Page 56 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
He dropped into his chair with little ceremony. “Do I?”
“You do,” Gemma said, her concern slipping past her guard.
He looked at her then, just briefly, his eyes glistening with something unreadable—gratitude, perhaps, or regret. He looked away almost immediately.
“I scarcely slept,” he admitted, rubbing his temples.
“Too many tasks?” Belinda asked, a slight edge of humor in her tone.
“Too many worries,” he returned, lifting his cup and drinking without cream or sugar.
A silence settled over the table once more, though this one felt different, shared, perhaps. Heavy in a new way.
“We must begin preparations for Lady Maybourne’s ball tomorrow,” Belinda said briskly, as if shaking off the weight of what lingered. “Our carriage is expected at eight. I trust you have something suitable, Gemma?”
“Yes,” Gemma replied, though her voice lacked energy.
“I would suggest the blue satin. The neckline is modest and it flatters your figure.”
Gemma blinked at her, unsure whether to feel complimented or managed.
Belinda continued. “Jameson, I expect you to escort your wife with due attentiveness. You were rather scarce last night.”
He certainly was not, Gemma could attest.
Jameson’s expression did not change. “I will do as is expected.”
“Good.” Belinda’s voice held the air of finality. “And tonight, we must be seen at the opera. The Marchioness of Langley has extended her invitation.”
Jameson stiffened.
It was subtle. Anyone else might have missed it—but Gemma did not. She saw the way his shoulders jerked, just barely, how his fingers curled tighter around his cup. She saw the flicker of something like fear or resentment pass across his face before he caught himself and forced a smile.
“The opera?” he repeated.
“Yes,” Belinda said, unbothered. “You remember how fond the Langley’s are of appearances. To miss their evening would be noticed.”
Jameson nodded, his smile still in place but frozen at the edges. “Of course.”
Gemma’s eyes did not leave his face. Something was wrong. She felt it with the certainty of instinct, as clear as a dropped stitch in embroidery. His unease had not begun with the opera,she had seen it yesterday, in the set of his jaw, the way he’d lingered on the terrace alone. But today it had a shape.
Why the opera?
She started to speak, but then thought better of it, deciding that this was neither the time nor the place.
Belinda pushed back her chair and stood. “I shall leave you both to your breakfast. Gemma, a word later about the guest list. There are names I must run by you.”
“Of course.”
With a nod, Belinda swept from the room, the rustle of her skirts vanishing down the hall.
For a moment, neither Gemma nor Jameson spoke.
She glanced at him again—at the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the twitch of tension along his temple. He was not merely tired.
“You do not want to go to the opera,” she said quietly.
He looked at her sharply, then softened. “Is it that obvious?”
