of an imminent execution rather than gathered for morning sustenance.

"The weather appears most agreeable today," Gemma offered, wincing inwardly at the banality of her comment. Oh, splendid opening, Gemma. Perhaps next you might dazzle them with observations about the blueness of the sky or the wetness of water.

Lady Belinda eyes flickered up briefly. "Indeed. Most agreeable."

Silence descended once more.

"I trust you slept well, Miss S—" Lady Belinda began, then caught herself with a slight frown. "That is to say, Lady Brokeshire." The older woman's lips pressed into a thin line, as though the very title tasted foreign upon her tongue when directed at someone other than herself.

"Quite well, I thank you," Gemma replied, forcing a pleasant smile. If one considers 'well' to mean staring at an unfamiliar ceiling for hours contemplating the absurdity of one's hasty matrimony to London's most notorious rake, then yes, splendidly well indeed.

Jameson cleared his throat, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet room. He folded his newspaper with deliberate movements before placing it beside his plate.

"I believe," he said, his deep voice breaking the awkwardness like a stone through ice, "that my mother is still adjusting to the presence of another Lady Brokeshire in the household.

" His eyes held a hint of mischief as they met Gemma's.

"Perhaps we might simplify matters by continuing to address you as Mrs. Brookfield? To avoid confusion, naturally."

"A sensible suggestion," Lady Brokeshire agreed swiftly, too swiftly, perhaps.

Gemma inclined her head graciously. "As you wish." How thoughtful of you both to so readily strip me of my newly acquired title.

"Excellent," Jameson said, reaching for his coffee. "Now that we have resolved the great titular crisis of the morning, perhaps we might actually converse like civilized beings rather than three strangers forced into proximity by an unfortunate carriage accident."

Lady Brokeshire's eyebrows rose precipitously. "Jameson!"

Gemma couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her lips, quickly disguised as a cough when Lady Brokeshire's disapproving gaze swung in her direction.

Jameson's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. "Come now, Mother. Even you must admit this breakfast has been as lively as a mausoleum. I fear our new addition may reconsider her decision to join our household if we cannot manage basic conversation."

Far too late for reconsideration , Gemma thought ruefully.

"I assure you," she said aloud, "I find the peace quite... refreshing." After a lifetime of William's boisterous entrances and exits and Mother's nervous chatter, a silent breakfast is novel, if unnerving.

"You are too kind," Lady Brokeshire said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. "Though I fear my son exaggerates. We are not always so reticent. Indeed, before his father’s passing, this room often rang with laughter and debate."

A shadow crossed Jameson's face, there and gone so quickly Gemma might have imagined it, had she not been watching him so intently.

Jameson's expression softened. “My father once argued with a bishop about the virtues of port versus sherry for a full hour,” he said. “Neither conceded. We all applauded the stalemate.”

Lady Brokeshire’s lips curved faintly, a ghost of amusement flitting across her features. “The bishop was quite red in the face by the end. Your father declared that proof of victory.”

Gemma smiled, genuinely this time. “I should very much have liked to witness that.”

“You may yet,” Jameson said, standing and setting down his napkin. “There’s a bottle of that very same port in the cellar, unless my uncle raided it over Christmas. Fancy a wager on whether it still lives?”

She blinked. “Pardon?”

“I was thinking,” he said, offering his hand, “we might escape the breakfast crypt and explore the cellars. I imagine that’s where all the ghosts of livelier mornings now reside.”

“Jameson, really—” Lady Brokeshire began, but he was already rounding the table.

Gemma glanced at her mother-in-law, half-expecting another protest. But the older woman merely waved a hand, resigned.

"Pray, do go then .This house, I assure you, could well do with some enlivenment.

“Go along then. Heaven knows this house could use a little animation.”

Gemma allowed herself to be led out by Jameson, her hand warm in his. As the door closed behind them, she felt an absurd giddiness rise in her chest. Three days of stiff civility had not prepared her for this sudden… mischief.

The cellar was dim and dusty, lined with ancient bottles in precarious rows. Jameson lit a wall sconce and the glow illuminated floating motes of dust and cobwebs alike.

“You truly meant to show me the port?” she asked, amused.

“Oh, certainly not,” he said, selecting a dusty bottle at random. “But I thought it might be an acceptable pretext.”

“For what, precisely?”

He held the bottle up to the light. “For stealing a few moments alone with my bride. Unchaperoned.” He glanced at her sideways, boyish and unrepentant.

Gemma arched a brow. “How scandalous.”

“Utterly ruinous,” he agreed. “Imagine what the Gazette would say. ‘Notorious rake elopes, then proceeds to speak to his wife.’”

She laughed again, the sound ringing through the damp space, resounding off stone and bottles.

“You’re quite different down here than at breakfast,” she said.

He looked at her more seriously now, eyes dark in the flickering light. “It’s easier when my mother isn’t watching every twitch of my eyebrow. Or yours.”

She ducked her head. “Do they twitch?”

“Yours did when I called you ‘Mrs. Brookfield.’ You hate it.”

She hesitated. “It’s not that. I just… don’t quite know who I am yet. Or who I’m meant to be.”

Jameson stepped closer, bottle forgotten. “Well, if it helps,” he said softly, “you’re not alone in the confusion. I’ve been many things, few of them admirable. But this—this matrimony, you—it’s new for me too.”

She looked up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “You mean to try?”

“I do,” he said, then paused, a slow grin forming. “Though perhaps we might keep that between us for now. I’ve a reputation to uphold, after all.”

Gemma’s smile widened. “Of course. I simply would not do for London to believe that you have lost your edge.”

“I daresay you are correct,” Jameson said at length, his voice softer than she had yet heard it, "we should properly address the elephant promenading through our breakfast room."

"Only one?" Gemma asked with feigned innocence. "I counted at least three."

"Let us begin with the most obvious, then. This matrimonial union …”

"—is not what either of us anticipated for our futures," she finished for him, settling her skirts.

"Yet here we are, bound by law and circumstance."

"Indeed." He remained standing, hands clasped behind his back as he gazed thoughtfully at the walls.

"I should like to propose something, if I may."

Gemma tilted her head, curious. "By all means."

"A truce," he said, turning to face her fully.

"No, more than that, an alliance."

"An alliance?" she echoed, intrigued despite herself.

“Yes." Jameson sat beside her, maintaining a respectable distance yet close enough that she could detect the subtle scent of his shaving soap. “Not one of affection, necessarily. Not yet. But of honesty. Mutual respect. Perhaps even... companionship, if you can bear it.”

Gemma studied him, her fingers brushing absently against the hem of her sleeve. “You speak as if we are negotiating a peace treaty.”

“Indeed, are we not?” A wry amusement touched his lips. “Two nations, each proud and distinct, yet bound by a shared dominion. We might engage in conflict, or we might, with greater wisdom, construct a concord. A bridge, if you will.”

She let out a breath, slow and thoughtful. “And the particulars of this… alliance? Are there stipulations for my perusal?”

Jameson’s expression softened slightly. “Terms, naturally. To ensure a proper understanding, we shall dine together with regularity, lest familiarity fade. You shall have the freedom of both my town residence and the estate in the countryside. I shall place no constraint upon your movements. My sole request is the sanctity of my study. I confess a certain fondness for its rather somber charm.”

“Noted,” Gemma said, a faint hint of a smile touching her mouth. “And what, pray tell, is my return in this arrangement?”