Page 63 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
They returned to the edge of the dance floor just as Christopher and Abigail approached—both flushed from their own turn around the ballroom, the sort of effortless joy lingering in their features that made them appear as though they’d stepped from the pages of a romantic novel.
“Splendidly done,” Christopher said with a grin, reaching to clasp Jameson’s shoulder. “You two looked positively regal. I say, if politics ever tire you, you might consider theatre.”
“I shall leave performance to the House of Lords,” Jameson said mildly, though his mouth twitched in what might have been amusement.
“Oh, but you did look so content,” Abigail chimed in, turning to Gemma. “Quite the image of domestic harmony. I daresay you’ll be the talk of every drawing room by morning.”
Gemma felt her smile slip for half a second—only half. “Let us hope they speak kindly. I’d hate to be mistaken for contentment if it damages my mystique.”
Christopher laughed. “Mystique aside, you’ve both done well. The ton is either charmed or confused, which in my experience means you've succeeded.”
But before Gemma could answer, a murmur rippled through the room.
It began like a drop in still water—small, insignificant. Then it spread. A pause in conversation. A turn of heads. A few stiffened shoulders.
Gemma followed the subtle shift in the room’s attention to the ballroom entrance.
Pale, breathless, and clearly not dressed for an evening among the elite. William’s cravat was undone, his coat unbuttoned, and his expression—
Terrified.
His eyes searched the room with a wild sort of desperation until they landed on their group. Gemma's stomach turned to lead.
Jameson, beside her, straightened—not visibly. Not in a way the average guest would notice. But she felt it. Like a violin string pulled too tight. Christopher’s hand, once easy on his hip, now curled slightly at his side.
William approached quickly, almost too quickly, bobbing apologies as he passed a cluster of dowagers who looked suitablyscandalised. When he reached them, his voice was low and harried.
“Gemma, I—” His eyes flicked to Jameson, then Christopher. “I need a word. A private one.”
Gemma touched his arm gently. “William, this isn’t—”
“It’s important,” he hissed, voice shaking. “Please.”
Jameson stepped in, smooth as silk. “You are, of course, welcome to take refreshment. The library is just off the west corridor if you wish for quiet. Christopher and I will join you shortly.”
William hesitated. Then nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes. Yes, all right.”
He turned and left, vanishing once more into the crowd.
Gemma could hardly breathe.
“I’ll go to him,” Jameson said quietly.
Christopher nodded. “I’ll follow in a few minutes. Let the room settle first.”
They exchanged a glance—quick, but weighted. Then Jameson was gone, following her brother into the shadows.
Gemma stood frozen for a moment longer, until Abigail gently slipped her hand around her arm.
“Come,” Abigail said softly. “Let’s walk.”
They made their way through the crush of guests, Gemma keeping her expression pleasant, her steps light—though her heart thundered with every beat.
Later that evening, long after the supper service had begun and the room was thick with perfume and politics, Gemma found herself in a quiet alcove near the ballroom’s edge. A towering floral arrangement sat crookedly in its vase, and she busied her hands adjusting its shape—though she scarcely saw the roses.
She simply needed tobreathe.
It was then, through the thick velvet curtain just behind her, that she heard voices that were low, masculine and sounded very urgent. She did not move, not yet. Not until the words became clearer.
