Page 1 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 1
The true grief of losing a beloved one lies not merely in the celebrations of birthdays or anniversaries, but in the constant void felt even amongst life's simplest, most ordinary moments.
Take a Tuesday morning for example, with a deafening silence or even a crowded ballroom where one's absence feels louder than the music.
Lord and Lady Ashbury's townhouse was alight with the peak of the Season, the air thick with perfume, laughter, and the clink of crystal. It was teeming with the cream of London society—peeresses clad in the finest of satin, ambitious mamas, and young gentlemen with carefully tousled curls and well-rehearsed compliments.
Amidst them stood Miss Gemma Sinclair, her expression serene and posture immaculate as she engaged in quiet conversation with her dearest companion, Miss Abigail Winfield or at least, she appeared to.
In truth, Gemma was staring somewhere just above Abigail's eyebrows—an expertly chosen point that gave the illusion of rapt attention while her mind wandered elsewhere.
Her late father would have had a name for this expression. "Society Smile No. 3: Alert but Not Invested." He used to tease her about it as she sat through tedious dinner parties with the patience of a governess and the wit of a general.
The memory coaxed a smile to her lips—soft, bittersweet, which quickly disappeared. How different life might have been if he were still alive.
Not far from her, Helena Sinclair hovered like a fretful sparrow adorned in silk. Gemma's mother wore the same pale lilac she had chosen for three seasons in a row. It was a colormeant to symbolize dignity and mourning, though by now it mostly signaled frugality.
Was Helena worrying about her brother? William had disappeared upon their arrival. He had grown accustomed to such acts of making himself scarce at social gatherings lately, and it rendered both Gemma and her mother anxious.
Her mother’s hands clutched her reticule somewhat a bit too tightly, her eyes flitting from guest to guest with barely concealed anxiety. When Helena’s gaze lingered on an eligible bachelor before quickly darting to Gemma, Gemma realized that her mother was not worrying about her brother.
Ah, there it is, Gemma mused silently.The annual Sinclair panic: 'Marry or perish.'
This was her third Season. Statistically speaking, she ought to have been wedded or betrothed by now.
"—and then Lady Harrington had the audacity to suggest her daughter's watercolors were superior to mine," Abigail was saying, her eyes bright with indignation. "As if smudged landscapes and lopsided teacups could compare to my botanical studies."
"Absolutely unforgivable," Gemma replied automatically, her gaze drifting across the ballroom.I wonder how many of these fine gentlemen would still smile and bow if they knew our house is mortgaged to the hilt and William's gambling debts could sink us all.
"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?" Abigail nudged her ribs gently.
Gemma turned, genuinely apologetic. "Forgive me. I was contemplating whether I could fashion a new bonnet from the drawing room curtains. The trim would make a divine embellishment."
"Your resourcefulness never ceases to amaze me." Abigail laughed, the sound bright and free in a way Gemma had almostforgotten to allow herself to laugh freely as well. "Though I was actually telling you that Lord Hampton seems to be looking in your direction with marked interest."
"Lord Hampton is looking in the direction of my dowry, which he incorrectly assumes to be substantial." Gemma sipped her lemonade, the tartness matching her mood. "His estate borders Sinclair Park. He's been eyeing our east fields since Papa’s demise."
"Such cynicism for one so young," Abigail tsked softly. "One might think you—"
Her words died abruptly as a hush fell over the ballroom, as the plethora of guests parted slowly like the Red Sea. Gemma followed her friend's widened gaze to the entrance, where a tall figure now stood beside Lady Belinda Brookfield.
Lord Brookfield, Baron Brokeshire, had arrived.
And so enters the villain of every matchmaking mama's nightmares,Gemma thought, taking in his broad shoulders and the slight dishevelment of his dark hair that seemed too artful to be accidental.
"They say he once climbed out of the Duchess of Merrivale's bedchamber window," Abigail whispered, leaning close. "In nothing but his waistcoat."
"I doubt that very much," Gemma replied dryly. "One would certainly catch a chill in this weather dressed so impractically."
The infamous Baron's ill repute preceded him very much like a foul miasma. Stories of gambling, drinking, and scandalous liaisons with opera dancers, widows, and occasionally both simultaneously. Yet there he stood, looking frustratingly respectable in impeccably tailored evening clothes of midnight blue. His pristine cravat added the final touch to his impeccable attire. His expression bore the look of polite boredom as he surveyed the room with his piercing green eyes, which did not accord with the remainder of his countenance.
Those eyes, they didn't match the rest of him. His eyes possessed a sharp keenness which seemed overly observant for a dissipated rake, such as himself.
"His poor mother," Abigail murmured. "Lady Belinda looks as though she's escorting an untamed wild creature rather than a son."
Indeed, Lady Belinda's smile was varying and brittle as she navigated the social currents around her notorious offspring. She nodded graciously to acquaintances who either pretended not to notice her son or observed him with poorly concealed fascination.
Across the room, Gemma spotted Lord Christopher Hartley, a lean, fair-haired gentleman whose amiable demeanor was much sought after in society circles. To her surprise, Lord Brokeshire made his way directly to Christopher, where the two men and greeted each other in a heartfelt embrace.
