Page 64 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
“…Thorne's threatening to expose the partners. Youknowwhat that would do,” Christopher’s voice murmured harshly.
“He’s bluffing,” came Jameson’s reply—quieter, colder. “He knows exposure burns everyone, including himself.”
“But he’s desperate. If he drags the investors into scandal, the money vanishes. The trust collapses. You’ll be left holding the wreckage.”
A pause.
Then Jameson again. “Which is precisely why I’m doing what must be done. Even if it means involving the board. Even if it means shielding the family with lies.”
Gemma felt the chill settle in her bones as she heard the awful words.
She did not move, not even when their voices began to fade. She simply stood there, one hand still resting on a wilting hydrangea, as the fragments of truth slowly rearranged themselves into something far more dangerous than she had ever imagined.
The last strains of music had long since faded, leaving behind only the echo of laughter and footsteps, distant and fading like dreams at dawn. The ballroom, once a glittering theatre of social pageantry, now stood still—half-shadowed, with only the low flicker of candelabras burning down to stubs.
Gemma stood near the centre of the room, her hands clasped before her, though she felt neither composed nor still. The scent of wax and crushed flowers lingered in the air, cloying.
Jameson entered quietly from the adjoining corridor, his coat unbuttoned, his cravat loosened just slightly in concessionto the late hour. He paused when he saw her, as though surprised to find her waiting.
Or perhaps he had expected it.
Neither spoke at first. The silence between them was not new—it had always lain beneath their every word, their every movement. But now it pulsed with something sharp. Something breaking.
Gemma lifted her gaze to meet his, and her voice, when it came, trembled despite her best efforts.
“I heard you.”
Jameson stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
“In the alcove. Near the floral arrangements.” She swallowed. “You and Christopher were not as discreet as you believed.”
He was silent for a moment, then stepped further into the room. “That was not a conversation intended for you.”
“I gathered,” she said, with a soft, bitter edge. “Most things in this house are not, it seems.”
He exhaled slowly, though his posture remained composed. “Gemma, tonight was not the time.”
“No,” she snapped, her voice rising slightly. “But it has come anyway.”
She took a step forward. Her hands were shaking now, and she made no effort to hide it. “Do not tell me I misunderstood. Do not tell me I imagined the tension every time Thorne entered a room, or the way you and Lord Hartley fall silent when I draw near. Do not insult me with polite evasions. I know something is amiss.”
Jameson did not reply immediately. He looked tired, and more than tired—worn. Not physically, but inwardly. As if a weight long carried had begun to buckle under its own secrecy.
“You spoke of protecting investors,” Gemma continued, her voice lower now, steadier. “Of shielding the family. You spoke oflies. And I have had enough of being the last to understand what game we are playing.”
His gaze met hers—steady, unreadable. “It is not a game.”
“No,” she whispered. “It is not. It is my brother’s ruin. My family’s name. My matrimony.”
Something altered in his expression, a crack in the porcelain smoothness of his façade.
“You are angry,” he said quietly.
“Of course I am angry.” She laughed then, a short, brittle sound. “I am angry and frightened and humiliated. And most of all—” She drew a sharp breath. “I amalonein this matrimony.”
Jameson stepped closer. “You are not alone.”
“You have shut me out from the beginning.” Her eyes shimmered, though no tears fell. “Every word between us is measured. Every kindness offered with caution. And now, when the ground beneath my feet begins to give way, I find you standing not beside me, but ahead of me blocking the truth.”
