Page 22 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
The lukewarm blessing hung in the air for a moment before glasses were raised. Gemma noticed Jameson's knuckles whiten slightly around the stem of his wine glass, though his expression remained pleasantly neutral.
"And to new beginnings," Jameson added smoothly, raising his glass once more. His eyes met Gemma's over the rim. "And unexpected journeys."
The subtle emphasis on "unexpected" was not lost on Gemma. Indeed, nothing about this match had been expected or conventional. Their eyes held for a moment longer than strictly necessary, and Gemma found herself wondering what thoughts moved behind those inscrutable green depths.
After the breakfast, there was little time for prolonged farewells. Jameson's carriage waited to take them to his London townhouse, where Gemma would begin her new life as Lady Brokeshire. Her trunks had been sent ahead that morning, along with Betsy, who would continue carrying out her duties as her lady's maid.
As Gemma embraced her mother, Helena whispered tearfully, "Remember, my darling, you will always have a home here if you need it."
The implication behind her words was clear—if her matrimony proved unbearable, she could return. Gemma merely nodded, unable to voice the tumult of emotions constricting her throat.
William's farewell was stiffer, his manner suggesting there was much left unsaid between them. He clasped her hands briefly, murmuring, "I hope you will be happy, Gemma."
"Take care of Mother," she replied softly. "And yourself, William. Please, be careful."
He looked uncomfortable at her veiled reference to his dealings with gamblers and people such as the likes of Thorne. He nodded once, squeezing her hands before releasing them.
Abigail's embrace was fierce and tearful. "I shall call on you tomorrow," she promised. "And you must tell me everything."
Gemma forced a smile, grateful for her friend's steadfast support. "There will be precious little to tell after one day, I assure you."
Abigail's eyebrows rose meaningfully as she glanced toward Jameson, who stood conversing with Christopher near the door. "I believe there may be more to your Baron than meets the eye," she whispered. "Did you notice how he was looking at you during the ceremony?"
"With resignation, no doubt," Gemma replied dryly, though her friend's words stirred a curious flutter in her chest.
"If that was resignation, then I am Queen Charlotte," Abigail retorted with a small laugh. "No, there was something else there entirely."
Before Gemma could respond, Jameson approached, offering his arm. "Are you ready, Lady Brokeshire?"
That was who she was now. Lady Brokeshire. How could things change so much, so fast? It was maddening.
Gemma placed her hand lightly on his arm, the firmness of his muscle evident even through the layers of his coat. "Yes, Lord Brokeshire."
The journey to Jameson's townhouse passed in relative silence, both occupants lost in their own thoughts. Gemma gazed out the window at the familiar streets of Mayfair, each turn taking her further from the life she had known and closer to an uncertain future.
She cast a sidelong glance at her new husband, wondering if he, like so many gentlemen of breeding, harbored peculiar habits. Did he insist his bootlaces be tied with precisely seventeen loops? Did he require all the candlesticks to face north during dinner? Would he expect her to listen attentively as he read aloud from his doubtlessly tedious collection of hunting journals?
And what of her social duties? As Lady Brokeshire, she would be expected to entertain. Gemma suppressed a shudder at the thought of arranging dinner parties where the guests would undoubtedly subject her to careful scrutiny, searching for evidence of her unsuitability. She could picture Lady Harwick's lorgnette already, examining her every gesture for signs of improper breeding.
Her new bedchamber presented another realm of uncertainty. Would it be decorated in the hideous crimson damask so favored by gentlemen of a certain age? Would the bed curtains be embroidered with ancestral crests, allowing long-dead Jameson forebears to observe her nocturnal activities with disapproval? And speaking of nocturnal activities—Gemma felt her cheeks warm considerably and promptly directed her thoughts elsewhere.
Beside her, Jameson seemed equally contemplative, his usual mask of charming indifference temporarily set aside in the privacy of the carriage. Gemma stole occasional glances at his profile, still struggling to reconcile the notorious rake of London society with the man who had spoken his vows with such quiet intensity.
The carriage finally drew to a halt before an elegant townhouse on a fashionable street. Compared to the modest Sinclair residence, Jameson's home was decidedly grand—four stories of gleaming white stone with tall windows and an imposing black door flanked by potted topiaries.
Jameson alighted first, then turned to offer Gemma his hand. As she stepped down from the carriage. Unexpectedly noble of him, she thought.
