Page 10 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 3
Three days after the Ashbury ball—an event still being dissected over teacups and sherry decanters—the very tip of the Ton, of London society reconvened at Lady Winfield’s much-anticipated musicale. The lady herself was renowned not so much for her ear for music (which was, by most accounts, rather unfortunate), but for the excellence of her ices and the absurd number of chandeliers in her drawing room. It was said one could catch frostbite near the lemon sorbetandbe blinded by crystal reflections before reaching the harpsichord.
The Sinclair family arrived fashionably late, or rather, fashionably in theory, for the reality of it was rather less elegant. William, as a younger brother might very well do, had misplaced a cravat, then reappeared with it tied in a knot so offensive that even their mother had blinked twice. Gemma, with the weary patience of one well-acquainted with male incompetence, had re-tied it herself with such force that William yelped and claimed she was throttling him.
“Pray cease your fidgeting,” she murmured, her fingers deftly manipulating the folds of the neck cloth. “I am rescuing you from looking like a footman in mourning.”
Lady Sinclair, ever serene, trailed behind them with the tranquil air of a woman who had long since relinquished control over her offspring’s punctuality.
By the time the trio swept into the already bustling drawing room, the performance had not yet begun, but the performance of Society was well underway. Fans fluttered. Brows arched. And whispers passed like breezes over a calm pond, rippling wherever the Sinclairs walked.
Gemma felt it at once, the weight of a hundred barely-suppressed smirks, the lift of lorgnettes, the precise dip of conversation that signaled one had just been caught discussingyou. It was a fine skill, honed by years of London living, to know precisely when one’s name had been uttered without it being spoken aloud.
She straightened her spine, lifting her chin just so.Let them whisper.It wasn’t as if she were the one frequenting gaming hells and avoiding morning calls like a fox evading the hounds.
Unfortunately, William chose that precise moment to trip over the train of her gown.
“Oh, do forgive me,” he muttered, catching his balance with a graceless hop. ““Pray forgive me. I failed to notice it dragging behind like a bridal veil on parade.”
Gemma smiled, but it was the tight kind of smile that said,I am restraining the urge to murder you in public, and only just.
“Perhaps if you looked where you were going, rather than trying to make eyes at Lady Arabella, you wouldn’t be performing interpretive dance with my hem.”
“I wasn’t making eyes,” he grumbled, clearly lying. “I was merely observing.”
“You were ogling with poor finesse.”
Their mother, drifting ahead like a duchess on a cloud of rosewater perfume, turned with mild amusement. “Children, do stop bickering. People are beginning to stare.”
“They’vebeenstaring,” Gemma said under her breath, glancing around.
Indeed, the whispers had grown more pointed. No doubt the ton had noticed William’s increasingly erratic attendance at social functions. Pair that with a few late payments, some faint talk of debts, and the Sinclair name was just barely keeping its place on the gilt-edged guest lists of Mayfair.
Gemma sighed inwardly.Of course they’re gossiping. This crowd would speculate if the Dowager Countess of Densbury changed the cut of her bonnet.
Still, she pasted on the smile she had perfected over three seasons and walked forward with the confidence of a duchess, despite not even having a title to her name. If the walls were closing in, she would meet them with grace, wit, and if necessary, a swift elbow to William’s ribs to keep him upright and socially acceptable.
As the family found their seats, far enough forward to be seen, yet not so forward as to appear eager, Gemma allowed her gaze to drift over the room. She could spot all the usual suspects. Lady Templeton wore a peacock-feather turban, an accessory far too ostentatious for public observation, the smirking Lord Montague whose neck cloth stood out with an almost alarming stiffness…and….
Seated three rows ahead with perfect composure, a perfectly tailored suit, and a perfectly annoying presence was Lord Brokeshire.
He turned his head at that very moment, as if her thoughts had summoned him, and offered a slight bow of his head. Just enough to be polite, not enough to be warm.
Of course he’s here,she thought.Where else would a man go to listen to twenty-seven variations of the same Italian aria performed by a girl who thinks breath control is optional?
She returned the nod, with exactly the same amount of restrained civility. Let the musicale begin. Should the music not be the cause of her untimely demise, then surely, the company might just procure her departure to the after world.
"Do hold your head high, William," Gemma murmured, adjusting her brother's slightly askew cravat as they paused in the entryway. "Half the battle of maintaining one's position in society is simply appearing as though one belongs."
William batted her hand away with a scowl. "I am not a child in need of grooming, Gemma. And I daresay I know more about maintaining our position than you do."
Gemma bit back a retort, because now was not the time for fraternal squabbles, not when so many curious eyes were upon them. Instead, she arranged her features into a serene smile and guided her family further into the room.
Lady Helena clutched her daughter's arm, her fingers betraying a slight tremor. "I do wish your father were here," she whispered. "He always knew precisely how to navigate these waters."
"We shall manage admirably without him, Mama," Gemma assured her, though the knot of anxiety in her stomach tightened. The weight of their precarious social standing had started pressing upon her shoulders, and she was, in all honesty, struggling to appear dignified.
As they made their way through the crowd, Gemma caught snippets of wretched hushed conversations.
