Page 20 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

Evening descended upon London with a painter's flourish, the setting sun cast the dining room of Brokeshire House in shades of amber and gold.

Gemma sat beside Jameson at the polished mahogany table, their afternoon ride having been postponed due to unexpected business that had kept him closeted in his study until nearly dusk.

Though disappointment had stabbed through her at the butler's apologetic message, she had quickly chastised herself for the reaction.

It is not as though I was anticipating the excursion with any particular enthusiasm , she had told herself unconvincingly as she'd changed for dinner. It was merely a chance to become better acquainted with the man to whom I am now bound for life. Nothing more.

Now, as the servants cleared away the main course, Gemma snuck a glance at her husband from beneath her lashes.

He appeared preoccupied, his jaw tense despite the excellent meal and the fine claret that had accompanied it.

Beside him, Lady Brokeshire—Belinda, as she had invited Gemma to call her—seemed equally lost in thought, though her impeccable manners never faltered.

"I have received word from Lady Hartington today," Belinda announced suddenly, breaking the silence as the main course was served. "She is most eager to make your acquaintance, Gemma."

"Indeed?" Gemma replied, faux surprise coloring her tone. "I had not realized our attendance was already confirmed."

"But of course," Belinda said, her eyebrows rising slightly. "The Hartington ball is the premiere event of early Season. We have attended without fail for the past decade."

Jameson's lips twitched. "What my mother means to say is that our absence would cause a positive tsunami of speculation, which she would find most disagreeable."

"As would you, I imagine," Belinda retorted, though there was fondness beneath the sharpness of her tone. "Despite your protests to the contrary, you have always enjoyed a well-executed cotillion."

Gemma nearly choked on her wine. "Lord Brokeshire? A devotee of country dances? Surely you jest."

"Mother exaggerates," Jameson said dryly. "Though I will not deny a certain aptitude for the movements. Oxford insisted upon dancing lessons, much to my chagrin at the time."

"False modesty ill becomes you, my son," Belinda said with a pleased smile. "Gemma, you should know that Jameson was considered quite the accomplished dancer in his youth. Before he decided that maintaining a facade of bored indifference was more fashionable."

"You wound me, Mother," Jameson placed a hand over his heart in mock injury. "I cultivate disinterest as an art form, not a fashion."

Gemma found herself smiling at their banter, the ease between mother and son a stark contrast to the stilted formality of breakfast. "I look forward to witnessing these legendary dancing skills firsthand at the ball."

"Then I shall endeavor not to disappoint," Jameson replied, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that sent a curious flutter through her stomach. "Though I warn you, I may have grown rusty through disuse."

"I doubt that very much," Belinda interjected. "Now, Gemma, we must discuss your preparations. Your first appearance as Lady Brokeshire will be the subject of considerable interest."

"So my mother informed me this morning," Gemma said, unable to keep a hint of resignation from her voice.

"It cannot be helped," Belinda declared, warming to her theme with unexpected enthusiasm. "The ton feasts upon novelty, and a surprise matrimony between a notorious bachelor and a respectable young lady provides the most delectable fare imaginable."

"How delightfully cannibalistic you make society sound, Mother," Jameson drawled. "Though not inaccurate."

"It is simply the way of things," Belinda continued, undeterred. "We must ensure you are impeccably turned out, Gemma. Perhaps a visit to Madame Delacrois is in order. Her new silks from France are said to be extraordinary."

As Belinda launched into a detailed discussion of appropriate colors and styles, Gemma observed the subtle tightening of Jameson's shoulders, the almost imperceptible straightening of his spine.

Though his expression remained politely interested, she sensed a tension in him that had not been present moments before.

"I should not wish to put Lord Brokeshire to unnecessary expense," she ventured, when Belinda paused for breath. "Surely my existing gowns—"

"Nonsense," Jameson interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. "You will have whatever is required to make a suitable appearance. I insist."

Something in his voice—pride, perhaps, or a determination that she should not be found wanting by society's exacting standards—caused a confusing mixture of gratitude and irritation to bloom within Gemma's breast.

"As you wish," she acquiesced, though a part of her bristled at being managed, however benevolently. "Though I warn you both, I have simple tastes. I shall not be transformed into a peacock merely to satisfy the ton's appetite for spectacle."

Belinda's lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Good. Ostentation would be most inappropriate for a lady of your newly elevated station. Elegance and restraint shall be our watchwords."

"Now that the matter of Gemma's wardrobe has been settled to everyone's satisfaction," Jameson said, the hint of irony in his tone was not lost on Gemma, "perhaps we might discuss something of actual consequence."

"I can think of few matters more consequential than ensuring your wife does not become fodder for malicious gossip," Belinda returned primly. "But pray, continue. What weighty matters did you wish to raise?"

Before Jameson could respond, the butler appeared at the doorway with a slight bow. "Forgive the interruption, My Lord, but your carriage has been brought around as requested."

Gemma blinked in surprise. "You are going out?"

"A previous engagement," Jameson replied smoothly, though his eyes did not quite meet hers. "Gentlemen's business at my club. I fear it cannot be avoided."

"I see," Gemma said, fighting to keep disappointment from her voice. "Of course. I would not wish to interfere with your established routines."

Jameson hesitated, something flickering across his features too quickly for her to identify.

"I shall not be late," he said, almost as though making a promise.

"Perhaps... perhaps we might continue our discussion of Wordsworth tomorrow?

I have some thoughts on his later works that might interest you. "

The unexpected offer sent a warm current through Gemma's veins. "I should like that very much."

With a brief nod to his mother and a formal kiss pressed to Gemma's gloved hand, Jameson departed, leaving the ladies to their dessert and Gemma to her increasingly bewildering thoughts regarding her new husband.

Gentleman's business indeed , she mused, watching his tall figure retreat from the room. I wonder if such "business" involves cards, brandy, and the sort of company that would make even the broadest-minded matron blush... or something else entirely.

As Belinda signaled for the servants to bring in the final course, Gemma found herself torn between the proper response of unquestioning acceptance and a growing determination to understand the complex man she had wedded—including whatever secrets he might be keeping behind those guarded green eyes.

***

The exclusive offices of Hawthorne Trading Company were situated in a discreet building near the docks, far from the fashionable areas of London where society gathered.

Within a private chamber on the upper floor, Jameson sat across from Edward Hawthorne, the grizzled merchant whose shrewd business acumen had built one of London's most successful trading enterprises.

Between them lay scattered documents, shipping manifests, and carefully coded ledger entries.

Christopher Hartley lounged nearby, his elegant evening attire incongruous against the practical furnishings of the room. A glass of amber liquid dangled from his long fingers as he listened to Edward's grim assessment.

"Three shipments diverted in the past month alone," the older man was saying, his finger stabbing at a particular entry. "Always just enough to cause delays and expenses, never enough to completely cripple the operation."

"Death by a thousand cuts," Jameson murmured, his mind racing through possibilities and countermeasures. "Thorne is too clever for outright sabotage. He prefers the slow poison."

"Precisely," Edward agreed, his weathered face grave. "And now I've received word that he's acquiring interests in several of our smaller competitors. Consolidating forces against us."

Christopher swirled his drink contemplatively. "The question remains: why? Certainly, business rivalries exist, but this vendetta seems... personal."

"Because it is," Edward replied heavily. "Thorne has nursed a grudge against me for twenty years, since the East India Company contract that established Hawthorne Trading as a serious competitor. He believes I stole the opportunity from him through underhanded means."

"Did you?" Christopher asked bluntly.

Edward's eyes flashed. "I outmaneuvered him fairly. My terms were better, my ships faster, my reputation stronger. That he cannot accept defeat gracefully speaks to his character, not mine."

Jameson nodded slowly, his fingers tapping a thoughtful rhythm against the polished table. "And now he seeks to destroy what you've built, piece by methodical piece."

"With increasing success," Edward admitted grimly.

"Which is why I've asked you both here tonight.

As my principal investors and the only members of the ton involved in the company's management, you have access to social circles I cannot penetrate.

We need information—what Thorne is planning, who his allies are, which shipping routes he intends to target next. "