Page 29 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

His eyes—those ever-perceptive green eyes—swept over her, lingering for a moment too long at her neckline before snapping upwards with such speed that she might have laughed, were her heart not pounding so madly.

“Lady Brokeshire,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “You look—” He paused. “Well, it would be trite to say ‘lovely,’ and dishonest to say anything less.”

Gemma, caught between amusement and something perilously warm, arched a brow. “You are uncharacteristically poetic this evening, My Lord.”

“I must blame the moonlight,” he said lightly. “Or the sheer terror of attending the opera in my mother’s company.”

At that, her smile did break through. “I am certain she will enjoy the performance. As long as there is scandal to dissect between acts, she shall be quite content.”

Jameson chuckled and extended his arm. “Then let us deliver her to her preferred battlefield.”

As she placed her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow, Gemma felt, absurdly, as though she had stepped into one of her childhood novels—those breathless moments before some grand declaration, though she knew no such thing was coming.

Still, the pressure of his arm beneath her hand, the warmth radiating through the layers of silk and linen—it was enough to render her thoughts most inconveniently romantic.

The ride to the Royal Opera House passed with little conversation.

Belinda’s presence across from them, imperious and unblinking, rendered small talk an act of acrobatic precision.

Jameson bore it with his usual finesse, deflecting her barbed remarks with effortless charm.

Gemma watched them in silence, only half-attending to the conversation, the other half wondering if she were the only one aware of the growing space between what Jameson said and what he meant.

The moment they stepped into the grand foyer, the world became a whirl of diamonds and duchesses, murmured greetings and the rustle of silk.

Chandeliers blazed overhead, reflecting in marble floors polished to a mirror’s gleam.

Gemma moved through the crowd with a grace honed by necessity, her expression composed though her stomach twisted unpleasantly.

When they reached their box, Jameson held back the heavy velvet curtain, allowing her to enter first. She nodded her thanks, slipping past him and settling into her seat. He followed, lowering himself beside her with the careless elegance that came so naturally to him.

The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd.

And yet, Gemma could not seem to attend the stage.

Her gaze, though she willed it otherwise, kept sliding sideways—to the rigid line of Jameson’s jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands—usually so still—rested uneasily on his lap.

The intermission brought with it a fresh wave of chatter and motion, the grand salon swiftly filling with the ton’s most finely adorned.

Footmen glided about with trays of champagne and lemon ices, while a quartet played unobtrusively in one corner.

Gemma stood with Jameson near a marble pillar, her gloved hands clasped tightly before her, doing her utmost not to betray the storm of unease churning within her.

Jameson, for his part, wore the mask of elegant detachment to perfection. One would hardly guess that not an hour prior, his gaze had narrowed at the sight of Thorne seated across the opera house like some dark magistrate presiding over court.

“Ah, at last—civilised company,” came Christopher’s genial voice as he approached, Abigail on his arm and glowing from the performance.

“Was that not a splendid second aria?” Abigail asked, her cheeks still flushed with delight. “She soared like a lark, I daresay.”

“Indeed,” Christopher added, raising his glass. “Even Jameson here might admit she held the room captive. And that’s saying something, given how little can hold his attention.”

Jameson offered a faint smile, but Gemma did not miss the way his posture altered—subtle, but present. Shoulders ever so slightly taut. Chin a degree higher. And the look he exchanged with Christopher—brief, deliberate—told her all she needed to know: something was being withheld. Again.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her thoughts shattered as her gaze swept the salon and landed on a figure near the entryway, it was William.

Her breath caught, heart lurching painfully in her chest. Her brother stood frozen just beyond the doorway, looking pale beneath the candlelight, his cravat askew and his brow damp with perspiration.

But it was not William’s dishevelment that turned her blood cold. It was the gentleman beside him.

Tall, sharp-eyed, with a predator’s composure poorly concealed beneath the sheen of polite society— Mr. Edwards .

Even before William stumbled toward them, Gemma felt Jameson shift beside her, the warmth of his arm brushing hers as he leaned forward, suddenly alert.

“Gemma,” William said, his voice pitched too low and trembling with forced cheer. “I had not anticipated that I would see you here—though I suppose I should have guessed. Lovely performance, isn’t it?”

Gemma frowned. “William, are you—?”

“Oh, forgive me,” William rushed on, interrupting. “Allow me to introduce my—ah—business acquaintance. Mr. Edwards.”

Mr. Edwards inclined his head, the barest parody of civility. His eyes, dark and watchful, slid over each of them as if cataloguing them for some future reckoning.

“A pleasure,” Gemma murmured automatically, though everything within her recoiled. The name Edwards sent alarm bells ringing in her mind. She had heard Jameson mention it once, in hushed tones. A name associated with ruin and whispered threats.

“My sister, Lady Brokeshire,” William said hastily. “And Lord Brokeshire, of course.” He cast a nervous glance at Jameson, whose expression had chilled to something like marble.

Gemma watched her brother closely. His words stumbled, his movements were jittery, and his eyes never settled in one place for more than a second. Whatever pretense he wore, it was thin and fraying fast.

“Well,” William cleared his throat, tugging on his gloves with unnecessary vigour, “we mustn't keep you from the champagne and cultured gossip. Come, Edwards.”

“Surely you’ll stay a moment longer—” Gemma began, reaching for him.

But William was already retreating, nearly dragging his companion behind him. “Another time, Gem,” he called over his shoulder with a strained smile. “Truly. Another time.”

They disappeared into the crowd like smoke dissipating in wind.

Gemma stood motionless for a heartbeat. Then she turned, seeking Jameson's face.

His jaw was set, his gaze fixed on the place where William had vanished.

“Mr. Edwards,” he said softly, with a venomous precision that made her shiver, “is not merely a business acquaintance. He is Thorne’s bloodhound.

And your brother,” he added, almost as an afterthought, “is in deeper than I feared.”

The room around them resumed its glittering murmur, as though nothing at all had shifted. But to Gemma, the very floor felt tilted as they returned to their box in silence.

As the curtains rose and the first notes of the next act drifted through the theatre, Gemma sat stiffly, her gaze trained upon the stage but absorbing none of it. Her thoughts refused to be calmed, tangling themselves into a thousand what-ifs and how-much-worse.

Beside her, Jameson remained unnaturally still, though she could feel the tension radiating from him. His hand gripped the armrest with quiet intensity, and though his eyes faced the stage, his thoughts were elsewhere—no doubt following William through every shadowy corridor of the opera house.

Gemma exhaled slowly, there was so much she did not know but one thing had become perfectly clear.

Whatever secrets her husband harboured, they were now tightly entwined with her family’s fate. That terrified her far more than any aria could soothe

The rhythmic clatter of the carriage wheels upon the cobblestones echoed like a slow, steady heartbeat through the enclosed space.

London passed by in a blur beyond the glass panes—gas lamps flickering, shadows dancing—but within the Brokeshire carriage, a silence far weightier than darkness reigned.

Gemma sat opposite Jameson, her hands resting primly in her lap, though her knuckles were white beneath her gloves. The opera programme lay forgotten beside her, its elegant script crumpled at the corners, the pages fluttering faintly with the motion of the ride.

She dared a glance upward.

Jameson sat in shadow, one leg crossed over the other, a gloved hand resting against his mouth in a posture of thought—or perhaps frustration.

His gaze was fixed out the window, but she could tell he was not seeing the streets.

His brow was faintly furrowed, the strong line of his jaw clenched in a way that suggested some inner battle he would not name.

They had not spoken since leaving the opera house. And yet a thousand things seemed to vibrate in the quiet between them.

Gemma inhaled, her lungs catching on the stale air of unvoiced truths.

Her brother's wan face swam before her mind’s eye, closely followed by the hawkish profile of Mr. Edwards.

She swallowed hard, resisting the urge to press Jameson— demand an explanation, a confession, something to justify the growing knot of dread tightening in her chest.

But then Jameson turned, perhaps he had felt her gaze—perhaps, like her, he could no longer bear the weight of silence. His eyes found hers in the dimness, and something unspoken leapt between them.

It was not the look of a rake, it was not the careless flirtation he wore in salons or the blandly charming mask he paraded for the benefit of the ton, rather this was different.

There was no performance in his expression now.

Only quiet weariness, and the unmistakable glint of something far rawer.

Guilt? Conflict? Or worse—regret? The hard lines of his face seemed softened in the lantern’s glow, as though he had been a boy once, and some trace of that lost self-lingered just beneath the surface.

Gemma's breath caught. There he was—the man beneath the title. The one no gossip column had ever truly described. She wondered fleetingly what he had been like before Caroline had taken his heart and carved her initials into it like a careless child marking a tree.

Before heartbreak had taught him to lock every door inside himself and throw away the key.

Their gazes held for a beat longer—two strangers briefly seeing one another as they truly were—and then it was gone.

Jameson blinked, and the warmth in his expression vanished, replaced by a guarded reserve as he subtly recoiled in his seat, as if regretting a momentary lapse in his carefully constructed facade.

Gemma looked away, her chest tight with something she could not yet name. Not affection, surely. Not admiration. Not yet. And yet... the image of him just now, so unguarded, so real , imprinted itself upon her with disconcerting clarity.

Outside, the horses snorted and clattered forward, unbothered by the revelations that stirred in the hearts of their passengers. Inside, Gemma sat straighter, smoothing her skirts with mechanical precision.

Whatever else he was—whatever secrets he kept clutched so tightly to his chest—Lord Brokeshire was no longer merely her husband by necessity. He was a puzzle wrapped in grief, pride, and shrewd calculation.