Page 23 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 6
It was well past dusk when Gemma found herself alone with Jameson in the drawing room of his townhouse. The room was as elegantly decorated as she had expected it to be— a room of impeccable formal elegance. The glow from the sconces cast warm light across the richly paneled walls, glinting off gilt-framed landscapes and polished surfaces. Deep red and cream tones in the upholstery attempted to suggest comfort, but Gemma could not shake the feeling that the space was meant to impress, not to welcome.
Everything was meticulously in its place, yet utterly devoid of personal history or heartfelt warmth. She stood stiffly by the hearth, her gloved hands clasped tightly in front of her like a governess summoned to explain a child’s broken vase. Her spine ached from standing straight all afternoon. Her cheeks still burned from the embarrassment of the day—the rushed ceremony, the falsely cheery congratulations, the way she’d signed her name on the matrimonial register as if sealing a transaction.
Somewhere further in the townhouse, a clock struck the hour—subdued, measured, as though careful not to disrupt the household’s exquisite composure. Her husband had scarcely spoken since they’d left the Sinclair home. Not cruelly—just... cordially. As if she were a guest rather than his wife. He had escorted her into the townhouse with all the ceremony and emotional investment of a well-trained footman delivering a parcel. No more. No less.
The sound of the door opening behind her made her shoulders tense. A servant entered, carrying a silver tray upon which sat a decanter and two delicate cut-glass tumblers.
"A cordial, My Lady?" the footman asked smoothly. "Perhaps a bit of plum brandy to ease the burden of the day?”
Gemma blinked at the brandy because good heavens she needed it. As if brandy would smooth over the disorienting strangeness of being wedded to a man who had not looked her in the eye all evening. As if it could dull the sting of knowing one’s entire life had been upended, repackaged, and traded like a contract to salvage reputations. A wife by convenience, an alliance brokered behind drawing room doors and sealed with legal ink. She hadn’t even had time to mourn the life she’d expected to have.
Still, she offered a brittle smile and accepted the glass. "Yes, thank you. That would be lovely."
She turned back toward the fire, grateful for the excuse to study it. The flames licked quietly at the logs, casting amber light over the marble hearth. She raised the brandy to her lips, more for something to do than any real desire to drink it. Her hands felt cold around the warmth of the glass.
"Are you settling in well?"
The voice—low, familiar, and entirely too close—made her flinch. Her breath caught; the brandy sloshed and tipped. She gasped as a rich arc of plum-colored liquid splattered across Jameson’s immaculate waistcoat.
She froze and her stomach sank, simultaneously her limbs turned to stone.
He was staring down at the blotch spreading across the fine burgundy wool, so tailored, so clearly expensive. The stain bled across it like bruised velvet.
Gemma set the glass down with trembling precision. “Oh no,” she breathed. “I am terribly sorry.”
The inadequacy of her words amplified her fear, her mind a whirlwind of servants' whispered tales of volatile husbands and punished wives, but instead of the anticipated sharpreprimand, contemptuous glare, or angry outburst, Jameson simply regarded the damage with a vaguely wry expression, reaching for a handkerchief in his pocket.
“It’s only brandy,” he said mildly, dabbing at the fabric. “I’ve weathered worse.”
Gemma stared, unsure whether to feel relieved or further unsettled. “You’re not... upset?”
He glanced up at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “It would take far more than plum brandy to rouse my temper.”
She didn’t quite believe him, but she didn’t challenge it either. Instead, she watched as he unfastened the top button of his coat and shrugged it off with a graceful sort of ease, draping it over the back of a nearby chair. His movements were unhurried, deliberate.
“Though I must admit,” he added, brushing a damp spot from the fabric, “thiswasone of my better waistcoats. You’ve an impeccable aim.”
Her lips twitched before she could help herself. “Had I known you prized it so highly, I might have ruined it on purpose.”
He laughed, an actual laugh—and it startled them both. Not just the sound of it, but the way it felt in the room: unexpected and unguarded.
The servant returned, cleared away the glass and the decanter without comment, and withdrew with the kind of tact only long-service staff seemed to master.
Jameson remained standing by the sideboard, his now-sleeveless figure less formal but no less imposing. He poured himself a fresh glass and swirled the amber liquid absently.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he said, referring to their earlier conversation in the carriage, “about making this arrangement bearable.”
She recalled the conversation, how he detailed what he expected of their matrimonial life. Of wanting to be a satisfactory husband. Gemma turned to face him fully, arms crossed over her bodice. “Did you?”
He nodded once. “We both know this union was not forged of affection. It was necessary. For the estate. For our reputations.” He hesitated, gaze fixed on the brandy. “And to avoid any further... complications.”
Gemma narrowed her eyes. “Further what, exactly?”
He was too quick with his reply. “Complications.”
She let the silence stretch, deliberately. It took a certain nerve to play at his own game, but she was discovering—bit by bit—that she possessed more of it than she’d ever given herself credit for. When he shifted his weight slightly under her gaze, she almost smiled.
