Page 19 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
“I shall offer no impediment to your endeavors, whatsoever their nature. A suitable allowance shall be provided for your charitable pursuits, should they still hold your interest. And… should you desire anything of me—anything at all—you have but to voice the request.”
A flicker of surprise crossed her features. This last pronouncement held a tone beyond mere negotiation; it hinted at a vulnerability unexpected.
Jameson rose, executing a meticulous brush of imaginary dust from his coat. “Then, shall we formalize this accord in the customary manner?”
Gemma arched a delicate brow. “With oaths sworn in blood beneath a tempestuous sky?”
He gave a brief, genuine laugh. “I had in mind a ceremony of far less drama.” He extended his hand, palm upturned. “A handshake, Lady Brokeshire. Civilized, and binding.”
Gemma placed her hand in his. The warmth that emanated from his skin was unexpected, his grasp was rather firm yet imbued with a subtle tenderness.
“Very well,” she conceded. “But should you persist in addressing me as ‘Lady Brokeshire’ with that particular inflection, I shall feel compelled to retaliate by referring to you publicly as ‘husband’ until your countenance rivals the hue of a rose.”
He leaned in fractionally, a hint of alarm in his eyes. “You would not dare.”
“Oh, would I not?” she replied.
Their hands remained clasped a moment longer than strict propriety dictated. A subtle shift occurred, an almost imperceptible stirring, like the first breath of a changing season.
Before departing, he paused at the threshold, turning back with an expression she found elusive. “Perhaps… perhaps you might favor me with your company for a drive in the park later this afternoon? Following your meeting with my mother, of course.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes, swiftly followed by a warmth that bloomed upon her cheeks. “I should like that very much.”
With a brief inclination of his head, a gesture that might have held the faintest trace of a smile, Jameson withdrew, leaving Gemma to her reflections amidst the lingering scent of breakfast.
***
The grand library of Brokeshire House stretched two stories high, its walls lined with leather-bound volumes that represented generations of collecting.
Gemma moved slowly along the shelves, her fingertips trailing reverently over the spines of ancient tomes and modern philosophical treatises alike.
After the revelations of breakfast, she found herself newly curious about the family she had married into, seeking clues to their character in the books they had gathered around them.
A family library speaks volumes about its collectors , she thought, noting with approval the extensive poetry section and well-worn copies of Shakespeare nestled alongside more practical volumes on estate management and agriculture.
Far more revealing than any drawing room conversation could ever be.
Her gaze alighted upon a slim volume placed high on an upper shelf, its aged leather binding catching the light from the tall windows. Rising onto her tiptoes, Gemma stretched upward, her fingers barely grazing the bottom edge of the book.
"Allow me to be of assistance," came Jameson's voice, startlingly close behind her.
Gemma froze, suddenly acutely aware of his proximity as he reached up, his chest nearly brushing against her back as he easily retrieved the volume she had been attempting to reach.
The subtle scent of sandalwood and something unique about him enveloped her, sending an inexplicable shiver down her spine.
She turned, finding herself mere inches from him, close enough to notice the flecks of amber in his green eyes and the slight unevenness of his jaw where the barest shadow of stubble had begun to appear.
Lord have mercy , she thought, heart fluttering with alarming irregularity. Has his countenance always been so... arresting? Or is it merely the contrast between the rakish baron of society gossip and the glimpse of the mischievous boy I witnessed at breakfast?
"Wordsworth," Jameson said, his voice dropping to a lower register as he examined the book in his hands before extending it to her. "An unexpected choice."
Their fingers brushed as she accepted the volume, and Gemma felt a jolt of awareness course through her veins like quicksilver. "Why unexpected?" she managed, proud that her voice betrayed none of the curious breathlessness that had overtaken her.
"Most young ladies prefer more romantic fare," he replied, making no move to increase the distance between them. "Byron or Shelley, perhaps."
Gemma lifted her chin slightly. "I find something deeply appealing in Wordsworth's reverence for nature and simplicity. Not all of us require brooding heroes and tempestuous affairs to capture our imagination."
"No?" Jameson's lips curved into the half-smile that had launched a thousand swoons across London ballrooms. "What does capture your imagination, I wonder?"
The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken possibility, and Gemma found herself leaning imperceptibly closer, drawn by some invisible force she could neither name nor resist.
"Truth," she whispered, surprising herself with the rawness of her answer. "However unadorned or inconvenient it might be."
Jameson's eyes darkened, his gaze dropping momentarily to her lips before returning to meet her own. He seemed on the verge of speaking, the carefully maintained distance between them, both physical and emotional despite their recent alliance.
"My Lord," came the butler's voice from the doorway, shattering the moment with all the grace of a great ox in a drawing room. "Lady Sinclair has arrived to call upon Lady Brokeshire."
Gemma watched as Jameson's expression closed like a book snapped shut, the momentary vulnerability replaced by his customary mask of polite detachment.
"How fortuitous," he said, stepping back with practiced ease. "I'm certain you are eager to speak with your mother. Please, don't allow me to detain you."
"Jameson," she began, though what she intended to say, even she did not know.
"Until this afternoon," he said, with a formal bow that felt like a door being firmly shut in her face.
As he strode from the library, his back straight and shoulders set with military precision, Gemma clutched the volume of Wordsworth to her chest, her thoughts in disarray.
What in heaven's name just transpired? She wondered, pressing a hand to her flushed cheek. And more importantly, why do I feel so inexplicably disappointed by its interruption?
***
Helena Sinclair was gracefully perched on the edge of a delicate rosewood chair in the drawing room.
Gemma sat opposite her mother, pouring tea with the steady hand she had cultivated through years of practice, though her mind remained distracted by the curious encounter in the library.
"You seem preoccupied, my dear," Helena observed, accepting the cup with a slight frown creasing her brow. "Is all well in your new household?"
If by 'well' you mean utterly confounding, with a husband who alternates between distant formality and moments of alliance and such startling intimacy that one can scarcely catch my breath, then yes, splendidly so , Gemma thought to herself.
Aloud, she merely said, "I am adjusting, Mother. As one might expect."
Helena's frown deepened. "I cannot help but worry, Gemma. The swiftness of this nuptial arrangement…. the circumstances..." She trailed off, setting her teacup down with a nervous clatter. “Not to mention that Lord Brokeshire’s reputation which precedes him…”
"I am well aware of my husband's reputation," Gemma replied, attempting to keep the defensive note from her voice. "Though I find there is often considerable distance between public perception and private reality."
"You sound quite taken with him already," Helena said, her tone hovering between surprise and concern. "I had not expected... that is to say, given the arrangement's nature..."
Gemma felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I merely suggest that perhaps Lord Brokeshire is more complex than society's gossip would indicate." And perhaps more dangerous to my peace of mind as well.
"I pray that is so," Helena said, though her expression suggested limited faith in this possibility. She leaned forward, lowering her voice as though the very walls might carry tales. "But you must be careful, my darling. Men of his ilk can be most charming when it suits their purposes."
And what purpose would that be? Gemma wondered. He already has my hand and my dowry, paltry though it is. What more could he possibly want from me?
Something must have shown in her expression, for Helena reached across to pat her hand consolingly. "Forgive me. I did not come to upset you with dire warnings. I simply..." She hesitated, her fingers plucking nervously at her shawl. "I only wish for your happiness."
"I am fully aware, Mother," Gemma said softly, the familiar weight of duty settling heavily upon her shoulders. She forced a reassuring smile. "And I am not unhappy, truly. Lady Brokeshire has been civil, nice even, and the household is well-appointed. I want for nothing."
Except perhaps answers to the mounting questions regarding my enigmatic husband and the curious effect he seems to have on my typically rational faculties.
Helena's expression brightened somewhat. "That is such a comfort to hear. And speaking of society, Lady Jersey's musical evening is on Thursday next. I do hope you and Lord Brokeshire will attend."
"I imagine we shall," Gemma replied, recognizing her mother's swift pivot to more comfortable territory. "The maid mentioned to me that Lady Brokeshire mentioned this morning that we have been invited to the Hartington ball as well. I expect she will convey that to me directly as well."
"The Hartington ball!" Helena exclaimed, genuine excitement illuminating her features. "How wonderful! It is among the most prestigious events of the Season. Your first major appearance as Lady Brokeshire will be observed most carefully."
Gemma suppressed a sigh. "Yes, I am well aware of society's unquenchable thirst for prying and scandal.”
"It is more than mere gossip, Gemma," Helena chided gently. "It is about cementing your position, establishing connections that will benefit both your new family and our own."
Ah yes, the true purpose of a society matrimonial union laid bare , Gemma thought with carefully concealed cynicism. How romantic.
"I shall endeavor not to trip over my hem or spill punch down the Dowager Countess's décolletage," she promised with a hint of the wry humor she normally reserved for William.
"Gemma!" her mother exclaimed, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "Such impertinence. I begin to wonder if Lord Brokeshire's reputation is rubbing off on you already."
"Heaven forbid," Gemma murmured, though the thought sent an inexplicable thrill through her that had no business existing in a proper young lady's breast.
The conversation turned to the practicalities of Gemma's wardrobe for upcoming events, with Helena insisting that new gowns would be required to reflect her elevated status.
As her mother detailed the latest fashions from Paris with unusual animation, Gemma found her thoughts drifting once again to the upcoming ride with Jameson, wondering what version of her husband would accompany her to the park—the charming raconteur of breakfast, the intense, almost vulnerable man from the library, or the distant, formal baron who had so swiftly retreated behind his walls.
Perhaps , she mused, that is the true challenge of matrimonial life, discovering which face is the mask, and which the genuine article. Though I begin to suspect that with Lord Brokeshire, the answer may be far more complicated than I initially believed.