Page 34 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 8
The morning light filtered through the cream silk curtains of Brokeshire House's morning room, casting a gentle glow upon the breakfast table where Gemma found herself seated between her new husband and mother-in-law. Three days had passed since she had taken up residence in the grand townhouse, and while the physical surroundings grew more familiar by the hour, the company remained decidedly... awkward.
Even though Belinda Brokeshire was a pleasant person, she too found herself in a difficult position as she was at a loss as what to do after they had dispensed with the informalities of small talk.
Gemma lifted her teacup to her lips, the delicate porcelain trembling slightly in her grasp as she surveyed the room's other occupants over its gilded rim. Lady Belinda Brokeshire sat with perfect posture, methodically spreading a thin layer of marmalade across her toast with such precision one might have thought she was creating a miniature painting rather than preparing her breakfast. Across from Gemma, Jameson appeared engrossed in his newspaper, though she had noted he'd been staring at the same page for a quarter-hour at least.
How utterly fascinating that three intelligent adults can be rendered mute as newborn babes when placed at the same table, Gemma mused.One might imagine we had each been informed of an imminent execution rather than gathered for morning sustenance.
"The weather appears most agreeable today," Gemma offered, wincing inwardly at the banality of her comment.Oh, splendid opening, Gemma. Perhaps next you might dazzle themwith observations about the blueness of the sky or the wetness of water.
Lady Belinda eyes flickered up briefly. "Indeed. Most agreeable."
Silence descended once more.
"I trust you slept well, Miss S—" Lady Belinda began, then caught herself with a slight frown. "That is to say, Lady Brokeshire." The older woman's lips pressed into a thin line, as though the very title tasted foreign upon her tongue when directed at someone other than herself.
"Quite well, I thank you," Gemma replied, forcing a pleasant smile.If one considers 'well' to mean staring at an unfamiliar ceiling for hours contemplating the absurdity of one's hasty matrimony to London's most notorious rake, then yes, splendidly well indeed.
Jameson cleared his throat, the sound startlingly loud in the quiet room. He folded his newspaper with deliberate movements before placing it beside his plate.
"I believe," he said, his deep voice breaking the awkwardness like a stone through ice, "that my mother is still adjusting to the presence of another Lady Brokeshire in the household." His eyes held a hint of mischief as they met Gemma's. "Perhaps we might simplify matters by continuing to address you as Mrs. Brookfield? To avoid confusion, naturally."
"A sensible suggestion," Lady Brokeshire agreed swiftly, too swiftly, perhaps.
Gemma inclined her head graciously. "As you wish."How thoughtful of you both to so readily strip me of my newly acquired title.
"Excellent," Jameson said, reaching for his coffee. "Now that we have resolved the great titular crisis of the morning, perhaps we might actually converse like civilized beings rather thanthree strangers forced into proximity by an unfortunate carriage accident."
Lady Brokeshire's eyebrows rose precipitously. "Jameson!"
Gemma couldn't help the small laugh that escaped her lips, quickly disguised as a cough when Lady Brokeshire's disapproving gaze swung in her direction.
Jameson's eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. "Come now, Mother. Even you must admit this breakfast has been as lively as a mausoleum. I fear our new addition may reconsider her decision to join our household if we cannot manage basic conversation."
Far too late for reconsideration, Gemma thought ruefully.
"I assure you," she said aloud, "I find the peace quite... refreshing."After a lifetime of William's boisterous entrances and exits and Mother's nervous chatter, a silent breakfast is novel, if unnerving.
"You are too kind," Lady Brokeshire said, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. "Though I fear my son exaggerates. We are not always so reticent. Indeed, before his father’s passing, this room often rang with laughter and debate."
A shadow crossed Jameson's face, there and gone so quickly Gemma might have imagined it, had she not been watching him so intently.
Jameson's expression softened. “My father once argued with a bishop about the virtues of port versus sherry for a full hour,” he said. “Neither conceded. We all applauded the stalemate.”
Lady Brokeshire’s lips curved faintly, a ghost of amusement flitting across her features. “The bishop was quite red in the face by the end. Your father declared that proof of victory.”
Gemma smiled, genuinely this time. “I should very much have liked to witness that.”
“You may yet,” Jameson said, standing and setting down his napkin. “There’s a bottle of that very same port in the cellar,unless my uncle raided it over Christmas. Fancy a wager on whether it still lives?”
She blinked. “Pardon?”
“I was thinking,” he said, offering his hand, “we might escape the breakfast crypt and explore the cellars. I imagine that’s where all the ghosts of livelier mornings now reside.”
“Jameson, really—” Lady Brokeshire began, but he was already rounding the table.
Gemma glanced at her mother-in-law, half-expecting another protest. But the older woman merely waved a hand, resigned.
