Page 20 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 5
Several days after the musicale debacle, the Sinclair household had transformed from genteel disorder into something bordering on bedlam. Footmen dashed up and down the corridors with bolts of lace and hastily borrowed silver. Cook had taken to swearing in three languages, and the drawing room had become a revolving door of neighbours with thinly veiled curiosity dressed as concern. Everyone seemed to have an opinion on how swiftly the matter had progressed and none, save the Sinclairs themselves, knew the whole truth.
It was not love that had brought Miss Gemma Sinclair to the altar. It was duty and reputation and a society that wielded scandal like a blade and demanded a spotless exterior at all costs.
In her bedchamber, Gemma stood motionless as Betsy, her faithful maid since childhood, fastened the final pearl buttons of her gown. The dress was of cream silk—modest, unembellished save for the faint lace that graced the sleeves and hem. Not the elaborate confection she might once have imagined as a girl, but graceful, dignified… appropriate.
“My lady,” Betsy said softly, her fingers stilling on the bodice. “You’re shivering.”
Gemma forced a smile, though her reflection in the looking-glass betrayed her—too pale, too composed, the tightness at the corners of her mouth a poor disguise. "It is but a mere draught, I assure you," she murmured, "unless, of course, it is a sudden bought of apprehension—quite a common complaint, I understand, for ladies upon the very threshold of matrimony."
Betsy did not laugh, only gave her a sad little look that Gemma had grown to dread over the past few days.
From the corridor came the sound of a muffled argument, her brother’s voice, sharp with frustration, and their mother’s in low, trembling tones of reproach. William had only just come around to the idea, though in truth, his approval had never been required. The matter had been settled over a series of clipped conversations between Lady Sinclair and Mr. Brookfield’s solicitor. No proposal had been made, no tender words exchanged. There had simply been the unfortunate terrace, the whirlwind of scandal, and the iron law of polite society descending like a guillotine.
“Does he even want to wed me?” Gemma had whispered to her mother the night the contract was drawn.
Lady Sinclair’s expression had been unreadable. “He has signed the papers, my dear. That is enough.”
And just like that it was now it was the morning of her wedding.
"You look beautiful, miss," Betsy said softly, securing a small cluster of fresh rosebuds in Gemma's upswept hair.
"Thank you, Betsy," Gemma replied, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. How strange to be preparing for the day of the ceremony with such heaviness in her heart. She had always imagined this moment differently—filled with joy and anticipation rather than uncertainty and resignation.
The door opened, and Helena entered, her eyes immediately filling with tears at the sight of her daughter. "Oh, Gemma," she whispered, pressing a handkerchief to her lips.
Gemma turned toward her mother, forcing brightness into her voice. "Do I look presentable enough to be a baroness, Mama?"
Helena crossed the room and took Gemma's hands in hers. "You look lovely, my dear." She hesitated, then reached into her reticule and withdrew a small velvet box. "I have something for you."
Opening the box, she revealed a delicate pearl necklace, the creamy orbs gleaming softly in the morning light. "These were your grandmother's," Helena explained, her voice thick with emotion. "I wore them on my wedding day."
Gemma's throat tightened as her mother fastened the pearls around her neck. The cool weight of them against her skin felt like both a blessing and a burden—a tangible reminder of all she was leaving behind and the uncertain future that awaited her.
"I wish..." Helena began, then paused, clearly struggling to find the right words. "I wish circumstances had been different. That you might have had a proper courtship, a love match like your father and I."
"I know, Mama," Gemma said softly, squeezing her mother's hands. She couldn't bring herself to offer false reassurances about her feelings for Jameson. Instead, she focused on practicalities. "Lord Brokeshire is well-respected and wealthy. I shall want for nothing."
Except perhaps love, she added silently.
Helena studied her daughter's face. "You have always been the strong one, Gemma. Even as a child, you faced difficulties with such composure." She cupped Gemma's cheek gently. "But you need not be strong alone anymore. If he mistreats you in any way—"
"He won't," Gemma interrupted, surprised by her own certainty. Whatever Jameson Brookfield's faults, cruelty did not seem to be among them. “Indeed Mama, I shall be quite well, I assure you.”
A knock at the door announced William's arrival. He entered hesitantly, his expression somber as he took in the sight of his sister in her wedding finery.
Meanwhile, Jameson and his mother sat in their carriage as it wound its way through the streets towards the Sinclair residence. Belinda regarded her son with a mixture of concernand disappointment, the silk of her dove-gray gown rustling softly as she shifted in her seat.
"Are you entirely certain about this hasty union, Jameson?" she asked, studying his profile. "It's not too late to reconsider."
Jameson gazed out the window at the passing London streets, his expression carefully neutral. "The plans are set, Mother. Miss Sinclair's reputation must be protected."
"Such chivalry," Belinda remarked, a note of skepticism in her voice. "Though I cannot help but wonder if there are other motives at play."
Jameson turned to face her, one eyebrow raised. "What other motives might those be?"
"Perhaps this scandalous reputation you've cultivated has finally grown tiresome," she suggested with the knowing gaze of a mother. "Or perhaps there is something about Miss Sinclair that has captured your interest beyond mere obligation."
