Page 14 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Gemma felt blood rush to her face. "Lord Brokeshire! I—I didn't realize anyone was out here."
"Evidently," he replied, his lips quirking upward. "Are you unwell, Miss Sinclair? You seem distressed."
"I'm quite well, thank you," Gemma managed, trying to compose herself. "I merely needed a moment of fresh air. The salon was rather warm."
Jameson stepped closer, his brow furrowed with what appeared to be genuine concern. "Are you certain? You're rather pale."
"Perfectly certain," Gemma insisted, unsettled by his proximity and her own conflicting emotions. She needed time to process what she'd overheard, to determine what threat Thorne posed to both her family and, apparently, to Lord Brokeshire.
Before she could formulate an excuse to return inside, the sound of approaching voices startled them both. Like cold water, the impropriety of their situation dawned on them simultaneously. To be discovered alone together would be scandalous, potentially ruinous for Gemma's reputation.
Jameson looked around for an escape route, but it was too late. The terrace doors swung open, spilling light and laughter and a group of guests into the night. The chatter died immediately as they took in the scene before them—Gemma andJameson, alone in the moonlight, standing far closer than more than was deemed proper.
Leading the group was none other than Lady Viola Montford, her eyes widening with scandalized delight as she assessed the situation. Behind her stood Christopher and Abigail, the latter's expression shifting from surprise to dismay as she realized the precarious position in which her friend now found herself.
"Well, well," Lady Montford drawled, her voice carrying clearly in the sudden silence. "What a charming tableau. Lord Brokeshire and Miss Sinclair enjoying a private moment under the stars. How... romantic."
Gemma felt the blood drain from her face as she realized the implications of their discovery. Years of careful propriety, of maintaining her reputation despite her family's declining fortune, threatened to crumble in an instant.
She could not believe this was happening. Of all the wretched, horrible situations to find herself in! Her heart hammered so violently against her ribs she feared it might burst through her bodice. She continued mentally spiraling as the women in front of her took in the view with delight. Heavens above, what catastrophe was this? She was undone, most thoroughly undone! Nothing remained but to accept his hand or retire to some distant relation in the country as a cautionary tale for young ladies of good breeding. Mama would never recover from the shock; her nerves were already so delicate.
Jameson stepped forward, his expression a careful mask of nonchalance, but Gemma could see the seriousness in his eyes.
"Lady Montford, you misinterpret the situation entirely," he said smoothly. "Miss Sinclair was feeling overcome by the heat inside and stepped out for air. I happened upon her quite by chance and was just inquiring after her welfare."
"Indeed?" Lady Montford replied, skepticism dripping from every syllable. "How gallant of you, My Lord. Though I must say, your concern for young ladies' welfare is becoming rather... notorious."
A titter ran through the assembled group, and Gemma felt herself shrinking under their collective gaze. This was disaster. Not merely for her, but for her entire family. The mortification was beyond endurance. Beyond all rational comprehension! She daresay no young lady had ever found herself in such a predicament since the very founding of polite society.
"If you will excuse me," she managed, moving toward the doors with as much dignity as she could muster. "I should return to my mother."
But she knew, as she slipped past the watching crowd, that it was already too late. Lady Montford's tongue was the fastest in London, and by morning, the story would have spread throughout the ton, growing more scandalous with each retelling.
As she hurried through the salon in search of her mother and brother, Gemma caught a final glimpse of the terrace. Jameson stood surrounded by the curious crowd, his posture relaxed but his jaw tight with suppressed emotion. For a brief moment, their eyes met across the distance, and she thought she glimpsed genuine regret in his gaze.
But she knew she had imagined him. Because a cad like him could never empathize with women, only ruin them. How foolish she had been to consider him for even a moment to be something other than what everyone said. Surely, there was good reason behind why people warned young girls of his presence.
Then her mother was at her side, alerted by Abigail to the unfolding disaster, and the moment was lost in a flurry of hasty goodbyes and an ignominious retreat from Lady Winfield'smusicale. Around them, conversation had not ceased, but it had certainly shifted. Heads turned. Eyes followed. A ripple of delighted confusion passed through the crowd as the Sinclair party made their way toward the vestibule with the precise grace of a family not beingthrown out, but ratherregally decidingto withdraw for reasons that wereentirely their own.
Behind them, whispers bloomed like garden weeds.
“Did you see—?”
“Quite the scene—”
Outside the carriage, the glow of the streetlamps danced across the damp cobbles, flickering like watchful gossips—keen-eyed and tireless, ever ready to report on those who came and went under cover of night.
Within, the Sinclair carriage rolled onward in silence, broken only by the soft creak of leather and the rhythmic clatter of hooves against stone. No one spoke. Shoulders were held just a touch too stiffly; breaths were measured with the care of those who feared what might tumble out if given voice.
It had been a withdrawal, no, astrategic departure, executed with all the poise one could muster when fleeing a drawing room thick with whispers.
Yet all her grace could not disguise the true state of affairs. Unfortunately elegant, unkind London always remembered which families had taken their leave early. More pointedly, it remembered why.
