Page 2 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
Gemma looked away, her lips tightening faintly not from jealousy, precisely, but from something adjacent.
A quiet awareness soon enveloped her as she realised that such uncomplicated encouragement of a man’s attentions were not for girls such as herself, not at least any longer.A father’s passing brought with it responsibility and trials.
"I confess, Miss Sinclair," Jameson said as they began to move with the music, "I've observed you these past few balls."
Well, that's not alarming at all, Gemma thought, maintaining her placid expression. "Have you indeed, My Lord? I hope I've provided adequate entertainment."
"You have, though perhaps not in the way you imagine." His steps were fluid and confident, guiding her through the turns with ease. "You possess the remarkable ability to look perfectly engaged while your mind is clearly elsewhere."
Heat crept up Gemma's neck. "Pray, enlighten me, I am entirely at a loss as to your meaning."
"Come now, Miss Sinclair. We both know you've perfected the art of society's most valuable skill—appearing interested in tedious conversations.
" His eyes twinkled with unexpected humor.
"Your gaze fixes approximately one inch above your companion's eyebrow, your smile refreshes precisely every forty seconds, and you nod at perfectly timed intervals. "
Gemma nearly missed a step. No one had ever noticed before—not even Abigail, who knew her better than anyone.
"You're quite observant for someone whose primary occupation appears to be shocking the ton with increasingly outlandish behavior," she replied, recovering her composure.
"We all have our masks, Miss Sinclair." Something flickered in his expression—a momentary weariness that vanished so quickly she might have imagined it. "Some are simply more entertaining than others."
The music swelled around them as he guided her through a particularly complex turn. His hand at her waist was steady, his steps perfectly synchronized with hers. For a rake, he danced with remarkable precision.
"Are you enjoying the Season, Miss Sinclair?" he asked, smoothly changing the subject.
"Oh, immensely," she replied, her tone deliberately light. "There's nothing quite as stimulating as hearing the same conversations at different locations while wearing increasingly uncomfortable gowns."
Lord Brokeshire's laugh was unexpected—a warm, genuine sound that startled both of them. Several nearby dancers glanced their way in surprise.
"My apologies," he said, though he didn't look particularly sorry. "I wasn't prepared for honesty. Most young ladies assure me they adore every moment of these affairs."
"Most young ladies haven't attended three Seasons with diminishing prospects and increasing desperation," Gemma mouthed the words before she could check herself. Good heavens, what is wrong with me? One does not discuss such matters, especially with notorious rakes.
Instead of being scandalized, Lord Brokeshire regarded her with new interest. "Three Seasons? How have London's gentlemen proven to possess so little foresight?"
"Perhaps they are too perceptive,” she countered. "A viscount's daughter gifted with plain features, and with her dowry having dwindled to almost nothing, will find herself sadly shunned in the eyes of many."
I must hold my tongue. Mother would faint dead away if she heard such candor.
The Baron's expression sobered. "Miss Sinclair, I find your company refreshingly direct. But I suspect your assessment of yourself is flawed in several important respects."
"You needn't offer pretty compliments, My Lord. I'm quite comfortable with reality."
"As am I." His gaze held hers steadily. "Which is why I can state with certainty that your looks are far from modest. As for your other concerns..." He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. "Value isn't always measured in pounds sterling."
The music began its final refrain. Gemma felt oddly bereft at the thought of their dance ending. Lord Brokeshire might be a scoundrel, but he was undeniably the most interesting conversation partner she'd encountered all Season.
As the last notes faded, he executed another perfect bow. "Thank you for the dance, Miss Sinclair."
"Thank you, Lord Brokeshire," she replied with a curtsy. "It was... unexpected."
A shadow of something, perhaps regret or resignation crossed his features. "I find the most meaningful encounters often are."
With that cryptic statement, he escorted her back to where Abigail waited, wide-eyed with curiosity. He bowed to both ladies before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Gemma with the strange sensation that something significant had just occurred—though she couldn't possibly fathom what it was.
Nonsense, she chided herself as Abigail immediately began a breathless interrogation. It was just a dance with a notorious rake who will have forgotten my name by morning.
Across the room, Lord Brokeshire rejoined Christopher, their heads bent close in serious conversation. As if sensing her gaze, the Baron glanced up, his eyes meeting hers for one brief moment.
At that very moment Gemma had the most unsettling feeling that forgetting was the last thing on his mind.
Yet as he took his leave with an almost imperceptible nod in her direction, Gemma couldn't shake the notion that there was more to their encounter than mere social pleasantry. Something purposeful lurked beneath his flirtatious banter, such as a chess player calculating several moves ahead.
"Well?" Abigail demanded, practically vibrating with curiosity. "What did the infamous Lord Brokeshire say to make you look so thoughtful?"
"Nothing of consequence," Gemma replied, smoothing her gloves. "Merely the usual flattery, delivered with slightly more wit than is common."
And observations far too perceptive for comfort, she added silently.
Before Abigail could press further, a ripple of whispers spread through the ballroom, drawing their attention to a new arrival.
Albert Thorne, a distinguished-looking gentleman in his forties, entered with an air of quiet authority.
His silver-threaded dark hair and impeccable attire spoke of wealth, while the sharpness in his eyes suggested a formidable intellect.
"Mr. Albert Thorne," Abigail murmured. "That’s a man a lady should avoid, despite his wealth. They say his influence extends from the docks to Parliament itself."
Gemma observed how conversations hushed as he passed, how even the most influential members of society seemed to defer to him with subtle nods. There was something in his bearing that spoke of power and danger, carefully concealed beneath a veneer of charm.
"My father once called him 'the most dangerous man in London,'" Gemma said off-handedly. "I never understood why."
As if conjured by their discussion, Mr. Thorne's gaze swept over the ballroom and landed squarely on Gemma. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes as he offered her a slight bow. She returned it with a polite nod, suppressing a shiver.
Across the room, she noticed Lord Brokeshire watching the exchange, his expression suddenly guarded.
"How curious," Abigail remarked. "It seems you've captured the attention of London's most notorious rake and its most powerful merchant in a single evening. Whatever shall you do for an encore?"
"Find a wealthy husband before we lose the house?" Gemma suggested with grim humor. "Or perhaps learn to juggle while reciting Greek poetry backward."
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of dancing, polite conversation, and careful observation.
Gemma partnered with Lord Hampton (who indeed spent most of the dance extolling the virtues of proper crop rotation along mutual property lines) and a retired colonel who stepped on her toes with military precision.
The night wore on. William was nowhere to be seen, and a sixth-sense that only a sister could have lead Gemma to begin feeling uneasy as to his whereabouts.
He had promised to make an appearance, but as the hours wore on, there was still no sign of him.
It would not be the first time William had failed to fulfill his social obligations, but each absence began to ruin the family's already fragile reputation.
Her mother approached, anxiety evident in the tight lines around her mouth. "Have you seen your brother?" she whispered, her smile fixed for the benefit of onlookers.
"Not as yet, Mama," Gemma replied, already anticipating the familiar host of flimsy excuses she would need to fabricate. "Perhaps he was detained by important business."
Like losing more money we don't have at the gaming tables, she thought with a pang of both worry and irritation.
"Lord Fanworth inquired after him," her mother continued, nervously adjusting her lace cap. "He mentioned something about an arrangement they had made."
Gemma's stomach tightened. Lord Fanworth owned one of the most exclusive gambling establishments in London, one that William had been explicitly forbidden from entering after his last disastrous losses.
"I'm more than certain there's a perfectly reasonable explanation," Gemma assured her mother, knowing full well there likely wasn't. "I shall speak with him when we return home."