Page 25 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)
The Hartington ball was in full, glittering bloom. Strings soared, champagne flowed, and Gemma Sinclair had the sudden urge to knock over a display of eclairs—purely to disrupt the line of simpering women gravitating toward her husband.
She stood beside Jameson near the tall windows, the candlelight gleaming off his dark hair and the sharp line of his jaw.
The Hartington ballroom, renowned for its grandeur, did not disappoint this evening.
Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the assembled ton, while arrangements of hothouse flowers perfumed the air with their heady scent.
Predictably, they had not been left in peace for long.
"Oh, Lord Brokeshire," purred Miss Lytton, a wisp of a blonde in periwinkle silk. "I do believe you grow more distinguished each time we meet."
Jameson gave a practiced smile, the kind that could charm grandmothers and duchesses alike. "You flatter me, Miss Lytton."
"No, indeed," she said, touching his sleeve with a gloved hand. "I only speak what all are thinking."
Gemma took a very small sip of her lemonade and imagined hurling it out the nearest window. She had endured precisely forty-seven minutes of this particular form of torture, and her patience was wearing decidedly thin.
"I heard tell you've been absent from White's these past weeks," Miss Lytton continued, batting her eyelashes with such vigor that Gemma wondered if the girl had something troublesome lodged within them. "The gentlemen say it's simply not the same without your wit to enliven their evenings."
"Matrimony brings with it new priorities, Miss Lytton," Jameson replied smoothly, his expression revealing nothing.
Gemma did not flatter herself, she knew such words were mainly to protect his reputation.
A man could take mistresses, but in a ball in front of all of nobility? The ton could not allow it.
Before Miss Lytton could respond, Lady Pelham approached with the determined stride of a woman used to getting her way. Unlike the dewy-eyed Miss Lytton, Lady Pelham was a widow of eight-and-thirty with a formidable bosom and an even more formidable fortune.
"Lord Brokeshire," she announced, tapping her fan against her palm. "You promised me a dance last season. Are you prepared to make amends, or must I enlist a solicitor?"
Jameson inclined his head. "I fear I am already spoken for this evening."
"Oh?" Lady Pelham blinked, as if the very idea was a breach of etiquette.
His eyes slid to Gemma. "My wife would be most unamused were I to forget her existence."
Gemma lifted her brows mildly but said nothing. Lady Pelham turned with a huff and swanned off, leaving behind the scent of lilacs and thwarted intentions.
"You needn't have done that," Gemma murmured once they were relatively alone again. "I have no claim on your dances."
Jameson's mouth curved slightly at one corner. "And yet, as my wife, you have claim on a great many things, should you choose to exercise that right."
Something in his tone made her pulse quicken, but before she could formulate a suitable response, the first waltz began. Jameson turned to her with a faint, dutiful nod.
"Shall we, Lady Brokeshire?"
She raised a brow at the formality, but placed her hand in his regardless. "Since we are husband and wife, I suppose we must."
As they took their positions among the other couples, Gemma became acutely aware of the scrutiny they faced.
Lady Harwick and her coterie of gossips observed from behind their fans, while Lord Pemberton's wife whispered something to the Countess of Westmoreland that made both women glance in their direction.
"Ignore them," Jameson said quietly, as though reading her thoughts. "They merely await our misstep to confirm their suspicions."
"And what suspicions might those be?" Gemma asked, meeting his gaze as they began to move in perfect time to the music.
"That our matrimony is one of convenience rather than affection."
"Is that not precisely what it is?" The words escaped before she could consider their wisdom.
The ballroom glittered around them, but all Gemma noticed was the weight of his hand on her waist. Steady. Assured. Entirely unaffected.
"Perhaps," he replied, his expression unreadable. "Though appearances occasionally deceive."
What unsettled her most was how natural he seemed. No stiffness, no hesitation. As though dancing with her—being this close to her—meant nothing at all. As though he'd done it a thousand times with a thousand others.
Well, perhaps he has.
The thought struck hard, jarring her from the rhythm. She frowned.
Jameson's brow ticked upward. "Have I trod on your foot already?"
"No," she replied curtly.
"Then why the grimace?"
"No reason."
Jameson leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear. "If I've offended, I should like to know how, so I might repeat it later."
Despite herself, Gemma felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "You haven't."
His eyes narrowed slightly, amused. "Yet you look as though someone replaced your lemonade with vinegar."
"I simply do not wish to be here," she said flatly. It was only partly untrue.
His smile was dry. "Good. I feared I might be the only one in the room loathing every second."
"Oh, not at all," she replied, tone wry. "I was reminded this morning by my mother that an absence tonight would be interpreted as marital discord. And you know how she detests a scandal."
Jameson gave a low chuckle that sent a shiver along her spine. "Mine said no less.”
Gemma's laugh escaped before she could stop it, and Jameson's expression flickered—just for a second—with something warmer than his usual dry charm.
"And yet here we are," she said, recovering herself, "fulfilling our filial duties."
"Indeed. Though I find the company far more tolerable than anticipated."
The compliment, delivered with such casual ease, caught her off guard. "You needn't flatter me, My Lord. We've no audience close enough to hear."
"Is that what you believe I'm doing?" he asked, a curious note in his voice. "Performing for an audience?"
Before she could answer, their path crossed with another couple, necessitating a polite nod and momentary silence. As they resumed their conversation, Gemma found herself studying her husband's face with new interest.
"You must admit," she said carefully, "ours is a union built on practical considerations. It would be… disingenuous to pretend otherwise."
"Practical considerations," he repeated, his tone contemplative. "Yes, I suppose it began that way."
"Began?" she echoed.
Jameson's gaze met hers, steady and unreadable. "Matrimony is a journey, Lady Brokeshire, not a destination," he said cryptically.
As they spun, their rhythm began to settle. Her hand fit in his, her body leaned ever so slightly toward his without meaning to. They didn't speak, but something between them shifted—like an unspoken truce.
Still, a thousand things lay between them: secrets, hesitations, a matrimonial union arranged like a chess move neither had fully agreed to.
Yet in this moment, amid silk gowns and glittering chandeliers, they danced as though none of that mattered.
His gaze held hers, quiet and unreadable, and Gemma allowed herself, for just the length of a waltz—to wonder what it would be like if this strange, electric pull between them were more than circumstance. But she said nothing. She only danced.
As they turned through the motion of the waltz, Gemma's gaze drifted past Jameson's shoulder, and there, not far off, were Abigail and Christopher.
The two moved together with a familiarity that spoke of something far warmer than social obligation.
Abigail laughed softly at something Christopher whispered, her smile radiant, and her cheeks tinged pink with more than exertion.
His hand at her back seemed less for guidance than closeness.
A bittersweet warmth crept into Gemma's chest. She couldn't help but wonder, could that sort of comfort ever grow between herself and Jameson?
As the couples swept past one another, Abigail's eyes met Gemma's, and a smile passed between them, understanding, a little amused, entirely kind. Christopher offered Jameson a faint but approving nod.
Jameson gave the barest huff of a laugh, nearly to himself. "They look disgustingly content," he murmured, his tone laced with teasing envy.
Gemma tilted her head, arching a brow. "We mustn't allow them to become insufferable. We should at least attempt to look equally agreeable."
"I daresay we're doing well enough," he said, as their hands tightened just slightly between them.
The shared glances, the light jest, the momentary sense of alliance—all of it wove a fragile thread of connection. And for now, it was enough.
The waltz concluded with a flourish, and Jameson led her from the dance floor with a light touch at the small of her back. The sensation lingered even after they parted.
"May I fetch you a refreshment?" he inquired, his manners impeccable as ever.
"Thank you, yes," she replied, suddenly aware of how warm the ballroom had become. "Lemonade, if you please."
As Jameson departed on his errand, Abigail appeared at Gemma's side, her eyes bright with curiosity.
"Well," she said without preamble, "that was certainly illuminating."
Gemma raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" Abigail grinned, adjusting her gloves. "The way Lord Brokeshire looks at you when he thinks no one is watching... I daresay more than one lady is positively green with envy."
"Absurd," Gemma scoffed, though her cheeks warmed. "He's merely playing his role, as am I."
"If you say so," Abigail replied, clearly unconvinced. "Though I must say, for a matrimony of convenience, you appear remarkably... compatible."
Before Gemma could formulate a suitably cutting response, Christopher appeared, offering Abigail a glass of champagne with a smile that transformed his usually serious countenance.