Page 21 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Jameson felt a spark of irritation, tinged with something dangerously close to guilt. His mother had always been too perceptive by half. "Believe what you will, Mother. The fact remains that we are to be united in matrimony within the hour."
"Then I shall pray for both your sakes that this unusual beginning might lead to a happy union," Belinda sighed, patting her son's hand. "Miss Sinclair seems a sensible young lady, despite her unfortunate choice of terrace companions."
Despite himself, Jameson felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. "Indeed, her judgment in that regard was questionable at best."
As they neared their destination, Jameson steeled himself for the task ahead. He was torn between his need to protect his business interests and the unexpected stirrings of genuine interest in Gemma. These were feelings he'd sworn never to indulge in after Caroline's betrayal. This matrimony served a practical purpose, it was a way to protect both families' interestsand perhaps uncover how Thorne was manipulating William to gather information about his business rivals. Yet as the carriage pulled up before the Sinclair townhouse, Jameson couldn't deny the strange fluttering of anticipation in his chest.
The wedding ceremony took place with minimal fanfare inside the Sinclair drawing room. Abigail and her parents, along with Christopher, served as witnesses. The room had been hastily decorated with fresh flowers, their sweet fragrance doing little to dispel the palpable tension that hung in the air.
William walked Gemma into the room, his face a mask of stoic resignation. As Gemma took her place beside Jameson, she was struck by the intensity of his gaze during their vows. She noticed an unexpected flutter of emotion in his eyes, quickly masked, that left her wondering about the true nature of the gentleman she was entering into matrimony with.
As the clergyman began the ceremony, Gemma's mind raced. She recalled her childhood dreams of a romantic wedding, so different from this hasty, somber affair. The words of the matrimonial ceremony washed over her, and she found herself studying Jameson's profile. Despite his reputation, she noted a certain nobility in the set of his jaw, and a remarkable depth in his eyes, which betrayed a spirit of great complication."
When it was her time to speak her vows, Gemma's voice wavered slightly, but she managed to keep her composure. Jameson's voice, in contrast, was steady and clear, though Gemma detected a note of something—regret? uncertainty?—in his tone. As they exchanged rings, their fingers brushed, sending an unexpected jolt through Gemma. She looked up, startled, to find Jameson watching her with an unreadable expression. The moment passed quickly, but it left Gemma even more confused about the man she'd just promised her life to.
"I now pronounce you man and wife," the clergyman declared solemnly.
Gemma had observed at some more liberal and free-thinking wedding ceremonies, this was the point where the clergyman allowed the groom to kiss his bride. Any thoughts of finalising their union with a display of affection as such was quite beyond the pale.
“Well that is concluded,” Christopher remarked, breaking the silence with forced joviality.
“I offer my deepest congratulations to you both!”
The small party, having murmured their congratulations and dabbed discreetly at the corners of their eyes—some with genuine sentiment, others with the performative grace expected on such occasions—gradually made their way toward the dining room, where a modest wedding breakfast had been laid out with more optimism than opulence.
The table, though narrow and a trifle too short for the number of guests attempting to gather round it, had been dressed with respectable care. A white linen cloth concealed the rather battered surface, and at its centre stood a silver epergne borrowed from Lady Danforth’s footman under urgent pretence. There was an array of delicacies, cold roast fowl, a glazed ham of superb perfect sheen, a tower of seed cakes, and a trifle trembling slightly under its own moral burden formed the centrepieces of a spread that strove, valiantly, not to look assembled in haste.
“Ah,” murmured Mr. Lennox, one of the distant cousins dug up from a neighbouring county to pad the guest list, “nothing like a good ham to sanctify a matrimonial union.”
Lady Sinclair, seated at the head of the table with a fixed smile that suggested she might scream if one more person mentioned the weather, gave him a tight nod. “Quite,” she said. “And let us pray it is less salty than some of the remarks made this morning.”
A strained chuckle travelled the length of the table. Gemma, now Lady Brokeshire—a title that still felt ill-fitting and strangely heavy—sat beside her new husband with a posture so straight it could have been used to measure the table legs. She picked at a slice of pigeon pie, the crust delicately flaking but rather dry, and attempted to make sense of her new place in the world. It was not the food that turned her stomach—it was the effort to appear entirely unaffected by the monumental shift in her life.
Gemma’s hands were folded lightly in her lap between courses. Her face bore the perfect mask of a well-bred lady, composed and serene, but Abigail, seated just across from her, saw past it. Abigail noted the slight tightness around her friend’s eyes, the way her wine remained untouched, along with the forced curve of her lips when addressed. Abigail’s heart twisted with helpless affection. She had dreamed of laughing beside Gemma on her wedding day, not watching her smile through a storm of private resignation.
Across the table, Christopher Hartley studied Abigail with quiet curiosity. Her attentiveness to the bride had not escaped him, nor had the subtle crease in her brow. As the footmen cleared the dishes for the final course, he caught her eye and offered the smallest of smiles, a silent, steadying gesture. Abigail blinked, surprised by his gentleness, and allowed herself a faint smile in return.
Their gaze held for a moment longer than convention allowed, yet no one remarked upon it. It was a moment of shared compassion, one that neither needed to explain. They both knew the air was too heavy with what might have been.
Gemma, unaware of the exchange, glanced briefly at Jameson. He had turned his attention to the Earl of Marbury, engaging in a subdued conversation about estate matters. She wondered, not for the first time that morning, whether this man—this stranger to her in many ways—truly understood what he had taken from her. And whether he regretted it at all.
Gemma found herself acutely aware of her sudden and new husband’s presence next to her. His sleeve brushed against hers as he reached for his wine glass, and she felt that same inexplicable warmth rush through her again.
"You look lovely today, Lady Brokeshire," he murmured, his voice pitched low for her ears alone, using her new title for the first time.
"Thank you, My Lord," she replied stiffly, unused to the intimacy implied by his proximity.
"Jameson," he corrected. "We are husband and wife now. I believe first names are permitted."
Gemma met his gaze, searching for any hint of mockery, but found only a trace of warmth. "Very well... Jameson."
His name felt foreign on her tongue, yet strangely intimate. She watched as a small, genuine smile briefly replaced his usual practiced charm. For that fleeting moment, Gemma glimpsed something real beneath the façade—something that made her wonder yet again about the true nature of the man she had wedded.
Across the table, Abigail caught Gemma's eye and offered an encouraging smile. Beside her, Christopher was engaged in polite conversation with Helena, his manner easy and charming. Gemma noticed the way her friend's gaze kept drifting to Christopher when she thought no one was looking, the soft blush that colored her cheeks when he occasionally turned his attention her way.
The subtle dance between them was a reminder of what a natural courtship looked like, Christopher and Abigail had a gradual building of affection and understanding rather than the abrupt, scandal-driven union she now found herself in.
As the meal progressed, William rose to offer a toast, his voice slightly strained despite his efforts at congeniality. "To my sister and her new husband. May your life together be... prosperous and content."
