Page 25 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
But now, that same conviction was tempered by something else. Something new. And Edward, ever the strategist, noticed.
“You must exercise caution,” he said finally. “You’re not as detached as you think.”
Jameson’s jaw twitched. “It is being managed.”
“Is it?” Edward asked mildly, sipping his brandy. “Or is the lady already beginning to unravel you?”
Jameson’s spine straightened. His expression shuttered.
“She is not Caroline.”
“No,” Edward agreed. “She isn’t. And that, I believe, is the problem.”
Jameson said nothing for a long moment. The fire cracked. A log shifted in the grate, sending a spray of sparks upward.
“She surprised me tonight,” he said eventually, quieter. “I spilled brandy on myself and she looked ready to be struck. As if she expected me to lose control.” He glanced up at Edward, the memory still playing behind his eyes. “When I didn’t, she seemed almost... bewildered.”
Edward’s brow furrowed faintly. “She’s grown up in a different world. One where control isn’t always a virtue.”
“She’s not weak.”
“I never said she was.” Edward set his glass down with a soft thud. “But you’re beginning to see her, Jameson. “ And that presents considerable risk.”
Jameson’s voice was low. “I cannot afford sentiment.”
“Of course not,” Edward said. “But sentiment rarely asks permission.”
They sat in silence after that, each man staring into the fire, the weight of unspoken truths thick between them. Outside, the wind howled along the eaves, sharp and cold. Inside, Jameson felt the flicker of something far more perilous stirring beneathhis skin—not love, not as yet—but the first uncomfortable signs of interest. Of regard.
And Edward, who had watched empires rise and fall on lesser miscalculations, observed it too.
***
The next morning, Gemma entered the morning room to find it already bathed in pale sunlight. The golden light filtered through the lace curtains in delicate patterns, softening the elegant lines of the furniture and the faint chill in the air. The air smelled of toast and rosewater—refined, well-managed, and entirely foreign.
She had slept, to her own astonishment, rather well. The bed had been plush and quiet. The linens smooth as cream. Still, it had taken her far too long to fall asleep, lying rigid atop the covers like a sacrificial lamb awaiting fate. The mere idea of sharing a room—never mind a bed—with Jameson Brookfield had been enough to make her heart beat in her ears. Mercifully, they were not yet expected to live as…man and wife, which was precisely what they were.
The mere realisation sent shivers down her spine.
She was by no means naïve as she was well acquainted with the rituals carried out in the marital bed. She knew what went on in the marital bed, in the vague, prudently veiled manner that young ladies were allowed to “know.” But understanding something in theory did little to quiet the panic at the thought of actually carrying out the act with a man likehim, no less—who had likely seen more bedchambers than the local upholsterer.
She flushed, appalled by the direction of her own thoughts. Before dressing, she had taken a swift detour to the study. It was empty. He was gone. Good. Or not good. She didn’t quite know which.
Lady Belinda looked up from her embroidery as Gemma entered and greeted her with a smile far warmer than form required.
“Good morning, my dear. Come, take some breakfast. You must be famished.”
Gemma sat at the breakfast table, where toast had been arranged in an orderly stack, marmalade sat glowing in its little crystal pot, and the teapot steamed gently as if it had been waiting for her all morning. It was all so composed and calm and… terribly strange. She felt like an imposter playing at domesticity.
“Did you sleep well?” Belinda asked, lifting the teapot with her usual elegant efficiency.
Gemma folded her hands in her lap. “Yes, thank you. Quite well.” She hesitated, then added, more stiffly than she intended, “I didn’t see Jameson this morning.”
Belinda’s expression didn’t flicker with disapproval—thank heaven—but softened with something more thoughtful.
“He had an early start. He’s always been rather exacting with his mornings. As a boy, he used to rise before the staff. He believed breakfast was a waste of daylight.”
Gemma reached for a piece of toast, feeling a prickle of curiosity. “He must have been very diligent.”
