Page 55 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 12
Gemma descended the staircase with deliberate care, each step echoing faintly against the polished wood, though she hardly noticed the sound. The events of the night before still pressed on her shoulders like a wet wool cloak—heavy, clinging, and impossible to shake off. Her fingers trailed along the banister, smooth beneath her touch, but her thoughts were anything but composed.
William.
His name alone brought a fresh flush of unease to her cheeks, though whether it was shame, concern, or a bitter mix of both, she could not tell.
She reached the breakfast room and paused a moment at the threshold. Inside, the gentle clink of porcelain and the rustle of a newspaper turned pages softly broke the silence. Lady Belinda Brookfield sat upright at the table, clad in dove-grey silk, every button fastened and every curl in place, sipping her tea as if the world outside her teacup need not disturb her serenity.
"Good morning, Lady Brokeshire," Gemma said, stepping inside. Her voice, though pleasant, felt foreign in her throat.
Belinda glanced up. "Good morning, Gemma. You are later than usual."
Gemma offered a strained smile and approached her seat. "I did not sleep well."
Belinda did not answer at once. She poured tea into a second cup, the movement precise, without spill or hesitation, then slid it across to Gemma. "Neither did I."
Gemma accepted the cup, murmuring her thanks. The silence that followed was not companionable. It was coiled, pregnant with something unspoken.
Belinda set her spoon down with an almost imperceptible clink, then folded her hands atop the table. “Last night’s ball was… eventful.”
Ah. There it is.
Gemma took a sip of her tea, though it did little to soothe the knot in her stomach. She inclined her head slightly. “Indeed, a rather considerable assembly.”
“Indeed,” Belinda agreed, her tone bland. “And your brother seemed to have gathered their attention.”
Gemma lowered her cup slowly, her fingers tightening around the handle. “He did not intend to, I assure you.”
“Intend to?” A single brow arched with the elegance of practiced disbelief. “I counted five conversations that discussed your family with unrepeatable words.”
“He meant no harm,” Gemma said, too quickly.
Belinda’s gaze sharpened. “That is precisely the trouble. Lord Sinclair does not intend harm, and yet it seems to follow him regardless.”
Gemma looked down at her plate, the untouched toast a convenient place to rest her eyes. Her throat tightened. “He has been under strain.”
“As have we all,” Belinda said crisply. “But the distinction lies in how one manages it.”
There it was, the steel, subtle but unmistakable. Cloaked in civility, wrapped in satin, yet sharp enough to cut bone.
“I do not mean to censure him in your presence,” Belinda continued, adjusting her napkin with the care of one handling glass, “but you must understand, Gemma, that the family’s reputation is not a trifle. Our name must carry weight in London’s drawing rooms. Any whiff of impropriety or recklessness becomes gossip by morning and scandal by noon.”
Gemma could not meet her gaze. A quiet voice within her rebelled, William was not a reckless boy, merely a young mantrying to find his footing. But another voice, colder and more honest, whispered. And yet... he had been too free and crass last night. Too familiar. Too visible.
Every revelation he had made to her, and consequently all that Jameson had become acquainted with, caused him considerable mortification.
“I will speak with him,” she said, her voice low. Though she did not know what difference that would make.
Belinda did not smile, but something in her posture softened. That seemed to placate her. “Thank you.”
Before Gemma could find breath enough to say more, the door creaked open once again.
Jameson entered, his movements sluggish, his cravat slightly askew and his coat hanging a shade too loose on his frame. Gemma’s heart gave a small jolt, he looked exhausted. Truly exhausted. Not merely the fatigue of a late night, but something deeper, carved into the lines beneath his eyes.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice roughened by sleep or something darker.
“Jameson,” Belinda greeted him with a measured nod. “You look unwell.”
