Page 61 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
“I believe Lady Montford just took inventory of your jewellery,” Jameson murmured under his breath, his gaze fixed ahead.
Gemma didn’t look. “She’ll be disappointed. It’s mostly inherited.”
“Then perhaps she’ll take comfort in knowing I am not.”
It was a quiet remark. Almost offhand.
Yet it made her pause.
Abigail Winfield swept into the ballroom like a breath of spring—her gown a pale blush silk that shimmered with every step, and her eyes brighter than the chandeliers overhead. On her arm, Christopher Hartley looked every inch the attentive gentleman, though Gemma couldn’t help but notice the way his gaze remained fixed on Abigail’s face as though the rest of the room were of no importance whatsoever.
“I believe I might envy them,” Gemma murmured.
Jameson, beside her, offered a soft sound that might have been agreement—or polite disinterest. It was hard to tell with him.
As the pair approached, Gemma allowed a genuine smile to soften her features. Abigail’s presence was a balm—a tether to familiarity in the sea of artifice swirling around them.
“Lady Brokeshire,” Abigail said, curtsying with just the right amount of flair. “You are radiant this evening. I dare say your chandeliers feel upstaged.”
“Then it’s a mercy they cannot speak,” Gemma replied with a light laugh. “Or the scandal sheets would have headlines by morning.”
Christopher bowed, his usual roguish grin in place. “My compliments to the hosts. It’s not every evening I’m invited to a ball where the chairs match and no one is crying into a syllabub by nine and a half past.”
“Give it time,” Jameson said dryly. “Lady Viola has not yet arrived.”
As if summoned by the very mention of her name, Lady Viola Montford materialised through the parting crowd—resplendent in lilac, with her coiffure elaborate enough to host a small orchestra. Her eyes scanned the room with the precision of a general and the hunger of a gossip starved for novelty.
Gemma’s smile remained in place, though it sharpened at the edges. She could feel Jameson’s posture shift beside her—not a flinch, but something close.
Viola advanced with deliberate grace, pausing just a moment too long before reaching them, ensuring her entrance was seen, felt, and quietly catalogued by those around her.
“My dear Lady Brokeshire,” she purred, her voice smooth as whipped cream laced with arsenic. “What an enchanting affair. I scarcely recognised the place. You’ve quite transformed Brookfield House.”
“Thank you,” Gemma replied evenly. “We did consider hiring a fireworks display, but felt the chandeliers deserved their moment.”
Viola’s lips curled. “Ah, restraint. Such an admirable quality—so rare these days, especially in young wives hosting their first ball.”
Jameson’s hand, resting lightly behind Gemma’s waist, stilled.
“My mother would be gratified to hear it,” Gemma said, tone polite but cool. “She feared I might lean too heavily on spectacle. I assured her that subtlety—like good breeding—cannot be bought.”
Viola’s gaze flicked, ever so slightly, toward Gemma’s pearls. “How wise. And what a lovely set. Are they new?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Gemma replied, her smile widening just a touch. “They were my mother’s. And her mother’s before that.”
“I do love an heirloom,” Viola said, almost wistfully. “So much history in such… small packages.”
Jameson stepped in then, his voice civil and smooth. “Lady Viola, it is a pleasure to welcome you this evening. We do hope you enjoy the entertainment.”
“Oh, I always enjoyobserving,” she said with a smile that could slice marble. “And tonight promises to be quite the performance.”
With a graceful nod and a faint rustle of skirts, she drifted off into the crowd, already scanning for her next target.
Gemma exhaled, careful not to allow it to show. “I believe she’s softened.”
Jameson arched a brow. “Like a dagger wrapped in muslin.”
Abigail, still nearby, gave a helpless laugh. “Remind me to avoid the tea table.”
