Page 75 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
The maid curtsied, perceiving her mistress's shift in demeanor. "You shall be splendid tonight, My Lady. I am certain of it."
With a final glance at her reflection—checking that her expression betrayed nothing of her true purpose, Gemma gathered her composure and stepped into the corridor.
Her husband stood waiting.
His posture was impeccable, hands clasped behind his back in military precision. He cut a magnificent figure in formal black evening attire, his waistcoat of deep hunter green embellished with subtle embroidery, his cravat a marvel of intricate folds. But it was his eyes that captured her attention—eyes that softened perceptibly the moment they beheld her.
"You..." he began, then faltered, his voice descending to a whisper. "You appear quite remarkable."
A smile touched Gemma's lips. "I daresay you are rarely without words, My Lord."
"Then perhaps you might consider how utterly devastating you look when fortified with determination," he murmured, stepping closer. With exquisite gentleness, he took her gloved hand, his fingers enfolding hers with quiet intimacy. "Were I not consumed with trepidation regarding this evening's outcome, I might find myself entirely bewitched."
His thumb traced a tender path across her knuckles.
"Exercise the utmost caution," he whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. "Observe for any sign of danger. You must not deviate from our strategy. And should anything—I implore you, anything at all—arouse your suspicion, you must withdraw immediately. Give me your word."
"You have my solemn promise," she replied, her voice barely audible.
A moment of weighted silence passed between them. Then, with infinite care, he leaned forward to press his lips against her temple in the lightest of kisses. "You are, without question, the most courageous woman it has ever been my privilege to know."
Her breath caught in her throat, the sensation of his lips lingering upon her skin like a whispered secret.
They descended the grand staircase hand in hand, the ghost of that tender gesture still warming her temple. At the foot of the stairs awaited Christopher and Abigail—the latter resplendent in a gown of soft golden silk, while Christopher adjusted his gloves with the practiced nonchalance of a gentleman prepared for anything.
"Are all assembled ready?" he inquired, his gaze traveling between them with calm assessment.
"As prepared as circumstances permit," Jameson replied with grim resolve.
***
The carriage wheels rolled with rhythmic purpose through the cobbled streets of London, their steady cadence strangely comforting in its familiarity. Within the confines of the conveyance, the four passengers sat in taut silence.
Gemma kept her gaze fixed upon the darkened window, the gas lamps of Mayfair passing like distant stars. Abigail's hand rested upon hers with a gentle pressure that anchored her to reality.
Jameson sat opposite, his jaw set in rigid tension, his eyes betraying the calculations surely racing through his mind.
It was Christopher who at last fractured the silence. "We must circulate independently of one another. I shall examine the lower salons and the eastern corridor. Jameson, you must undertake the western wing. Observe for indications of guards. William would not be permitted solitude."
Gemma inclined her head in agreement. "I shall mingle among the guests. Observe discreetly. Should anything appear amiss, I can withdraw without arousing suspicion."
Christopher's answering nod was solemn. "And I shall remain within proximity. We must all maintain an appearance of perfect contentment."
They each arranged their features accordingly.
"Lady Brokeshire," Jameson said suddenly, his voice low and urgent as he leaned forward to clasp her hands. "Should you encounter Thorne himself—"
"I shall play the vapid society wife to perfection," she assured him, squeezing his fingers. "Fear not, My Lord. I have observed such performances all my life."
His eyes searched hers. "It is not your ability to dissemble that concerns me, but rather his capacity for cruelty."
"Then perhaps," she replied with quiet conviction, "it is time someone matched his cruelty with cunning."
Thorne Hall rose before them like a monument to unseemly pride, its broad stone steps illuminated by rows of ornate lanterns, the strains of a string quartet spilling through tall windows like honeyed poison. A liveried footman opened the carriage door with practiced deference, and the four companions descended into the cool evening air.
Gemma's fingers tightened upon Jameson's sleeve. He glanced down, meeting her gaze. In that silent exchange passed not fear, but steadfast determination.
"Remember," he murmured, for her ears alone. "At eighteen minutes after ten we meet at the library."
