Page 91 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Epilogue
Two Years Later…
The late summer air at Brokeshire carried the scent of roses and honeysuckle, stirred gently by a breeze that rustled through the old oaks flanking the gravel path. The golden light of evening bathed the grounds in soft warmth, the manor's grand façade glowing with candlelight as footmen in silver-trimmed livery opened the doors to a steady stream of well-dressed guests.
"Lady Cartwright has outdone herself this time," whispered one elegantly coiffed matron to another as they processed up the steps. "I vow I haven't seen such splendor since the Prince Regent's last ball at Carlton House."
"Indeed," her companion replied with a knowing smile. "Though I daresay the master of Brokeshire would have preferred a quieter affair. The Baron was never one for such spectacles before his matrimony."
"Ah, but that was before Lady Gemma worked her magic on him. They say she has him thoroughly besotted."
"As well she should! After that scandalous beginning—"
Their gossip faded as they passed into the grand entry hall, where crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across marble floors, and footmen bearing silver trays of champagne moved with practiced grace through the crowd.
Laughter echoed across the terrace. Strings of lanterns swung overhead, their soft light twinkling like stars, and the gentle strains of a string quartet drifted from the musicians positioned beneath the great arbor.
At the heart of it all stood Jameson and Gemma. He, resplendent in a midnight blue tailcoat with silver buttons that caught the light when he moved, no longer the guarded rake of gossip columns, but a man unmistakably at ease in his own skin—smiling, gracious, his arm ever reaching for the woman beside him. She, radiant in a gown of palest blue silk with delicate silver embroidery along the empire waistline, her eyes alight with happiness and a quiet secret. Her free hand rested on the curve of his arm, the other upon the small, sturdy shoulders of the child toddling between them—golden-haired and determined to chase the guests' coattails.
"Darling, not the footman," Gemma murmured with a soft laugh, scooping up her son just as he made a delighted grab for a silver tray.
"Too late," Jameson said, the corner of his mouth quirking into that half-smile that still made her heart quicken after all this time. "He's already developing a taste for champagne flutes. Like father, like son, I fear."
"Heaven preserve us," Gemma replied, shifting their squirming son to her hip. "One rake in the family was quite enough, thank you very much."
"Reformed rake," Jameson corrected, leaning close enough that his lips brushed her ear. "Thoroughly reformed, as you well know, my lady."
Gemma felt a flush rise to her cheeks. "Behave yourself, my lord. There are at least three dowagers watching us with their lorgnettes raised."
"Let them watch," he murmured. "Perhaps they'll learn something about marital felicity."
"Jameson!" But she was laughing now, that full, unrestrained laugh that had first captured his heart.
Their eyes met—and that familiar, quiet joy passed between them. The kind born not from grand declarations, but from battles weathered and victories quietly earned.
"My lord Baron!" called a portly gentleman, approaching with a glass already half-empty. "Capital affair! Simply capital!Though I must say, your father would scarcely recognize the old place."
"Indeed, Lord Humphrey," Jameson replied smoothly. "Though I believe he would approve of the improvements to the east wing. The new conservatory has increased crop yields by nearly fifteen percent this season."
"Business, business, always business with you young men nowadays," tutted Lord Humphrey. "Even at your own birthday celebration!"
"Forgive my husband, Lord Humphrey," Gemma intervened with a smile. "The Baron cannot help himself. One might as well ask a fish not to swim as ask Lord Brokeshire not to think of productivity."
"Well put, my dear Lady Brokeshire!" The man chortled. "Well put indeed! Ah, I see Lady Pennyworth has arrived. Must pay my respects. Delightful evening!" And with that, he ambled back into the crowd.
“My greatest respects,” “What a positively delightful evening!" And with that, he ambled back into the crowd.
Jameson turned to his wife with a raised eyebrow. "A fish, am I?"
"A very handsome fish," she assured him, adjusting their son on her hip. "With excellent fins."
"Mama, down!" demanded young Thomas, wriggling with renewed vigor. "Want to play!"
"In a moment, my love," Gemma promised. "Look, there's Uncle Christopher with Aunt Abigail. Shall we go say hello?"
Nearby, Christopher and Abigail stood under a blossoming wisteria, hands entwined as they shared a jest with William, who had grown into a figure of quiet confidence. William laughed easily now, his posture straighter, his eyes brighter. Gone was the haunted boy of two summers ago. In his place stood a man shaped by error and redemption.
"I maintain it was completely justified," Christopher was saying as they approached. "The man challenged me to a duel over a game of whist. A game of whist, William!"
