Page 31 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

Gemma kept her eyes on his cravat for a breath longer than necessary. Then she glanced up and met his gaze.

His expression held no hint of teasing, no practiced smile or concealing mask, only that familiar quiet intensity—a fleeting echo of something genuine that, for a precious few moments, allowed her to believe their interaction was more than a performance, his touch at her waist more than formality, and the warmth in his gaze more than transient.

She permitted herself to imagine—dangerously—that their connection was not forged out of duty and secrets, but out of trust, and perhaps even something tender. Something that might one day resemble love.

The music swelled around them, and their bodies moved as if made for this: practiced steps, unspoken understanding, a unity of motion. Gemma could feel her breath catching—not from exertion, but from the nearness of it all. Of him.

Her gaze swept the room and across the floor, she spotted Abigail and Christopher.

They danced closely, their movements less precise than hers and Jameson’s, but so full of ease and affection it almost ached to witness it.

Christopher whispered something near Abigail’s ear and she laughed, head tilted back, delight radiating from her like light from a hearth.

Gemma's gaze shifted back to Jameson, and she found his fixed intently on her, disregarding the surrounding crowd and even Thorne, creating a tender, uncalculated moment, a fleeting glimpse behind his usual facade.

“Are you cold?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“Troubled, then.”

Her mouth lifted faintly. “You say that as though they are mutually exclusive.”

His brows ticked, just slightly. “They often go hand in hand.”

The music curved into its final bars. Around them, the other dancers spun and dipped, but Gemma’s world had narrowed. Her thoughts tangled—between the warmth of Jameson’s hand, the chill of Thorne’s presence, and the quiet ache of wanting something she wasn’t sure she could have.

As the waltz concluded, Jameson guided her into a graceful stop, bowing slightly as he released her hand.

“Thank you,” he said, voice low.

She nodded, steadying herself. “For the dance?”

“For allowing me to pretend, for a moment, that this evening is only about music and civility.”

Gemma looked up at him sharply—but he had already turned his head, gaze moving once more through the crowd.

She stood there, her breath caught in the space between music and silence, wondering whether the pretense had been his alone… or hers as well.

As the final notes of the waltz faded and applause fluttered around the room like scattered rose petals, Gemma allowed herself a small breath. Not of ease, exactly—ease was a luxury she had not afforded herself in weeks—but something adjacent to it. Her pulse had slowed. Her mask held firm.

Jameson offered his arm once more. She took it.

They returned to the edge of the dance floor just as Christopher and Abigail approached—both flushed from their own turn around the ballroom, the sort of effortless joy lingering in their features that made them appear as though they’d stepped from the pages of a romantic novel.

“Splendidly done,” Christopher said with a grin, reaching to clasp Jameson’s shoulder. “You two looked positively regal. I say, if politics ever tire you, you might consider theatre.”

“I shall leave performance to the House of Lords,” Jameson said mildly, though his mouth twitched in what might have been amusement.

“Oh, but you did look so content,” Abigail chimed in, turning to Gemma. “Quite the image of domestic harmony. I daresay you’ll be the talk of every drawing room by morning.”

Gemma felt her smile slip for half a second—only half. “Let us hope they speak kindly. I’d hate to be mistaken for contentment if it damages my mystique.”

Christopher laughed. “Mystique aside, you’ve both done well. The ton is either charmed or confused, which in my experience means you've succeeded.”

But before Gemma could answer, a murmur rippled through the room.

It began like a drop in still water—small, insignificant. Then it spread. A pause in conversation. A turn of heads. A few stiffened shoulders.

Gemma followed the subtle shift in the room’s attention to the ballroom entrance.

Pale, breathless, and clearly not dressed for an evening among the elite. William’s cravat was undone, his coat unbuttoned, and his expression—

Terrified.

His eyes searched the room with a wild sort of desperation until they landed on their group. Gemma's stomach turned to lead.

Jameson, beside her, straightened—not visibly. Not in a way the average guest would notice. But she felt it. Like a violin string pulled too tight. Christopher’s hand, once easy on his hip, now curled slightly at his side.

William approached quickly, almost too quickly, bobbing apologies as he passed a cluster of dowagers who looked suitably scandalised. When he reached them, his voice was low and harried.

“Gemma, I—” His eyes flicked to Jameson, then Christopher. “I need a word. A private one.”

Gemma touched his arm gently. “William, this isn’t—”

“It’s important,” he hissed, voice shaking. “Please.”

Jameson stepped in, smooth as silk. “You are, of course, welcome to take refreshment. The library is just off the west corridor if you wish for quiet. Christopher and I will join you shortly.”

William hesitated. Then nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. Yes, all right.”

He turned and left, vanishing once more into the crowd.

Gemma could hardly breathe.

“I’ll go to him,” Jameson said quietly.

Christopher nodded. “I’ll follow in a few minutes. Let the room settle first.”

They exchanged a glance—quick, but weighted. Then Jameson was gone, following her brother into the shadows.

Gemma stood frozen for a moment longer, until Abigail gently slipped her hand around her arm.

“Come,” Abigail said softly. “Let’s walk.”

They made their way through the crush of guests, Gemma keeping her expression pleasant, her steps light—though her heart thundered with every beat.

Later that evening, long after the supper service had begun and the room was thick with perfume and politics, Gemma found herself in a quiet alcove near the ballroom’s edge.

A towering floral arrangement sat crookedly in its vase, and she busied her hands adjusting its shape—though she scarcely saw the roses.

She simply needed to breathe .

It was then, through the thick velvet curtain just behind her, that she heard voices that were low, masculine and sounded very urgent. She did not move, not yet. Not until the words became clearer.

“…Thorne's threatening to expose the partners. You know what that would do,” Christopher’s voice murmured harshly.

“He’s bluffing,” came Jameson’s reply—quieter, colder. “He knows exposure burns everyone, including himself.”

“But he’s desperate. If he drags the investors into scandal, the money vanishes. The trust collapses. You’ll be left holding the wreckage.”

A pause.

Then Jameson again. “Which is precisely why I’m doing what must be done. Even if it means involving the board. Even if it means shielding the family with lies.”

Gemma felt the chill settle in her bones as she heard the awful words.

She did not move, not even when their voices began to fade. She simply stood there, one hand still resting on a wilting hydrangea, as the fragments of truth slowly rearranged themselves into something far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.

The last strains of music had long since faded, leaving behind only the echo of laughter and footsteps, distant and fading like dreams at dawn. The ballroom, once a glittering theatre of social pageantry, now stood still—half-shadowed, with only the low flicker of candelabras burning down to stubs.

Gemma stood near the centre of the room, her hands clasped before her, though she felt neither composed nor still. The scent of wax and crushed flowers lingered in the air, cloying.

Jameson entered quietly from the adjoining corridor, his coat unbuttoned, his cravat loosened just slightly in concession to the late hour. He paused when he saw her, as though surprised to find her waiting.

Or perhaps he had expected it.

Neither spoke at first. The silence between them was not new—it had always lain beneath their every word, their every movement. But now it pulsed with something sharp. Something breaking.

Gemma lifted her gaze to meet his, and her voice, when it came, trembled despite her best efforts.

“I heard you.”

Jameson stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

“In the alcove. Near the floral arrangements.” She swallowed. “You and Christopher were not as discreet as you believed.”

He was silent for a moment, then stepped further into the room. “That was not a conversation intended for you.”

“I gathered,” she said, with a soft, bitter edge. “Most things in this house are not, it seems.”

He exhaled slowly, though his posture remained composed. “Gemma, tonight was not the time.”

“No,” she snapped, her voice rising slightly. “But it has come anyway.”

She took a step forward. Her hands were shaking now, and she made no effort to hide it.

“Do not tell me I misunderstood. Do not tell me I imagined the tension every time Thorne entered a room, or the way you and Lord Hartley fall silent when I draw near. Do not insult me with polite evasions. I know something is amiss.”

Jameson did not reply immediately. He looked tired, and more than tired—worn. Not physically, but inwardly. As if a weight long carried had begun to buckle under its own secrecy.

“You spoke of protecting investors,” Gemma continued, her voice lower now, steadier. “Of shielding the family. You spoke of lies. And I have had enough of being the last to understand what game we are playing.”

His gaze met hers—steady, unreadable. “It is not a game.”

“No,” she whispered. “It is not. It is my brother’s ruin. My family’s name. My matrimony.”

Something altered in his expression, a crack in the porcelain smoothness of his facade.

“You are angry,” he said quietly.