Page 28 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

Gemma descended the staircase with deliberate care, each step echoing faintly against the polished wood, though she hardly noticed the sound.

The events of the night before still pressed on her shoulders like a wet wool cloak—heavy, clinging, and impossible to shake off.

Her fingers trailed along the banister, smooth beneath her touch, but her thoughts were anything but composed.

William.

His name alone brought a fresh flush of unease to her cheeks, though whether it was shame, concern, or a bitter mix of both, she could not tell.

She reached the breakfast room and paused a moment at the threshold.

Inside, the gentle clink of porcelain and the rustle of a newspaper turned pages softly broke the silence.

Lady Belinda Brookfield sat upright at the table, clad in dove-grey silk, every button fastened and every curl in place, sipping her tea as if the world outside her teacup need not disturb her serenity.

"Good morning, Lady Brokeshire," Gemma said, stepping inside. Her voice, though pleasant, felt foreign in her throat.

Belinda glanced up. "Good morning, Gemma. You are later than usual."

Gemma offered a strained smile and approached her seat. "I did not sleep well."

Belinda did not answer at once. She poured tea into a second cup, the movement precise, without spill or hesitation, then slid it across to Gemma. "Neither did I."

Gemma accepted the cup, murmuring her thanks. The silence that followed was not companionable. It was coiled, pregnant with something unspoken.

Belinda set her spoon down with an almost imperceptible clink, then folded her hands atop the table. “Last night’s ball was… eventful.”

Ah. There it is.

Gemma took a sip of her tea, though it did little to soothe the knot in her stomach. She inclined her head slightly. “Indeed, a rather considerable assembly.”

“Indeed,” Belinda agreed, her tone bland. “And your brother seemed to have gathered their attention.”

Gemma lowered her cup slowly, her fingers tightening around the handle. “He did not intend to, I assure you.”

“Intend to?” A single brow arched with the elegance of practiced disbelief. “I counted five conversations that discussed your family with unrepeatable words.”

“He meant no harm,” Gemma said, too quickly.

Belinda’s gaze sharpened. “That is precisely the trouble. Lord Sinclair does not intend harm, and yet it seems to follow him regardless.”

Gemma looked down at her plate, the untouched toast a convenient place to rest her eyes. Her throat tightened. “He has been under strain.”

“As have we all,” Belinda said crisply. “But the distinction lies in how one manages it.”

There it was, the steel, subtle but unmistakable. Cloaked in civility, wrapped in satin, yet sharp enough to cut bone.

“I do not mean to censure him in your presence,” Belinda continued, adjusting her napkin with the care of one handling glass, “but you must understand, Gemma, that the family’s reputation is not a trifle.

Our name must carry weight in London’s drawing rooms. Any whiff of impropriety or recklessness becomes gossip by morning and scandal by noon. ”

Gemma could not meet her gaze. A quiet voice within her rebelled, William was not a reckless boy, merely a young man trying to find his footing. But another voice, colder and more honest, whispered. And yet... he had been too free and crass last night. Too familiar. Too visible.

Every revelation he had made to her, and consequently all that Jameson had become acquainted with, caused him considerable mortification.

“I will speak with him,” she said, her voice low. Though she did not know what difference that would make.

Belinda did not smile, but something in her posture softened. That seemed to placate her. “Thank you.”

Before Gemma could find breath enough to say more, the door creaked open once again.

Jameson entered, his movements sluggish, his cravat slightly askew and his coat hanging a shade too loose on his frame. Gemma’s heart gave a small jolt, he looked exhausted. Truly exhausted. Not merely the fatigue of a late night, but something deeper, carved into the lines beneath his eyes.

“Good morning,” he said, his voice roughened by sleep or something darker.

“Jameson,” Belinda greeted him with a measured nod. “You look unwell.”

He dropped into his chair with little ceremony. “Do I?”

“You do,” Gemma said, her concern slipping past her guard.

He looked at her then, just briefly, his eyes glistening with something unreadable—gratitude, perhaps, or regret. He looked away almost immediately.

“I scarcely slept,” he admitted, rubbing his temples.

“Too many tasks?” Belinda asked, a slight edge of humor in her tone.

“Too many worries,” he returned, lifting his cup and drinking without cream or sugar.

A silence settled over the table once more, though this one felt different, shared, perhaps. Heavy in a new way.

“We must begin preparations for Lady Maybourne’s ball tomorrow,” Belinda said briskly, as if shaking off the weight of what lingered. “Our carriage is expected at eight. I trust you have something suitable, Gemma?”

“Yes,” Gemma replied, though her voice lacked energy.

“I would suggest the blue satin. The neckline is modest and it flatters your figure.”

Gemma blinked at her, unsure whether to feel complimented or managed.

Belinda continued. “Jameson, I expect you to escort your wife with due attentiveness. You were rather scarce last night.”

He certainly was not, Gemma could attest.

Jameson’s expression did not change. “I will do as is expected.”

“Good.” Belinda’s voice held the air of finality. “And tonight, we must be seen at the opera. The Marchioness of Langley has extended her invitation.”

Jameson stiffened.

It was subtle. Anyone else might have missed it—but Gemma did not. She saw the way his shoulders jerked, just barely, how his fingers curled tighter around his cup. She saw the flicker of something like fear or resentment pass across his face before he caught himself and forced a smile.

“The opera?” he repeated.

“Yes,” Belinda said, unbothered. “You remember how fond the Langley’s are of appearances. To miss their evening would be noticed.”

Jameson nodded, his smile still in place but frozen at the edges. “Of course.”

Gemma’s eyes did not leave his face. Something was wrong.

She felt it with the certainty of instinct, as clear as a dropped stitch in embroidery.

His unease had not begun with the opera, she had seen it yesterday, in the set of his jaw, the way he’d lingered on the terrace alone. But today it had a shape.

Why the opera?

She started to speak, but then thought better of it, deciding that this was neither the time nor the place.

Belinda pushed back her chair and stood. “I shall leave you both to your breakfast. Gemma, a word later about the guest list. There are names I must run by you.”

“Of course.”

With a nod, Belinda swept from the room, the rustle of her skirts vanishing down the hall.

For a moment, neither Gemma nor Jameson spoke.

She glanced at him again—at the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the twitch of tension along his temple. He was not merely tired.

“You do not want to go to the opera,” she said quietly.

He looked at her sharply, then softened. “Is it that obvious?”

“To me.”

Jameson leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing. Just... a tiresome evening.”

“Jameson,” she said, more firmly. “What troubles you?”

His gaze met hers, and for a moment, he looked as though he might answer honestly. But then something closed behind his eyes, and the mask returned.

“It’s nothing you need concern yourself with.”

That stung to hear.

“I am your wife.”

He nodded curtly. “I know.”

And yet he said nothing more.

Gemma looked down at her untouched plate. He had built a wall, yesterday’s familiarity was gone and she did not yet know how to breach it.

***

The candlelight flickered in the looking glass, casting a soft glow about the room as La Belle Assemblée lay forgotten on the dressing table.

Gemma sat motionless, save for the faint flutter of her fingers against her lap.

Betsy’s nimble hands worked at the row of tiny pearl buttons down the back of her gown, her expression one of habitual concentration.

“You are unusually quiet this evening, My Lady,” Betsy remarked, securing the final button and stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Not anxious about the performance, I hope? I hear the soprano is French. That alone ought to warrant a little excitement.”

Gemma’s lips curved faintly. “I fear the evening holds greater dramas than Signora Lefevre can offer.”

Betsy blinked, bemused, but said nothing as she smoothed a final errant curl into place.

Gemma rose slowly, her pale-blue silk gown whispering against the floor.

She moved toward the mirror, studying her reflection with an odd sense of detachment.

The pearls at her throat were the very ones her mother had given her on her wedding morning—a token of tradition, though tonight they felt more like a talisman.

She ought to feel… something. Excitement, perhaps. Or anticipation. And yet her mind remained uncomfortably full of Jameson—his strange absences, the peculiar look in his eyes when he thought she wasn't watching, the guarded tones of his conversations with Christopher.

But what unsettled her most was not suspicion. It was something dangerously akin to affection.

With a final glance in the mirror—one part armor, one part self-deception—Gemma turned and descended the stairs.

He was waiting at the bottom, Jameson stood tall and impeccably dressed in black evening attire, the crisp lines of his coat flattering his broad shoulders.

The snowy white of his cravat was in stark contrast to the somber green of his waistcoat.

And yet it was not his appearance that caused her breath to hitch.

It was the way he looked at her—as though he had quite forgotten his own name.