Page 2 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
"How curious," Gemma observed. "Lord Hartley is known for his impeccable character. I wouldn't have expected him to associate with—"
"A scoundrel like Brokeshire?" Abigail completed, her eyes twinkling. "Perhaps there's more to our rakish Baron than meets the eye."
"Or less to Lord Hartley," Gemma countered, though without conviction. She surveyed closely as the two men conversed, their expressions suddenly serious despite the festive surroundings. "They appear to be discussing something of grave importance."
"Business matters, I expect. They're both investors in that trading company... Hawthorne, I believe?"
Before Gemma could respond, the orchestra struck the opening notes of a waltz. Couples slowly began forming on the dance floor, ladies dipping into curtsies as gentlemen bowed before them.
"Oh!" Abigail's grip on Gemma's arm tightened painfully. “Pray, do not look now, but ...”
Naturally, Gemma looked. And found herself staring directly into the green eyes of Lord Brokeshire, who was making his way through the crowd—directly towards her person.
Surely not,she thought, glancing behind her to see who might have caught his attention. But no eligible beauty stood in her vicinity, only Mrs. Weatherby, who was approaching her sixth decade and third husband.
The Baron stopped before her and executed a bow of perfect depth—neither too shallow to be insulting nor too deep to be mocking.
"Miss Sinclair," he said, his voice a pleasant baritone that carried just a hint of gravel. "Might I have the honor of this dance?"
Gemma felt the weight of every gaze in the room upon them. Her mother's worried frown did not lessen her predicament. Abigail's wide-eyed astonishment. Lady Viola Montford's calculating stare from across the room, already mentally composing tomorrow's gossip.
This will either elevate my standing or ruin me entirely,Gemma thought with the odd detachment that came from two years of constant financial anxiety.Either way, it shall be something different, at least.
"You may, My Lord," she replied, placing her gloved hand in his outstretched palm.
His fingers closed around hers with surprising gentleness as he led her onto the floor. Gemma was acutely aware of his height as he positioned them for the dance, his hand resting lightly at her waist.
***
Meanwhile, on the polished ballroom floor, Abigail was mid-turn in the arms of Christopher Hartley. He really was the sort of gentleman who wore ease like a perfectly tailored coat. Gemma’s gaze caught on them as they passed, his dark head bent slightly as he murmured something that made Abigail laugh outright, a clear, unrestrained sound that turned a few heads and, Gemma suspected, made more than one chaperone wince.
Abigail, for all her vivacity, danced with the lightness of someone thoroughly amused rather than deeply enchanted. And yet there was something in the way her fingers rested just a moment too long on Christopher’s sleeve as they completed a turn. There was something in his countenance which betrayed his depth of enjoyment whenever he looked upon her, as though surprised by the depth of his own enjoyment.
Their conversation was inaudible over the swell of strings, but Gemma knew Abigail’s expressions well enough to read the familiar rhythm of their exchange: his teasing remarks met with quick-witted rejoinders, her brows lifting in mock outrage before dimpling into laughter. It was a private sort of language, forged in banter and laced with an energy Gemma could not quite name, something bright and unspoken humming beneath the surface.
They interacted with the kind of ease that made one wonder if love might a deep, caring attachment might not be long in forming.
Gemma looked away, her lips tightening faintly not from jealousy, precisely, but from something adjacent. A quiet awareness soon enveloped her as she realised that such uncomplicated encouragement of a man’s attentions were not for girls such as herself, not at least any longer.A father’s passing brought with it responsibility and trials.
"I confess, Miss Sinclair," Jameson said as they began to move with the music, "I've observed you these past few balls."
Well, that's not alarming at all,Gemma thought, maintaining her placid expression. "Have you indeed, My Lord? I hope I've provided adequate entertainment."
"You have, though perhaps not in the way you imagine." His steps were fluid and confident, guiding her through the turns with ease. "You possess the remarkable ability to look perfectly engaged while your mind is clearly elsewhere."
Heat crept up Gemma's neck. "Pray, enlighten me, I am entirely at a loss as to your meaning."
"Come now, Miss Sinclair. We both know you've perfected the art of society's most valuable skill—appearing interested in tedious conversations." His eyes twinkled with unexpected humor. "Your gaze fixes approximately one inch above your companion's eyebrow, your smile refreshes precisely every forty seconds, and you nod at perfectly timed intervals."
Gemma nearly missed a step. No one had ever noticed before—not even Abigail, who knew her better than anyone.
"You're quite observant for someone whose primary occupation appears to be shocking the ton with increasingly outlandish behavior," she replied, recovering her composure.
"We all have our masks, Miss Sinclair." Something flickered in his expression—a momentary weariness that vanished so quickly she might have imagined it. "Some are simply more entertaining than others."
The music swelled around them as he guided her through a particularly complex turn. His hand at her waist was steady, his steps perfectly synchronized with hers. For a rake, he danced with remarkable precision.
"Are you enjoying the Season, Miss Sinclair?" he asked, smoothly changing the subject.
