Page 33 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Alone again, Gemma studied her reflection in the mirror. The woman who gazed back seemed somehow different from the one who had left the house that morning. She carried a look of strong determination and purpose.
If Jameson had defended her to William, perhaps there was more to their arrangement than mere convenience. With thatthought warming her like a small flame, Gemma descended to dinner.
The dining room was cavernous for just two people, but Jameson insisted on maintaining proper formality. He stood as she entered, his posture impeccable as always.
"Good evening," he said, voice neutral but not cold.
"Good evening," she replied.
He held her chair, the gesture automatic but not without a certain grace. As she took her seat, she noted the slight tension in his shoulders, the faint line between his brows that suggested a headache.
"I trust your visit with Miss Winfield was pleasant?" he asked as the first course was served, a clear soup that smelled of herbs and comfort.
Gemma was momentarily surprised that he had remembered where she was going. "Yes, very pleasant. Lady Harrington was also visiting."
He raised his eyebrows, amused. "Ah. The indomitable dowager. Did she interrogate you thoroughly?"
"She... asked direct questions."
"And I'm sure she received oblique answers," he said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You are developing a reputation for composed discretion, you know. Lady Blackwood mentioned it at dinner last week."
"Did she?" Gemma asked, genuinely surprised. "I was not aware I had made any impression at all in society."
"You underestimate yourself," Jameson said, his eyes meeting hers briefly before returning to his soup. "Your calm dignity has been noted and approved."
It was perhaps the closest thing to a compliment he had offered since their wedding. Gemma felt a small bloom of pleasure.
"I understand my brother called today," she said, watching him carefully.
Jameson's expression hardened. “Yes. A brief, unproductive conversation."
"About business?"
"Among other things." He signaled to the footman for wine. "Nothing for you to concern yourself with."
"I believe I was mentioned," Gemma persisted gently. "That would seem to concern me."
Jameson's gaze snapped to hers, sharp with surprise.
"The walls have ears, I see," he said. "Yes, you were mentioned. Your brother seems to believe I've somehow swindled him by taking you as my wife. As if you were a particularly valuable asset he failed to properly secure."
Gemma stiffened. "I am not an asset."
"No," Jameson agreed. "You are not."
Their eyes met across the table, something unspoken passing between them. For a moment, Gemma felt as if she were seeing the real man beneath the controlled exterior, someone capable of understanding, perhaps even tenderness.
Then the footman returned with the wine, and the moment dissipated.
The next course arrived, roasted pheasant with glazed carrots and potatoes, and they ate in companionable silence for several minutes.
"Will you attend the Everly ball next week?" Jameson asked eventually.
"I had thought to," Gemma replied. "Abigail—Miss Winfield—is quite looking forward to it."
Jameson nodded. "Good. I shall be there as well. Perhaps..." He hesitated, seeming to choose his words with care. "Perhaps we might share a dance."
The suggestion, so ordinary between husband and wife, felt momentous coming from him. They had danced at their wedding, of course, but it had been a formal, distant affair, both of them too aware of watching eyes to find any pleasure in it.
"I would like that," Gemma said simply.
Jameson looked at her then, really looked, as if seeing her clearly for the first time. Something shifted in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a lessening of that careful distance he always maintained.
"As would I," he said quietly.
The rest of dinner passed with occasional conversation about inconsequential matters, the unusual warmth of the spring weather, a new exhibit at the Royal Academy, a book they had both read. Yet Gemma sensed something had changed. A door had opened, ever so slightly.
Later, as she prepared for bed, Gemma found herself thinking of Lady Harrington's question again. Was she happy? Not yet, perhaps. But it did not seem so distant a possibility now.
