Page 76 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
She gave an almost imperceptible nod. Together, they ascended the steps and entered the lion's den.
The ballroom gleamed like an overturned casket of jewels, ceilings adorned with gilt moldings, chandeliers dripping with crystal pendants, and guests bedecked in gowns and gems whose value might purchase entire country estates. Laughter tinkled like delicate glass, violins soared in elegant harmony, and champagne flowed with ostentatious abundance.
Gemma moved through the assembly with the graceful ease that had been instilled in her since childhood. She smiled at acquaintances. She acknowledged compliments with perfect civility. She responded to society gossip with precisely calibrated interest. None would suspect her purpose was far from social.
All the while, her eyes catalogued every detail: exits, the position of servants, which footmen possessed the unmistakable bearing of hired muscle rather than domestic staff. She identified Thorne's known associates—some familiar from theintelligence Jameson had shared, others marked by their watchful silence and strategic placement throughout the room.
"Lady Brokeshire," came a silken voice at her elbow. "How delightful to see you gracing our humble gathering."
She turned to find Lord Harrington regarding her with poorly disguised interest. A notorious gossipmonger and one of Thorne's most reliable informants.
"Lord Harrington," she replied, offering her hand with calculated warmth. "I confess myself quite overwhelmed by Mr. Thorne's hospitality. Such magnificence."
"Indeed," he agreed, pressing his lips to her gloved fingers a moment longer than propriety dictated. "Though I must say, you outshine even the chandeliers this evening. That gown is most becoming."
"You flatter me excessively, sir."
"Not at all. I merely speak truth." His eyes narrowed slightly. "I confess myself surprised to see you in attendance. I had understood there to be some... tension between your husband's business interests and our host's."
Gemma laughed lightly, the sound practiced to perfection. "My dear Lord Harrington, surely you are acquainted with the fact that in matters of commerce, today's rival may be tomorrow's partner. Besides," she added, her fan fluttering with deliberate coyness, "I find I enjoy Mr. Thorne's musical selections exceedingly."
"Ah, a diplomatic answer! You would make an excellent ambassador, Lady Brokeshire."
"You are too kind." She glanced about the room as if seeking someone. "I wonder, have you seen my husband? He promised to fetch me a refreshment, but appears to have been waylaid."
Lord Harrington's smile thinned. "I believe I observed him engaged in most animated conversation with the Countess of Mellbury and her companions not five minutes past."
Gemma allowed her expression to change just enough to suggest a wife's momentary displeasure. "How vexing. The Countess does so enjoy monopolizing gentlemen's attention."
"Shall I escort you to him?"
"No, no," she demurred. "I should hate to interrupt. Perhaps instead you might direct me to where I might find some cool air? The room grows rather warm."
His gaze brightened with interest. "Allow me to show you to the terrace. The gardens are particularly fine in the moonlight."
"You are most kind, sir, but I should not wish to deprive the other ladies of your company." She touched his arm lightly. "If you would but point the way, I shall manage admirably."
Reluctantly, he indicated a set of glass doors across the ballroom. "Through there, My Lady. But do not tarry overlong in solitude. Beauty such as yours should be admired."
With a gracious nod, Gemma slipped away, moving not toward the terrace but instead taking a circuitous path that brought her closer to the corridor she had observed earlier. As she navigated the crowd, she caught sight of Jameson across the room. Tall and distinguished, he was engaged in conversation with several ladies. One, undoubtedly the Countess, laughed with excessive animation, her gloved fingers hovering near his sleeve with unmistakable intent.
A sharp, unexpected pang of... something... pierced Gemma's composure.
She reminded herself sternly that this was the man she had wed for reasons of pragmatism, not passion. The man whose trust she had earned only through recent trials. The man who had crafted a social persona so meticulously that it had become nearly indistinguishable from his true self.
And yet, the sight wounded her, for she had felt his lips upon hers. Had known the tenderness of his touch. And now understood that beneath the carefully maintained facade beat aheart of genuine feeling. A heart that, were she to acknowledge her deepest truth, she wished ardently to safeguard.
She averted her gaze and across the glittering expanse, she caught a glimpse of Abigail, who offered a subtle, encouraging glance before disappearing down a side passage with Christopher at her side.
The musicians began a new quadrille and the perilous charade continued. In a house such as Thorne Hall, disappearing required merely the confidence to act as though one belonged precisely where one ought not be.
The dazzling spectacle of the soirée receded with each measured step, the music fading to a distant murmur, gay laughter giving way to weighted silence. Gemma proceeded along a narrow corridor adorned with ancestral portraits and somber wood paneling, the whisper of her satin slippers against thick Persian carpets the only sound. Her heart beat with such vigor she feared it might betray her presence.
She had excused herself with a convincing pretext, a claim of requiring a moment's composure after a particularly energetic country dance, and none had questioned her withdrawal. A genteel lady was ever permitted brief solitude. Fortunate for her.
Particularly when none suspected she hunted for treachery.
As she ventured deeper into the house, the opulent grandeur of Thorne's public rooms yielded to austere functionality. Here were no gilded mirrors or perfumed air, only confined passageways, dimly lit sconces, and the faint aroma of aged parchment and beeswax polish.
