Page 59 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Gemma sat opposite Jameson, her hands resting primly in her lap, though her knuckles were white beneath her gloves. The opera programme lay forgotten beside her, its elegant script crumpled at the corners, the pages fluttering faintly with the motion of the ride.
She dared a glance upward.
Jameson sat in shadow, one leg crossed over the other, a gloved hand resting against his mouth in a posture of thought—or perhaps frustration. His gaze was fixed out the window, but she could tell he was not seeing the streets. His brow was faintly furrowed, the strong line of his jaw clenched in a way that suggested some inner battle he would not name.
They had not spoken since leaving the opera house. And yet a thousand things seemed to vibrate in the quiet between them.
Gemma inhaled, her lungs catching on the stale air of unvoiced truths. Her brother's wan face swam before her mind’s eye, closely followed by the hawkish profile of Mr. Edwards. She swallowed hard, resisting the urge to press Jameson—demandan explanation, a confession,somethingto justify the growing knot of dread tightening in her chest.
But then Jameson turned, perhaps he had felt her gaze—perhaps, like her, he could no longer bear the weight of silence. His eyes found hers in the dimness, and something unspoken leapt between them.
It was not the look of a rake, it was not the careless flirtation he wore in salons or the blandly charming mask he paraded for the benefit of the ton, rather this was different.
There was no performance in his expression now. Only quiet weariness, and the unmistakable glint of something far rawer. Guilt? Conflict? Or worse—regret? The hard lines of his face seemed softened in the lantern’s glow, as though he had been a boy once, and some trace of that lost self-lingered just beneath the surface.
Gemma's breath caught. There he was—the man beneath the title. The one no gossip column had ever truly described. She wondered fleetingly what he had been likebeforeCaroline had taken his heart and carved her initials into it like a careless child marking a tree.
Before heartbreak had taught him to lock every door inside himself and throw away the key.
Their gazes held for a beat longer—two strangers briefly seeing one another as they truly were—and then it was gone.
Jameson blinked, and the warmth in his expression vanished, replaced by a guarded reserve as he subtly recoiled in his seat, as if regretting a momentary lapse in his carefully constructed facade.
Gemma looked away, her chest tight with something she could not yet name. Not affection, surely. Not admiration.Not yet.And yet... the image of him just now, so unguarded, soreal, imprinted itself upon her with disconcerting clarity.
Outside, the horses snorted and clattered forward, unbothered by the revelations that stirred in the hearts of their passengers. Inside, Gemma sat straighter, smoothing her skirts with mechanical precision.
Whatever else he was—whatever secrets he kept clutched so tightly to his chest—Lord Brokeshire was no longer merely her husband by necessity. He was a puzzle wrapped in grief, pride, and shrewd calculation.
