Page 47 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 11
The Hartington ball was in full, glittering bloom. Strings soared, champagne flowed, and Gemma Sinclair had the sudden urge to knock over a display of eclairs—purely to disrupt the line of simpering women gravitating toward her husband.
She stood beside Jameson near the tall windows, the candlelight gleaming off his dark hair and the sharp line of his jaw. The Hartington ballroom, renowned for its grandeur, did not disappoint this evening. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the assembled ton, while arrangements of hothouse flowers perfumed the air with their heady scent. Predictably, they had not been left in peace for long.
"Oh, Lord Brokeshire," purred Miss Lytton, a wisp of a blonde in periwinkle silk. "I do believe you grow more distinguished each time we meet."
Jameson gave a practiced smile, the kind that could charm grandmothers and duchesses alike. "You flatter me, Miss Lytton."
"No, indeed," she said, touching his sleeve with a gloved hand. "I only speak what all are thinking."
Gemma took a very small sip of her lemonade and imagined hurling it out the nearest window. She had endured precisely forty-seven minutes of this particular form of torture, and her patience was wearing decidedly thin.
"I heard tell you've been absent from White's these past weeks," Miss Lytton continued, batting her eyelashes with such vigor that Gemma wondered if the girl had something troublesome lodged within them. "The gentlemen say it's simply not the same without your wit to enliven their evenings."
"Matrimony brings with it new priorities, Miss Lytton," Jameson replied smoothly, his expression revealing nothing. Gemma did not flatter herself, she knew such words were mainly to protect his reputation. A man could take mistresses, but in a ball in front of all of nobility? The ton could not allow it.
Before Miss Lytton could respond, Lady Pelham approached with the determined stride of a woman used to getting her way. Unlike the dewy-eyed Miss Lytton, Lady Pelham was a widow of eight-and-thirty with a formidable bosom and an even more formidable fortune.
"Lord Brokeshire," she announced, tapping her fan against her palm. "You promised me a dance last season. Are you prepared to make amends, or must I enlist a solicitor?"
Jameson inclined his head. "I fear I am already spoken for this evening."
"Oh?" Lady Pelham blinked, as if the very idea was a breach of etiquette.
His eyes slid to Gemma. "My wife would be most unamused were I to forget her existence."
Gemma lifted her brows mildly but said nothing. Lady Pelham turned with a huff and swanned off, leaving behind the scent of lilacs and thwarted intentions.
"You needn't have done that," Gemma murmured once they were relatively alone again. "I have no claim on your dances."
Jameson's mouth curved slightly at one corner. "And yet, as my wife, you have claim on a great many things, should you choose to exercise that right."
Something in his tone made her pulse quicken, but before she could formulate a suitable response, the first waltz began. Jameson turned to her with a faint, dutiful nod.
"Shall we, Lady Brokeshire?"
She raised a brow at the formality, but placed her hand in his regardless. "Since we are husband and wife, I suppose we must."
As they took their positions among the other couples, Gemma became acutely aware of the scrutiny they faced. Lady Harwick and her coterie of gossips observed from behind their fans, while Lord Pemberton's wife whispered something to the Countess of Westmoreland that made both women glance in their direction.
"Ignore them," Jameson said quietly, as though reading her thoughts. "They merely await our misstep to confirm their suspicions."
"And what suspicions might those be?" Gemma asked, meeting his gaze as they began to move in perfect time to the music.
"That our matrimony is one of convenience rather than affection."
"Is that not precisely what it is?" The words escaped before she could consider their wisdom.
The ballroom glittered around them, but all Gemma noticed was the weight of his hand on her waist. Steady. Assured. Entirely unaffected.
"Perhaps," he replied, his expression unreadable. "Though appearances occasionally deceive."
What unsettled her most was how natural he seemed. No stiffness, no hesitation. As though dancing with her—being this close to her—meant nothing at all. As though he'd done it a thousand times with a thousand others.
Well, perhaps he has.
The thought struck hard, jarring her from the rhythm. She frowned.
