Page 62 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Christopher murmured, “It may be safer behind the orchestra. Or in the wine cellar.”
Gemma glanced once more at the retreating figure of Lady Viola, then turned to her guests with a renewed smile.
The low hum of conversation dimmed as the orchestra began its next piece—notes lilting upward like the slow uncurling of a ribbon. The waltz. A bold choice so early in the evening, and one not without consequence. In a room such as this, it was less a dance than a declaration.
Gemma's smile, still in place from her recent exchange with Abigail, began to falter as she noticed the subtle shift in the air. The sort of change that could not be heard, only felt. Like a draught in a closed room.
And then she saw Thorne. His arrival was not announced as he did not require it. He moved through the ballroom with the confidence of a man who knew precisely how to unsettle a space—one charm-laden smile, one lingering glance, and the atmosphere stiffened. The faintest ripple passed through the guests as he passed, like birds sensing the shift of wind before a storm.
He offered nods, quiet greetings, and the occasional chuckle. But beneath it all, his eyes gleamed—predatory, sharp, surveying the room not as a guest but as a collector taking inventory. Gemma stiffened, her fingers curling ever so slightly against the folds of her gown. She felt Jameson shift beside her, his expression unreadable, but his body suddenly still and then he turned to her.
“May I claim this dance, Lady Brokeshire?” he asked, his tone light—but deliberate.
Gemma looked up at him, surprised, though she quickly masked it. “Of course, My Lord.”
He offered his hand. She placed hers into it, the contact sending an unexpected jolt through her nerves—warm, steadying. They stepped onto the floor just as the orchestra swelled, drawing them into the current of bodies swirling beneath the glittering chandeliers.
The moment the music enveloped them, Jameson’s hand found the small of her back, his other enclosing her gloved fingers. The rhythm pulled them together with fluid grace—one, two, three; one, two, three. The ballroom receded.
Gemma kept her eyes on his cravat for a breath longer than necessary. Then she glanced up and met his gaze.
His expression held no hint of teasing, no practiced smile or concealing mask, only that familiar quiet intensity—a fleeting echo of something genuine that, for a precious few moments, allowed her to believe their interaction was more than a performance, his touch at her waist more than formality, and the warmth in his gaze more than transient.
She permitted herself to imagine—dangerously—that their connection was not forged out of duty and secrets, but out of trust, and perhaps even something tender. Something that might one day resemble love.
The music swelled around them, and their bodies moved as if made for this: practiced steps, unspoken understanding, a unity of motion. Gemma could feel her breath catching—not from exertion, but from the nearness of it all. Of him.
Her gaze swept the room and across the floor, she spotted Abigail and Christopher. They danced closely, their movements less precise than hers and Jameson’s, but so full of ease and affection it almost ached to witness it. Christopher whispered something near Abigail’s ear and she laughed, head tilted back, delight radiating from her like light from a hearth.
Gemma's gaze shifted back to Jameson, and she found his fixed intently on her, disregarding the surrounding crowd and even Thorne, creating a tender, uncalculated moment, a fleeting glimpse behind his usual facade.
“Are you cold?” he asked quietly.
“No.”
“Troubled, then.”
Her mouth lifted faintly. “You say that as though they are mutually exclusive.”
His brows ticked, just slightly. “They often go hand in hand.”
The music curved into its final bars. Around them, the other dancers spun and dipped, but Gemma’s world had narrowed. Her thoughts tangled—between the warmth of Jameson’s hand, the chill of Thorne’s presence, and the quiet ache of wanting something she wasn’t sure she could have.
As the waltz concluded, Jameson guided her into a graceful stop, bowing slightly as he released her hand.
“Thank you,” he said, voice low.
She nodded, steadying herself. “For the dance?”
“For allowing me to pretend, for a moment, that this evening is only about music and civility.”
Gemma looked up at him sharply—but he had already turned his head, gaze moving once more through the crowd.
She stood there, her breath caught in the space between music and silence, wondering whether the pretense had been his alone… or hers as well.
As the final notes of the waltz faded and applause fluttered around the room like scattered rose petals, Gemma allowed herself a small breath. Not of ease, exactly—ease was a luxury she had not afforded herself in weeks—but something adjacent to it. Her pulse had slowed. Her mask held firm.
Jameson offered his arm once more. She took it.
