Page 3 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"Oh, immensely," she replied, her tone deliberately light. "There's nothing quite as stimulating as hearing the sameconversations at different locations while wearing increasingly uncomfortable gowns."
Lord Brokeshire's laugh was unexpected—a warm, genuine sound that startled both of them. Several nearby dancers glanced their way in surprise.
"My apologies," he said, though he didn't look particularly sorry. "I wasn't prepared for honesty. Most young ladies assure me they adore every moment of these affairs."
"Most young ladies haven't attended three Seasons with diminishing prospects and increasing desperation," Gemma mouthed the words before she could check herself.Good heavens, what is wrong with me? One does not discuss such matters, especially with notorious rakes.
Instead of being scandalized, Lord Brokeshire regarded her with new interest. "Three Seasons? How have London's gentlemen proven to possess so little foresight?"
"Perhaps they are too perceptive,” she countered. "A viscount's daughter gifted with plain features, and with her dowry having dwindled to almost nothing, will find herself sadly shunned in the eyes of many."
I must hold my tongue. Mother would faint dead away if she heard such candor.
The Baron's expression sobered. "Miss Sinclair, I find your company refreshingly direct. But I suspect your assessment of yourself is flawed in several important respects."
"You needn't offer pretty compliments, My Lord. I'm quite comfortable with reality."
"As am I." His gaze held hers steadily. "Which is why I can state with certainty that your looks are far from modest. As for your other concerns..." He paused, seeming to consider his next words carefully. "Value isn't always measured in pounds sterling."
The music began its final refrain. Gemma felt oddly bereft at the thought of their dance ending. Lord Brokeshire might be a scoundrel, but he was undeniably the most interesting conversation partner she'd encountered all Season.
As the last notes faded, he executed another perfect bow. "Thank you for the dance, Miss Sinclair."
"Thank you, Lord Brokeshire," she replied with a curtsy. "It was... unexpected."
A shadow of something, perhaps regret or resignation crossed his features. "I find the most meaningful encounters often are."
With that cryptic statement, he escorted her back to where Abigail waited, wide-eyed with curiosity. He bowed to both ladies before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Gemma with the strange sensation that something significant had just occurred—though she couldn't possibly fathom what it was.
Nonsense,she chided herself as Abigail immediately began a breathless interrogation.It was just a dance with a notorious rake who will have forgotten my name by morning.
Across the room, Lord Brokeshire rejoined Christopher, their heads bent close in serious conversation. As if sensing her gaze, the Baron glanced up, his eyes meeting hers for one brief moment.
At that very moment Gemma had the most unsettling feeling that forgetting was the last thing on his mind.
Yet as he took his leave with an almost imperceptible nod in her direction, Gemma couldn't shake the notion that there was more to their encounter than mere social pleasantry. Something purposeful lurked beneath his flirtatious banter, such as a chess player calculating several moves ahead.
"Well?" Abigail demanded, practically vibrating with curiosity. "What did the infamous Lord Brokeshire say to make you look so thoughtful?"
"Nothing of consequence," Gemma replied, smoothing her gloves. "Merely the usual flattery, delivered with slightly more wit than is common."
And observations far too perceptive for comfort,she added silently.
Before Abigail could press further, a ripple of whispers spread through the ballroom, drawing their attention to a new arrival. Albert Thorne, a distinguished-looking gentleman in his forties, entered with an air of quiet authority. His silver-threaded dark hair and impeccable attire spoke of wealth, while the sharpness in his eyes suggested a formidable intellect.
"Mr. Albert Thorne," Abigail murmured. "That’s a man a lady should avoid, despite his wealth. They say his influence extends from the docks to Parliament itself."
Gemma observed how conversations hushed as he passed, how even the most influential members of society seemed to defer to him with subtle nods. There was something in his bearing that spoke of power and danger, carefully concealed beneath a veneer of charm.
"My father once called him 'the most dangerous man in London,'" Gemma said off-handedly. "I never understood why."
As if conjured by their discussion, Mr. Thorne's gaze swept over the ballroom and landed squarely on Gemma. His lips curved into a smile that never reached his eyes as he offered her a slight bow. She returned it with a polite nod, suppressing a shiver.
Across the room, she noticed Lord Brokeshire watching the exchange, his expression suddenly guarded.
"How curious," Abigail remarked. "It seems you've captured the attention of London's most notorious rake and its most powerful merchant in a single evening. Whatever shall you do for an encore?"
"Find a wealthy husband before we lose the house?" Gemma suggested with grim humor. "Or perhaps learn to juggle while reciting Greek poetry backward."
