Page 41 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"You seem uncommonly distracted tonight, old friend," he observed, his perceptive blue eyes studying Jameson's face. "Might your new marital state be affecting your legendary focus?"
Jameson grimaced, recognizing the concern beneath the teasing words. "A momentary lapse. Nothing more. Cease bringing this topic up again, it has grown far too repetitive."
"Hmm," Christopher hummed skeptically. "I've known you since our days at Eton, Jamie. I've seen you calculate complex investment returns while you are quite foxed from a night at Boodles 'Momentary lapses' are not in your nature."
Uncomfortable with his friend's scrutiny, Jameson deflected. "And what of you? I noticed you hovering near the Winfield girl at Lady Jersey's rout last week. Not your usual style of flirtation, I must say."
A flicker of something—defensiveness, perhaps—crossed Christopher's usually confident features. "Miss Winfield is different."
"Different enough to make you reconsider your bachelor status?" Jameson pressed, grateful to turn the conversation away from his own conflicted emotions.
Christopher's laugh held a note of self-deprecation. "Now who's being distracted? We were discussing your newfound fascination with your bride, not my admiration for a certain outspoken heiress."
"There is nothing to discuss," Jameson insisted, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears. “It is but a matrimony of convenience, nothing more."
"If you say so," Christopher replied, unconvinced. "Though I must observe that for a man supposedly indifferent to his wife, you checked your pocket watch no less than seven times in the past hour."
Before Jameson could formulate a suitably cutting retort, a cacophony of shattering glass and angry shouts erupted from the street below. Both men tensed immediately, their hands moving instinctively toward the weapons they kept concealed on their persons, a precaution born of years navigating the dangerous waters of international commerce.
"Thorne?" Christopher murmured, already moving toward the window with fluid grace that belied his languid demeanor.
Jameson followed, his body taut with tension. They reached the window simultaneously, cautiously peering through the glass to the cobblestone street below.
In the flickering light of the street lamps, two men grappled drunkenly with each other, surrounded by the shards of a broken bottle. A small crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle, offering enthusiastic encouragement to the combatants.
"Nothing but common street brawlers," Jameson observed, the tension draining from his shoulders as he stepped back from the window. "In their cups and looking for entertainment."
Christopher chuckled, though the sound held little humor. "We've grown paranoid, it seems. Seeing Thorne's agents behind every corner."
"Paranoia keeps men alive in troubled times," Edward commented as he joined them, his weathered face somber in the lamplight. "Though in this case, it appears your concerns were misplaced."
Jameson checked his pocket watch again—the eighth time that evening, as Christopher would undoubtedly point out—and frowned at the late hour. "If we've concluded our business, gentlemen, I believe I should return home. It would not do to give the gossips additional fodder by keeping scandalous hours so soon after my nuptials."
"Heaven forbid you tarnish your reputation as a reformed rake," Christopher teased, clapping him on the shoulder. "Go home to your bride, Jamie. We can continue this discussion tomorrow."
As Jameson gathered his coat and gloves, Edward fixed him with a penetrating stare. "Your nuptial brings new complications to our arrangement, my boy. I trust your lady wife can be discreet?"
Jameson stiffened, his protective instincts flaring unexpectedly. "I have not burdened Lady Brokeshire with knowledge of my business affairs," he replied coolly. "Nor do I intend to."
Edward nodded slowly. "Perhaps wise, for now. Though in my experience, intelligent women have a way of discovering secrets their husbands would prefer to keep hidden."
"A cheerful thought to send me on my way," Jameson remarked dryly, settling his hat atop his head with precise movements. "Good evening, gentlemen."
As he descended the narrow staircase to the waiting carriage, Jameson found himself contemplating Edward'swarning. Gemma was indeed intelligent, far more so than he had initially given her credit for. Her perceptive gaze had already noted discrepancies in his behavior, questions forming behind those expressive hazel eyes.
How long before curiosity overcomes propriety?he wondered, settling into the plush interior of his carriage.And more to the point, what shall I tell her when it does?
The thought of sharing his true activities with another person—even his wife—sent an uncomfortable prickle across his skin. Not since Caroline's betrayal had he allowed anyone close enough to see behind his carefully constructed façade. The risk seemed too great, the potential for disappointment too devastating to contemplate.
And yet, as the carriage rattled through London's darkened streets toward Brokeshire House, Jameson found himself imagining Gemma's reaction to the truth. Not horror or disappointment, but perhaps... understanding? Even admiration?
Dangerous thoughts for a man who has vowed never to risk his heart again, he chided himself, gazing out at the passing shadows of the sleeping city.Best to maintain the boundaries that have served you well these past years. Lady Brokeshire is your wife in name only—a convenient shield against society's expectations and fortune hunters' machinations. Nothing more.
But as the carriage approached his townhouse, its windows mostly darkened save for a single light burning in what he recognized as the library, Jameson could not quite suppress the treacherous flicker of anticipation that rose within his chest at the thought of seeing her again.
***
The following afternoon found Gemma seated alone in the elegant drawing room of her brother's townhouse, her posture rigidly proper despite the absence of observers. Tea had been laid out on the delicate rosewood table before her, the steam rising from the fine porcelain pot in graceful curls that went unnoticed as she anxiously awaited William's arrival.
