Page 48 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Jameson's brow ticked upward. "Have I trod on your foot already?"
"No," she replied curtly.
"Then why the grimace?"
"No reason."
Jameson leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear. "If I've offended, I should like to know how, so I might repeat it later."
Despite herself, Gemma felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "You haven't."
His eyes narrowed slightly, amused. "Yet you look as though someone replaced your lemonade with vinegar."
"I simply do not wish to be here," she said flatly. It was only partly untrue.
His smile was dry. "Good. I feared I might be the only one in the room loathing every second."
"Oh, not at all," she replied, tone wry. "I was reminded this morning by my mother that an absence tonight would be interpreted as marital discord. And you know how she detests a scandal."
Jameson gave a low chuckle that sent a shiver along her spine. "Mine said no less.”
Gemma's laugh escaped before she could stop it, and Jameson's expression flickered—just for a second—with something warmer than his usual dry charm.
"And yet here we are," she said, recovering herself, "fulfilling our filial duties."
"Indeed. Though I find the company far more tolerable than anticipated."
The compliment, delivered with such casual ease, caught her off guard. "You needn't flatter me, My Lord. We've no audience close enough to hear."
"Is that what you believe I'm doing?" he asked, a curious note in his voice. "Performing for an audience?"
Before she could answer, their path crossed with another couple, necessitating a polite nod and momentary silence. As they resumed their conversation, Gemma found herself studying her husband's face with new interest.
"You must admit," she said carefully, "ours is a union built on practical considerations. It would be… disingenuous to pretend otherwise."
"Practical considerations," he repeated, his tone contemplative. "Yes, I suppose it began that way."
"Began?" she echoed.
Jameson's gaze met hers, steady and unreadable. "Matrimony is a journey, Lady Brokeshire, not a destination," he said cryptically.
As they spun, their rhythm began to settle. Her hand fit in his, her body leaned ever so slightly toward his without meaning to. They didn't speak, but something between them shifted—like an unspoken truce.
Still, a thousand things lay between them: secrets, hesitations, a matrimonial union arranged like a chess move neither had fully agreed to.
Yet in this moment, amid silk gowns and glittering chandeliers, they danced as though none of that mattered. His gaze held hers, quiet and unreadable, and Gemma allowed herself, for just the length of a waltz—to wonder what it would be like if this strange, electric pull between them were more than circumstance. But she said nothing. She only danced.
As they turned through the motion of the waltz, Gemma's gaze drifted past Jameson's shoulder, and there, not far off, were Abigail and Christopher. The two moved together with a familiarity that spoke of something far warmer than social obligation. Abigail laughed softly at something Christopher whispered, her smile radiant, and her cheeks tinged pink with more than exertion. His hand at her back seemed less for guidance than closeness.
A bittersweet warmth crept into Gemma's chest. She couldn't help but wonder, could that sort of comfort ever grow between herself and Jameson?
As the couples swept past one another, Abigail's eyes met Gemma's, and a smile passed between them, understanding, a little amused, entirely kind. Christopher offered Jameson a faint but approving nod.
Jameson gave the barest huff of a laugh, nearly to himself. "They look disgustingly content," he murmured, his tone laced with teasing envy.
Gemma tilted her head, arching a brow. "We mustn't allow them to become insufferable. We should at least attempt to look equally agreeable."
"I daresay we're doing well enough," he said, as their hands tightened just slightly between them.
