Page 12 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"The lady could be draped in sackcloth and it would make no difference to me," Jameson lied smoothly. In truth, Gemma looked enchanting in her gown of deep emerald silk. Her slim silhouette was enticing, the color of her dress highlighting the golden undertones in her honey-blonde hair. But such observations were irrelevant to his purpose.
"As you say," Christopher replied, clearly unconvinced. "Ah, it appears the music is about to begin. Miss Winfield is to perform first, I believe."
The first notes of Mozart filled the air as Abigail took her place at the pianoforte, her fingers dancing across the keys with impressive dexterity. The room fell silent, the audience captivated by both her talent and her evident enjoyment of the piece.
Jameson watched with amusement as Christopher stood transfixed, his expression one of utter admiration. "And you accuse me of being distracted by a pretty face," he murmured.
"Miss Winfield's appeal extends far beyond her admittedly pleasing countenance," Christopher replied without taking his eyes from the performer. "She possesses both wit and genuine warmth—qualities in desperately short supply among the most desirable and sought-after potential brides of the ton."
"Good heavens," Jameson said with mock horror. "You sound positively besotted. Shall I begin composing a felicitous speech for your wedding breakfast?"
"Don't be absurd," Christopher muttered, though a telltale flush crept up his neck. "I merely appreciate quality when I encounter it, a trait you would do well to emulate."
Jameson fell silent, his gaze drifting once more to Gemma. He noted her eyes fixed upon him, as their eyes met across the crowded room. For a moment, neither looked away. Something intense passed between them, curiosity, perhaps, or recognition of a kindred spirit. Then Gemma abruptly averted her gaze, with a becoming blush staining her cheeks.
Jameson felt an unexpected flutter in his chest, one he hadn't experienced since—no. He would not think of Caroline now. He had learned his lesson about the dangers of allowing oneself to be captivated by a pretty face and intelligent eyes. Business was his mistress now, the only relationship that couldn't betray him.
Still, he couldn't deny that there was something about Miss Gemma Sinclair that called to him. A strength beneath her proper exterior, a sense that she, too, wore a mask for the benefit of society.
The music swelled, filling the room with its intricate melodies. From the corner of his eye, Jameson noticed Thorne's arrival. The merchant's calculating gaze lingered for a moment on William before turning elsewhere. Jameson tensed, recognizing the predatory look in Thorne's eyes.
After what Thorne had orchestrated to ruin the Pembroke Shipping Company last season, Jameson knew his interest in William spelled trouble for both the Sinclairs and Hawthorne Trading Company. The need to protect both was suddenly, inexplicably intertwined in his mind. Perhaps with more urgency than normal.
***
As the evening's performances concluded, Abigail approached Gemma, her eyes shining with excitement. She pulled her friend aside, eager to share the latest development in her burgeoning romance with Christopher Hartley.
“Pray tell! Can such a thing be true?” Abigail whispered, practically vibrating with joy. "Lord Hartley has invited me to perform at his sister's soirée next week. A private audience, Gemma! And he was so attentive during my piece tonight, did you notice?"
Gemma smiled, genuinely happy for her friend despite the worry gnawing at her own heart. "Indeed, he could scarcely tear his eyes from you. I believe half the room noticed his admiration."
"Do you truly think so?" Abigail asked, her usual confidence momentarily faltering. "Mama says I'm being fanciful, that a viscount's son would never seriously consider a merchant's daughter, regardless of our fortune."
"Your mother underestimates both your charms and Lord Hartley's good sense," Gemma assured her. "I've observed how he seeks your company at every gathering, how his eyes follow you. These are not the actions of a man merely being polite."
Abigail squeezed Gemma's hand gratefully. "You always know precisely what to say. Oh, how I wish you could find someone who appreciates your worth as well! You deserve happiness more than anyone I know."
As Abigail spoke, Gemma felt a pang of envy, quickly followed by guilt. With her family's precarious situation, she knew she couldn't afford the luxury of romantic entanglements. That was reality. She should rid herself of these hopeless longings and desires. Love was neither imperative nor mandatory. She knew it was a luxury beyond her means.
Since her father’s demise, it became increasingly evident that she had no option but to abandon all youthful fancies and sentimental inclinations. The pursuit of affection was neither prudent nor essential for a young lady of diminished prospects. Indeed, love was a commodity far beyond her means.
"My happiness lies in seeing my family secure," she said, more sharply than intended. Softening her tone, she added, "And in witnessing the joy of dear friends like yourself, of course."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Christopher himself. He greeted both ladies warmly, his gaze lingering on Abigail. Gemma noted the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled at her friend, the slight softening of his aristocratic features.
"Miss Winfield, Miss Sinclair," he said with a bow. "Your performance was exquisite, Miss Winfield. I confess I was transported entirely. Mozart himself would have been envious of your admirable performance.”
Abigail ducked her head modestly, though her pleased smile betrayed her delight at the compliment. "You are too kind, Lord Hartley."
"Not at all. I merely speak the truth," he replied. "I've come to extend an invitation. A small group of us are retreating to the terrace for some fresh air between performances. Would you ladies do us the honor of joining us?"
Abigail accepted eagerly, while Gemma politely declined, explaining that it was necessary for her to keep an eye on William. As Abigail and Christopher made their way to the terrace, Gemma noticed the tender way Christopher offered Abigail his arm and the warm soft, smiles they exchanged. She felt another pang of longing which she, quickly suppressed.
"They make a handsome couple, do they not?" a deep voice observed from beside her.
Gemma startled, turned to find Jameson Brookfield standing closer than propriety strictly allowed. His green eyes glinted with intelligence and something she couldn't quite name.
"Lord Hartley and Miss Winfield?" she replied, striving for a casual tone despite her sudden awareness of his proximity. "Yes, I believe they are well-suited."
