Page 57 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
“To me.”
Jameson leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s nothing. Just... a tiresome evening.”
“Jameson,” she said, more firmly. “What troubles you?”
His gaze met hers, and for a moment, he looked as though he might answer honestly. But then something closed behind his eyes, and the mask returned.
“It’s nothing you need concern yourself with.”
That stung to hear.
“I am your wife.”
He nodded curtly. “I know.”
And yet he said nothing more.
Gemma looked down at her untouched plate. He had built a wall, yesterday’s familiarity was gone and she did not yet know how to breach it.
***
The candlelight flickered in the looking glass, casting a soft glow about the room asLa Belle Assembléelay forgotten on the dressing table. Gemma sat motionless, save for the faint flutter of her fingers against her lap. Betsy’s nimble hands worked at the row of tiny pearl buttons down the back of her gown, her expression one of habitual concentration.
“You are unusually quiet this evening, My Lady,” Betsy remarked, securing the final button and stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Not anxious about the performance, I hope? I hear the soprano is French. That alone ought to warrant a little excitement.”
Gemma’s lips curved faintly. “I fear the evening holds greater dramas than Signora Lefevre can offer.”
Betsy blinked, bemused, but said nothing as she smoothed a final errant curl into place. Gemma rose slowly, her pale-blue silk gown whispering against the floor. She moved toward the mirror, studying her reflection with an odd sense of detachment. The pearls at her throat were the very ones her mother had given her on her wedding morning—a token of tradition, though tonight they felt more like a talisman.
She ought to feel… something. Excitement, perhaps. Or anticipation. And yet her mind remained uncomfortably full of Jameson—his strange absences, the peculiar look in his eyes when he thought she wasn't watching, the guarded tones of his conversations with Christopher.
But what unsettled her most was not suspicion. It was something dangerously akin to affection.
With a final glance in the mirror—one part armor, one part self-deception—Gemma turned and descended the stairs.
He was waiting at the bottom, Jameson stood tall and impeccably dressed in black evening attire, the crisp lines ofhis coat flattering his broad shoulders. The snowy white of his cravat was in stark contrast to the somber green of his waistcoat. And yet it was not his appearance that caused her breath to hitch. It was the way he looked at her—as though he had quite forgotten his own name.
His eyes—those ever-perceptive green eyes—swept over her, lingering for a moment too long at her neckline before snapping upwards with such speed that she might have laughed, were her heart not pounding so madly.
“Lady Brokeshire,” he said at last, his voice lower than usual. “You look—” He paused. “Well, it would be trite to say ‘lovely,’ and dishonest to say anything less.”
Gemma, caught between amusement and something perilously warm, arched a brow. “You are uncharacteristically poetic this evening, My Lord.”
“I must blame the moonlight,” he said lightly. “Or the sheer terror of attending the opera in my mother’s company.”
At that, her smile did break through. “I am certain she will enjoy the performance. As long as there is scandal to dissect between acts, she shall be quite content.”
Jameson chuckled and extended his arm. “Then let us deliver her to her preferred battlefield.”
As she placed her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow, Gemma felt, absurdly, as though she had stepped into one of her childhood novels—those breathless moments before some grand declaration, though she knew no such thing was coming. Still, the pressure of his arm beneath her hand, the warmth radiating through the layers of silk and linen—it was enough to render her thoughts most inconveniently romantic.
The ride to the Royal Opera House passed with little conversation. Belinda’s presence across from them, imperious and unblinking, rendered small talk an act of acrobatic precision. Jameson bore it with his usual finesse, deflecting herbarbed remarks with effortless charm. Gemma watched them in silence, only half-attending to the conversation, the other half wondering if she were the only one aware of the growing space between what Jameson said and what he meant.
The moment they stepped into the grand foyer, the world became a whirl of diamonds and duchesses, murmured greetings and the rustle of silk. Chandeliers blazed overhead, reflecting in marble floors polished to a mirror’s gleam. Gemma moved through the crowd with a grace honed by necessity, her expression composed though her stomach twisted unpleasantly.
When they reached their box, Jameson held back the heavy velvet curtain, allowing her to enter first. She nodded her thanks, slipping past him and settling into her seat. He followed, lowering himself beside her with the careless elegance that came so naturally to him.
The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the crowd.
