Page 45 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
William cleared his throat. "Brookfield, I wonder if I might trouble you for another glass of that excellent Madeira?"
"Of course." Jameson signaled to the footman. "Though one must be cautious with indulgences, must one not? They have a way of leading a man down paths he never intended to travel."
The double meaning hung heavy in the air. Gemma observed as her husband leaned back in his chair, every inch the aristocrat at leisure, yet there was nothing relaxed about the intensity of his focus. The candlelight caught the small scar above his eyebrow, throwing it into sharp relief against his skin. She wondered, not for the first time, how he had acquired it, andrealized with a start how little she truly knew of the man she had wedded.
"Speaking of travels," William said with forced joviality, "did I mention I encountered Lady Caroline Hargrove at Lady Pemberton's rout last week? She inquired most particularly after your health, Brookfield."
Good heavens.
Things had taken a most unfortunate turn.
For a fleeting instant a dangerous spark briefly ignited Jameson's gaze, causing Gemma to question if her eyes had deceived her.
His posture, however, had subtly altered. His shoulders fractionally more rigid, the fingers around his wine glass marginally tighter.
"Did she indeed?" he replied, his voice smooth as glass. "How considerate of Her Ladyship to spare a thought for my well-being amidst her undoubtedly busy social calendar."
Gemma felt rather than saw the barb hidden within those words.
"I understand the Duchess of Hargrove's confinement approaches," Jameson continued, his expression unreadable. "Her second child, I believe. How fortunate that the Duke's advanced age has not proven an impediment to establishing his nursery."
William shot a quick, uncertain glance between Jameson and Gemma. "Yes, quite, though I—"
"Shall we adjourn to the drawing room?" Gemma suggested, rising from her seat with deliberate grace. "I find myself in need of fresher air than these dinner conversations provide."
"As ever, your wisdom prevails. Lord Sinclair and I can continue our botanical discussions over brandy later this evening."
William looked as though he'd rather face a firing squad than endure more of Jameson's pointed inquiries, but social convention left him no choice but to nod in agreement.
As they proceeded to the drawing room, Gemma's mind worked furiously. Throughout the weeks of their matrimony, she had come to view her husband as cold but just, a man who fulfilled his marital obligations with polite detachment. Tonight revealed a different facet altogether, a man of razor-sharp perception who deliberately concealed the extent of his intelligence behind a façade of rakish indifference.
Why, then, had he never turned that penetrating gaze upon her? Why maintain the pretense of disinterest in their private moments? And most troublingly, what was his interest in William's association with Thorne?
A new suspicion took root in her mind, one that both alarmed and intrigued her. Perhaps Lord Brokeshire was not merely the dissipated nobleman he presented to society. Perhaps, like a chess master, he moved pieces on a board whose dimensions Gemma had yet to fully comprehend.
And if so, where did she herself stand in his calculations? Pawn or queen?
***
The following afternoon, Gemma found herself seated in the drawing room, a welcome breeze drifting through the partially opened windows as she awaited her visitor. Her mind still dwelled on the previous evening's revelations, turning over each nuance of her husband's behavior like a jeweler examining a questionable gem.
"Miss Abigail Winfield," announced the butler, and Gemma rose with genuine pleasure as her dearest friend swept into the room in a flurry of primrose muslin and infectious energy.
"Gemma!" Abigail embraced her warmly, the scent of lavender water enveloping them both.
"I am so pleased to see you," Gemma laughed, the knot of tension in her chest easing for the first time in days. "I scarcely recognize myself these days.”
They settled onto the settee as a maid brought in tea service, Abigail removing her gloves with brisk efficiency.
"Well?" she demanded once the servant had departed. "You look positively enigmatic. I have been far too lenient with you lately. You have been wed long enough now, and I require every particular of matrimonial life that propriety allows you to share, and perhaps a few it doesn't."
"Abigail!" Gemma protested, though she couldn't suppress her smile. "You are incorrigible."
"Merely curious on behalf of the as-yet unwed." Abigail accepted the offered teacup. “Is the life of a wedded woman exactly as the matrons promised during those tedious sessions on wifely duties?"
Gemma's cheeks warmed. "I find those particular conversations were neither entirely accurate nor adequately comprehensive," she replied carefully, earning a delighted laugh from her friend.
"Splendid! I suspected as much." Abigail leaned forward conspiratorially. "Though I must say, witnessing Lord Brokeshire's transformation from notorious rake to husband has set many tongues wagging. Lady Jersey herself commented that she had never seen a man more thoroughly reformed by matrimony."
