Page 46 of The Baron’s Reluctant Bride (Marriage Mart Scandals #4)

Two Years Later…

The late summer air at Brokeshire carried the scent of roses and honeysuckle, stirred gently by a breeze that rustled through the old oaks flanking the gravel path.

The golden light of evening bathed the grounds in soft warmth, the manor's grand facade glowing with candlelight as footmen in silver-trimmed livery opened the doors to a steady stream of well-dressed guests.

"Lady Cartwright has outdone herself this time," whispered one elegantly coiffed matron to another as they processed up the steps. "I vow I haven't seen such splendor since the Prince Regent's last ball at Carlton House."

"Indeed," her companion replied with a knowing smile. "Though I daresay the master of Brokeshire would have preferred a quieter affair. The Baron was never one for such spectacles before his matrimony."

"Ah, but that was before Lady Gemma worked her magic on him. They say she has him thoroughly besotted."

"As well she should! After that scandalous beginning—"

Their gossip faded as they passed into the grand entry hall, where crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across marble floors, and footmen bearing silver trays of champagne moved with practiced grace through the crowd.

Laughter echoed across the terrace. Strings of lanterns swung overhead, their soft light twinkling like stars, and the gentle strains of a string quartet drifted from the musicians positioned beneath the great arbor.

At the heart of it all stood Jameson and Gemma.

He, resplendent in a midnight blue tailcoat with silver buttons that caught the light when he moved, no longer the guarded rake of gossip columns, but a man unmistakably at ease in his own skin —smiling, gracious, his arm ever reaching for the woman beside him.

She, radiant in a gown of palest blue silk with delicate silver embroidery along the empire waistline, her eyes alight with happiness and a quiet secret.

Her free hand rested on the curve of his arm, the other upon the small, sturdy shoulders of the child toddling between them—golden-haired and determined to chase the guests' coattails.

"Darling, not the footman," Gemma murmured with a soft laugh, scooping up her son just as he made a delighted grab for a silver tray.

"Too late," Jameson said, the corner of his mouth quirking into that half-smile that still made her heart quicken after all this time. "He's already developing a taste for champagne flutes. Like father, like son, I fear."

"Heaven preserve us," Gemma replied, shifting their squirming son to her hip. "One rake in the family was quite enough, thank you very much."

"Reformed rake," Jameson corrected, leaning close enough that his lips brushed her ear. "Thoroughly reformed, as you well know, my lady."

Gemma felt a flush rise to her cheeks. "Behave yourself, my lord. There are at least three dowagers watching us with their lorgnettes raised."

"Let them watch," he murmured. "Perhaps they'll learn something about marital felicity."

"Jameson!" But she was laughing now, that full, unrestrained laugh that had first captured his heart.

Their eyes met—and that familiar, quiet joy passed between them. The kind born not from grand declarations, but from battles weathered and victories quietly earned.

"My lord Baron!" called a portly gentleman, approaching with a glass already half-empty. "Capital affair! Simply capital! Though I must say, your father would scarcely recognize the old place."

"Indeed, Lord Humphrey," Jameson replied smoothly. "Though I believe he would approve of the improvements to the east wing. The new conservatory has increased crop yields by nearly fifteen percent this season."

"Business, business, always business with you young men nowadays," tutted Lord Humphrey. "Even at your own birthday celebration!"

"Forgive my husband, Lord Humphrey," Gemma intervened with a smile. "The Baron cannot help himself. One might as well ask a fish not to swim as ask Lord Brokeshire not to think of productivity."

"Well put, my dear Lady Brokeshire!" The man chortled. "Well put indeed! Ah, I see Lady Pennyworth has arrived. Must pay my respects. Delightful evening!" And with that, he ambled back into the crowd.

“My greatest respects,” “What a positively delightful evening!" And with that, he ambled back into the crowd.

Jameson turned to his wife with a raised eyebrow. "A fish, am I?"

"A very handsome fish," she assured him, adjusting their son on her hip. "With excellent fins."

"Mama, down!" demanded young Thomas, wriggling with renewed vigor. "Want to play!"

"In a moment, my love," Gemma promised. "Look, there's Uncle Christopher with Aunt Abigail. Shall we go say hello?"

Nearby, Christopher and Abigail stood under a blossoming wisteria, hands entwined as they shared a jest with William, who had grown into a figure of quiet confidence.

William laughed easily now, his posture straighter, his eyes brighter.

Gone was the haunted boy of two summers ago.

In his place stood a man shaped by error and redemption.

"I maintain it was completely justified," Christopher was saying as they approached. "The man challenged me to a duel over a game of whist. A game of whist, William!"

"Which you were cheating at," Abigail reminded him, though her eyes sparkled with barely suppressed mirth.

"I was not cheating," Christopher protested. "I was merely... counting cards with exceptional accuracy."

"A distinction without a difference, I fear," William replied with a grin.

"There you are!" Abigail exclaimed, spotting Gemma and Jameson. "We were just discussing your husband's brother's latest escapade at White's."

"Oh dear," Gemma sighed. "Not another duel, Christopher."

"Not a proper duel," Christopher clarified. "More of a... gentlemanly disagreement that happened to involve pistols at dawn."

"Which were loaded with blanks," William added. "At my insistence."

"Always the voice of reason, William," Jameson said, clapping his former secretary on the shoulder. "How goes the new position? Is the Home Office treating you well?"

William's expression brightened. "Exceedingly well, my lord. Lord Liverpool himself commended my report on the corn tariffs last week."

"Unsurprising," Jameson replied. "Your analysis of the Baltic grain markets was more thorough than anything Parliament had seen in a decade."

Young Thomas, growing impatient with the adult conversation, began to squirm again. "Uncle Will! Uncle Will! Horsey ride!"

"Thomas," Gemma admonished gently, "Uncle William is in his best evening clothes. Perhaps later—"

But William was already reaching for the child. "Nonsense, I am never too fine for my favorite nephew."

"Your only nephew," Christopher corrected.

At the long table beneath the great tent, Helena Sinclair and Lady Belinda Brookfield sat side by side.

Helena in sage green silk, Belinda in deep plum velvet with an ostrich feather headdress that added a full foot to her already imposing height.

The pair were sharing stories, opinions, and the occasional sharp glance at anyone foolish enough to interrupt.

"I tell you, Belinda, the quality of muslin being imported this season is simply abysmal," Helena was saying, waving her fan for emphasis. "Not a single bolt worth purchasing in all of Oxford Street."

"You must try Madame Delacrois on Bond Street," Lady Belinda replied. "French, of course, but one mustn't be too patriotic when it comes to proper haberdashery."

"French!" Helena sniffed. "In these times?"

"The war is over, my dear," Lady Belinda reminded her. "And their silk is superior. Even your son would agree, practical as he is."

"Jameson has become positively parsimonious since becoming a father," Helena complained affectionately. "Would you believe he questioned the necessity of renovating the music room at his London house? As if one could entertain properly with outdated draperies!"

"Speaking of renovations," Lady Belinda leaned closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "I hear Lady Jersey has installed the most scandalous marble statuary in her garden. Completely unclothed, if you can imagine."

"No!" Helena gasped, delighted.

"Yes! And positioned most... provocatively."

"We must see them at once. Perhaps next week?"

"Tuesday would suit me admirably," Lady Belinda agreed. "We shall make a day of it."

What had begun as cautious diplomacy had grown, over countless shared teas and family crises, into a companionship neither of them would have dared predict.

As the sun dipped low, casting the sky in hues of rose and gold, a gong chimed for dinner.

Guests gathered beneath the canopy, taking their places with the rustle of silk and murmured conversation. Jameson remained standing at the head, his glass raised.

"Friends," he said, his voice steady and clear. "If I had the eloquence of poets or the wit of Parliament, I might properly express my gratitude this evening. But I shall content myself with truth."

The table quieted.

"These past years have been... more than I ever imagined. I began this journey with ambition, and perhaps a measure of arrogance. But what I have gained is far greater than profit or reputation."

"Hear, hear!" called Christopher, raising his glass.

Jameson smiled at his friend, then looked to Gemma, his expression softening.

"I have gained family. Loyalty. The quiet miracle of being known, and loved despite it."

"Or perhaps because of it," Gemma said softly, just loud enough for him to hear.

His eyes, warm with tenderness, held hers for a moment before he continued.

"I raise this glass to all of you," Jameson continued, "for your courage, your forgiveness, your humor, and your ferocity. To the friends who became kin. And to the peace we fought—together, to win."

The toast was met with warm applause and murmurs of assent.

"And now," Edward called from halfway down the table, "a toast to the birthday boy himself! To Lord Brokeshire! May you continue to prosper and multiply!"

"Lord Hawthorne!" Lady Belinda gasped, scandalized yet amused at Edward’s words.

"Well, he has made an excellent start of it," the portly gentleman defended himself, nodding toward young Thomas, who was occupying a high chair beside his mother, happily smashing peas with a silver spoon.

As laughter rippled around the table and guests raised their glasses once more, Gemma reached beneath the table, placing her hand gently over her belly.

A small, private smile curved her lips.

No one noticed, except Jameson, he glanced at her hand, then up at her face. She met his gaze and nodded just slightly.

For a moment, he looked stunned. Then he exhaled, wonder and joy chasing each other across his features. He reached for her hand under the table and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Another child meant another beginning.

The End

I hope you enjoyed reading "The Baron’s Reluctant Bride” .