Page 49 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
The shared glances, the light jest, the momentary sense of alliance—all of it wove a fragile thread of connection. And for now, it was enough.
The waltz concluded with a flourish, and Jameson led her from the dance floor with a light touch at the small of her back. The sensation lingered even after they parted.
"May I fetch you a refreshment?" he inquired, his manners impeccable as ever.
"Thank you, yes," she replied, suddenly aware of how warm the ballroom had become. "Lemonade, if you please."
As Jameson departed on his errand, Abigail appeared at Gemma's side, her eyes bright with curiosity.
"Well," she said without preamble, "that was certainly illuminating."
Gemma raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" Abigail grinned, adjusting her gloves. "The way Lord Brokeshire looks at you when he thinks no one is watching... I daresay more than one lady is positively green with envy."
"Absurd," Gemma scoffed, though her cheeks warmed. "He's merely playing his role, as am I."
"If you say so," Abigail replied, clearly unconvinced. "Though I must say, for a matrimony of convenience, you appear remarkably... compatible."
Before Gemma could formulate a suitably cutting response, Christopher appeared, offering Abigail a glass of champagne with a smile that transformed his usually serious countenance.
"Lady Brokeshire," he said with a polite bow. "I trust you're enjoying the evening?"
"As much as one can enjoy being scrutinized by the entire ton," Gemma replied dryly.
Christopher chuckled. "A fair assessment. Though I must say, you and Brookfield present a most convincing tableau of marital harmony."
"High praise from a man who has long eschewed the institution," Gemma observed with a pointed glance between him and Abigail.
A flush crept up Christopher's neck, and he cleared his throat. "Yes, well, one's perspectives may evolve with proper inducement."
Abigail's blush deepened, and she quickly changed the subject. "I was just telling Gemma how striking her new gown is. Is it not the perfect shade to complement her complexion?"
Christopher nodded, though his gaze had already drifted back to Abigail. "Indeed, though I confess my expertise in ladies' fashion is limited."
"A diplomatic response," Gemma noted, amused by their transparent affection.
The quiet warmth that had begun to bloom was swept away in an instant.
A hush, subtle but unmistakable, fell over the nearby guests. Heads tilted. Fans paused mid-flutter. The ripple of discomfortmoved through the ballroom like a shift in the wind. Gemma followed the disturbance to its source. She felt her stomach turn.
William stood at the entrance of the ballroom, slightly breathless, his cravat askew and his dark hair tousled as though he'd either been rushing, or fighting a storm. His gaze swept across the room with uneasy urgency, not unlike a man seeking an escape route rather than an evening's diversion.
"Oh, dear," Abigail murmured. "Your brother appears to have had an... eventful journey here."
"Excuse me," Gemma said tightly, already moving toward the entrance. "I should—"
"Of course," Christopher nodded, his expression shifting to concern. "Should you need assistance...?”
But Gemma was already weaving through the crowd, her heart drumming an anxious rhythm against her ribs. She reached William just as he spotted her, relief washing over his features.
"William," she whispered as she reached him, her gloved hand catching his arm. "You look—what has happened?"
He offered a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Nothing, dearest. Truly, nothing. I only lost track of time."
She frowned, eyes scanning his face. "What in heaven's name are you doing?"
"Attending a ball," he replied with forced lightness. "Is that not the purpose of these gatherings?"
