Page 36 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"An alliance?" she echoed, intrigued despite herself.
“Yes." Jameson sat beside her, maintaining a respectable distance yet close enough that she could detect the subtle scent of his shaving soap. “Not one of affection, necessarily. Not yet. But of honesty. Mutual respect. Perhaps even... companionship, if you can bear it.”
Gemma studied him, her fingers brushing absently against the hem of her sleeve. “You speak as if we are negotiating a peace treaty.”
“Indeed, are we not?” A wry amusement touched his lips. “Two nations, each proud and distinct, yet bound by a shared dominion. We might engage in conflict, or we might, with greater wisdom, construct a concord. A bridge, if you will.”
She let out a breath, slow and thoughtful. “And the particulars of this… alliance? Are there stipulations for my perusal?”
Jameson’s expression softened slightly. “Terms, naturally. To ensure a proper understanding, we shall dine together with regularity, lest familiarity fade. You shall have the freedom of both my town residence and the estate in the countryside. I shall place no constraint upon your movements. My sole requestis the sanctity of my study. I confess a certain fondness for its rather somber charm.”
“Noted,” Gemma said, a faint hint of a smile touching her mouth. “And what, pray tell, is my return in this arrangement?”
“I shall offer no impediment to your endeavors, whatsoever their nature. A suitable allowance shall be provided for your charitable pursuits, should they still hold your interest. And… should you desire anything of me—anything at all—you have but to voice the request.”
A flicker of surprise crossed her features. This last pronouncement held a tone beyond mere negotiation; it hinted at a vulnerability unexpected.
Jameson rose, executing a meticulous brush of imaginary dust from his coat. “Then, shall we formalize this accord in the customary manner?”
Gemma arched a delicate brow. “With oaths sworn in blood beneath a tempestuous sky?”
He gave a brief, genuine laugh. “I had in mind a ceremony of far less drama.” He extended his hand, palm upturned. “A handshake, Lady Brokeshire. Civilized, and binding.”
Gemma placed her hand in his. The warmth that emanated from his skin was unexpected, his grasp was rather firm yet imbued with a subtle tenderness.
“Very well,” she conceded. “But should you persist in addressing me as ‘Lady Brokeshire’ with that particular inflection, I shall feel compelled to retaliate by referring to you publicly as ‘husband’ until your countenance rivals the hue of a rose.”
He leaned in fractionally, a hint of alarm in his eyes. “You would not dare.”
“Oh, would I not?” she replied.
Their hands remained clasped a moment longer than strict propriety dictated. A subtle shift occurred, an almost imperceptible stirring, like the first breath of a changing season.
Before departing, he paused at the threshold, turning back with an expression she found elusive. “Perhaps… perhaps you might favor me with your company for a drive in the park later this afternoon? Following your meeting with my mother, of course.”
Surprise flickered in her eyes, swiftly followed by a warmth that bloomed upon her cheeks. “I should like that very much.”
With a brief inclination of his head, a gesture that might have held the faintest trace of a smile, Jameson withdrew, leaving Gemma to her reflections amidst the lingering scent of breakfast.
***
The grand library of Brokeshire House stretched two stories high, its walls lined with leather-bound volumes that represented generations of collecting. Gemma moved slowly along the shelves, her fingertips trailing reverently over the spines of ancient tomes and modern philosophical treatises alike. After the revelations of breakfast, she found herself newly curious about the family she had married into, seeking clues to their character in the books they had gathered around them.
A family library speaks volumes about its collectors, she thought, noting with approval the extensive poetry section and well-worn copies of Shakespeare nestled alongside more practical volumes on estate management and agriculture.Far more revealing than any drawing room conversation could ever be.
Her gaze alighted upon a slim volume placed high on an upper shelf, its aged leather binding catching the light from thetall windows. Rising onto her tiptoes, Gemma stretched upward, her fingers barely grazing the bottom edge of the book.
"Allow me to be of assistance," came Jameson's voice, startlingly close behind her.
Gemma froze, suddenly acutely aware of his proximity as he reached up, his chest nearly brushing against her back as he easily retrieved the volume she had been attempting to reach. The subtle scent of sandalwood and something unique about him enveloped her, sending an inexplicable shiver down her spine.
She turned, finding herself mere inches from him, close enough to notice the flecks of amber in his green eyes and the slight unevenness of his jaw where the barest shadow of stubble had begun to appear.
Lord have mercy, she thought, heart fluttering with alarming irregularity.Has his countenance always been so... arresting? Or is it merely the contrast between the rakish baron of society gossip and the glimpse of the mischievous boy I witnessed at breakfast?
"Wordsworth," Jameson said, his voice dropping to a lower register as he examined the book in his hands before extending it to her. "An unexpected choice."
Their fingers brushed as she accepted the volume, and Gemma felt a jolt of awareness course through her veins like quicksilver. "Why unexpected?" she managed, proud that her voice betrayed none of the curious breathlessness that had overtaken her.
