Page 67 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 14
It was remarkable, really, how swiftly a room could change.
Only hours earlier, the ballroom had been ablaze with candlelight and conversation, filled with the flutter of silk skirts and the warbling trill of violins. Now, it stood empty save for the two of them—Gemma in her evening gown with one pearl earring slightly askew, and Jameson with his cravat crooked, as though propriety itself had grown weary and gone to bed.
They stood near the fireplace, its embers long cooled, though the space between them now burned with something far more volatile than coal.
Gemma exhaled slowly, her arms folded tightly across her chest—whether to protect her heart or restrain it, she couldn't say. Jameson, no longer quite so rigid in posture, regarded her with the faintest trace of vulnerability breaking through his otherwise maddeningly composed façade.
"I must confess," he said at length, his voice low, "I did not expect to be found out so thoroughly by my own wife."
Gemma arched a brow. "I must confess, I did not expect my husband to have such a flair for secrecy. Or such theatrical taste in moonlit revelations."
His mouth curved—half smile, half something softer. "If you wish to critique my delivery, I shall endeavour to be more forthcoming next time I reveal state secrets."
"Please don't. I rather liked the drama." She paused. "Though I could've done without the business about ruining the family name."
He stepped closer—just a little. "You're handling it exceptionally."
She tilted her chin. "I'm excellent under pressure."
"I had noticed."
There it was again—that quiet shift in the air. The same one she'd felt on the dance floor. A sensation of standing on the edge of something... not perilous, but irreversible.
Jameson's gaze moved over her face with uncharacteristic openness, as though seeing her for the first time—not just the polished figure she presented to the world, but the woman who had pieced together his carefully guarded truths with sharp intellect and a steady heart.
"You are extraordinary, Gemma," he said, as if startled by the realisation.
She blinked. "Well. That is rather sudden."
"It oughtn't be." He stepped nearer. "But it is."
Gemma's heart stuttered and she thought it would be wise to say something clever now. Or distant. Or safe.
But instead, she stood still as his hand rose—slowly, carefully—to brush a curl away from her cheek.
"May I?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
She nodded, because words had become too unruly to trust.
Then he kissed her softly, as if unsure whether the world might allow it.
It was not at all what she'd imagined. Not that she had imagined it often—well, not frequently—but she had assumed a kiss from Jameson Brookfield would be something practiced. Polished. Precisely delivered, like his arguments in Parliament.
Instead, it was gentle, it was so tender that it quite undid her.
Gemma, daughter of viscounts, mistress of fine conversation, keeper of composure in silk and lace, was stunned to discover that a proper kiss could feel… unmooring. As though her bones no longer obeyed her spine. As though the world, for one scandalous moment, spun entirely on the axis of his mouth against hers.
She made a faint noise—half surprise, half surrender—and felt Jameson smile just slightly into the kiss before pulling back, breathless.
They stood close, foreheads nearly touching. Jameson's hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing just beneath her cheekbone. His eyes searched hers, wonderingly.
"I don't know when it happened," he said softly, "but I do believe I've begun to trust again."
Gemma could hardly breathe. "And I… I believe I understand now why women write sonnets about these sorts of things."
He laughed—a warm, surprised sound, rare and unguarded. "Do you plan to compose one? Something rhyming with 'Baron of Broken Trust'?"
