Page 30 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

The chandeliers sparkled like a thousand tiny suns above the polished ballroom, their golden light casting a flattering glow upon everything—particularly the expectations of the evening. The Brokeshire Ball had officially begun.

Gemma stood beside Jameson in the receiving line, the embroidered silk of her gown crisp beneath her gloved hands, her expression the picture of practiced serenity.

Beneath the surface, however, her heart fluttered like a nervous debutante’s because it was their first ball as husband and wife hosting.

It was one thing to attend such events together, but certainly another entirely to host. Every guest, every glance, every whispered remark might be a measure of their success or failure—not merely as hosts, but as a couple.

Jameson, as always, looked maddeningly unruffled.

Impeccably dressed in a black coat and dark green waistcoat, he wore the evening like another finely tailored garment—measured, composed, and just out of reach.

His expression betrayed none of the pressure Gemma felt.

She wondered—not for the first time—whether anything ever did.

“The chandeliers are holding,” he murmured without looking at her.

She blinked. “Were we expecting them to fall?”

“I always assume the worst. It keeps me pleasantly surprised.”

Gemma glanced up. “Then you’ll be delighted to know the flower arrangements also remain upright.”

A moment of stillness hung in the air before a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth offered a fleeting, indecipherable hint of either amusement or approval and then their first guests were announced.

“Lord and Lady Willoughby.”

Gemma offered a gentle smile as Lady Willoughby swept forward in a sea foam satin gown, accompanied by her husband, who bore the look of a man both deaf and contented by it.

“Lady Willoughby,” Gemma greeted, inclining her head. “How lovely to see you again. Your gown is most becoming.”

“You are too kind, Lady Brokeshire. And what a splendid evening—so elegant. Quite like something from Bath.”

Jameson gave the requisite bow. “Let us hope without the gout.”

There was a pause.

“Indeed,” Lady Willoughby said faintly, before allowing herself to be ushered onward.

“Promising start,” Gemma murmured once they were out of earshot.

“Did I not say I expected disaster?” Jameson replied mildly.

Before she could reply, Helena appeared in the archway, announced with as much pomp as a dowager might reasonably expect. Her gown—lavender silk with a lace fichu—shimmered under the lights. But it was her expression, half-pride and half-sentiment that struck Gemma most.

“My darling,” Helena said softly, embracing her daughter with gloved hands that trembled only slightly. “You look every inch a viscount’s daughter—and every inch a baron’s wife.”

Gemma smiled, though it felt fragile. “Thank you, Mama.”

Jameson bowed. “Lady Sinclair.”

Helena’s eyes narrowed—just slightly—but she nodded. “Lord Brokeshire. I shall assume your part in all this was… minimal?”

“I have been known to approve floral budgets.”

“Remarkable,” Helena replied. “A skill my late husband never mastered.”

“Mama, I believe the musicians are beginning to tune. You ought to look at the quartet Jameson hired from Paris.”

Helena smiled and made her way towards the musicians with a look that promised future interrogations were awaiting.

As the receiving line continued, guests began to pour in at a steady pace—names and titles were given and Gemma barely had time to register.

Her smile remained perfectly poised, but inwardly she was taking note of everything—who seemed impressed, who looked for flaws, who lingered at Jameson’s side with too much familiarity.

She was aware, always, of the eyes upon them and of how very husband and wife they must appear.

“I believe Lady Montford just took inventory of your jewellery,” Jameson murmured under his breath, his gaze fixed ahead.

Gemma didn’t look. “She’ll be disappointed. It’s mostly inherited.”

“Then perhaps she’ll take comfort in knowing I am not.”

It was a quiet remark. Almost offhand.

Yet it made her pause.

Abigail Winfield swept into the ballroom like a breath of spring—her gown a pale blush silk that shimmered with every step, and her eyes brighter than the chandeliers overhead.

On her arm, Christopher Hartley looked every inch the attentive gentleman, though Gemma couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze remained fixed on Abigail’s face as though the rest of the room were of no importance whatsoever.

“I believe I might envy them,” Gemma murmured.

Jameson, beside her, offered a soft sound that might have been agreement—or polite disinterest. It was hard to tell with him.

As the pair approached, Gemma allowed a genuine smile to soften her features. Abigail’s presence was a balm—a tether to familiarity in the sea of artifice swirling around them.

“Lady Brokeshire,” Abigail said, curtsying with just the right amount of flair. “You are radiant this evening. I dare say your chandeliers feel upstaged.”

“Then it’s a mercy they cannot speak,” Gemma replied with a light laugh. “Or the scandal sheets would have headlines by morning.”

Christopher bowed, his usual roguish grin in place. “My compliments to the hosts. It’s not every evening I’m invited to a ball where the chairs match and no one is crying into a syllabub by nine and a half past.”

“Give it time,” Jameson said dryly. “Lady Viola has not yet arrived.”

As if summoned by the very mention of her name, Lady Viola Montford materialised through the parting crowd—resplendent in lilac, with her coiffure elaborate enough to host a small orchestra. Her eyes scanned the room with the precision of a general and the hunger of a gossip starved for novelty.

Gemma’s smile remained in place, though it sharpened at the edges. She could feel Jameson’s posture shift beside her—not a flinch, but something close.

Viola advanced with deliberate grace, pausing just a moment too long before reaching them, ensuring her entrance was seen, felt, and quietly catalogued by those around her.

“My dear Lady Brokeshire,” she purred, her voice smooth as whipped cream laced with arsenic. “What an enchanting affair. I scarcely recognised the place. You’ve quite transformed Brookfield House.”

“Thank you,” Gemma replied evenly. “We did consider hiring a fireworks display, but felt the chandeliers deserved their moment.”

Viola’s lips curled. “Ah, restraint. Such an admirable quality—so rare these days, especially in young wives hosting their first ball.”

Jameson’s hand, resting lightly behind Gemma’s waist, stilled.

“My mother would be gratified to hear it,” Gemma said, tone polite but cool. “She feared I might lean too heavily on spectacle. I assured her that subtlety—like good breeding—cannot be bought.”

Viola’s gaze flicked, ever so slightly, toward Gemma’s pearls. “How wise. And what a lovely set. Are they new?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Gemma replied, her smile widening just a touch. “They were my mother’s. And her mother’s before that.”

“I do love an heirloom,” Viola said, almost wistfully. “So much history in such… small packages.”

Jameson stepped in then, his voice civil and smooth. “Lady Viola, it is a pleasure to welcome you this evening. We do hope you enjoy the entertainment.”

“Oh, I always enjoy observing ,” she said with a smile that could slice marble. “And tonight promises to be quite the performance.”

With a graceful nod and a faint rustle of skirts, she drifted off into the crowd, already scanning for her next target.

Gemma exhaled, careful not to allow it to show. “I believe she’s softened.”

Jameson arched a brow. “Like a dagger wrapped in muslin.”

Abigail, still nearby, gave a helpless laugh. “Remind me to avoid the tea table.”

Christopher murmured, “It may be safer behind the orchestra. Or in the wine cellar.”

Gemma glanced once more at the retreating figure of Lady Viola, then turned to her guests with a renewed smile.

The low hum of conversation dimmed as the orchestra began its next piece—notes lilting upward like the slow uncurling of a ribbon. The waltz. A bold choice so early in the evening, and one not without consequence. In a room such as this, it was less a dance than a declaration.

Gemma's smile, still in place from her recent exchange with Abigail, began to falter as she noticed the subtle shift in the air. The sort of change that could not be heard, only felt. Like a draught in a closed room.

And then she saw Thorne. His arrival was not announced as he did not require it.

He moved through the ballroom with the confidence of a man who knew precisely how to unsettle a space—one charm-laden smile, one lingering glance, and the atmosphere stiffened.

The faintest ripple passed through the guests as he passed, like birds sensing the shift of wind before a storm.

He offered nods, quiet greetings, and the occasional chuckle.

But beneath it all, his eyes gleamed—predatory, sharp, surveying the room not as a guest but as a collector taking inventory.

Gemma stiffened, her fingers curling ever so slightly against the folds of her gown.

She felt Jameson shift beside her, his expression unreadable, but his body suddenly still and then he turned to her.

“May I claim this dance, Lady Brokeshire?” he asked, his tone light—but deliberate.

Gemma looked up at him, surprised, though she quickly masked it. “Of course, My Lord.”

He offered his hand. She placed hers into it, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through her nerves—warm, steadying. They stepped onto the floor just as the orchestra swelled, drawing them into the current of bodies swirling beneath the glittering chandeliers.

The moment the music enveloped them, Jameson’s hand found the small of her back, his other enclosing her gloved fingers. The rhythm pulled them together with fluid grace—one, two, three; one, two, three. The ballroom receded.