Page 60 of The Baron's Reluctant Bride
Chapter 13
The chandeliers sparkled like a thousand tiny suns above the polished ballroom, their golden light casting a flattering glow upon everything—particularly the expectations of the evening. The Brokeshire Ball had officially begun.
Gemma stood beside Jameson in the receiving line, the embroidered silk of her gown crisp beneath her gloved hands, her expression the picture of practiced serenity. Beneath the surface, however, her heart fluttered like a nervous debutante’s because it was their first ball as husband and wife hosting.
It was one thing to attend such events together, but certainly another entirely to host. Every guest, every glance, every whispered remark might be a measure of their success or failure—not merely as hosts, but as a couple.
Jameson, as always, looked maddeningly unruffled. Impeccably dressed in a black coat and dark green waistcoat, he wore the evening like another finely tailored garment—measured, composed, and just out of reach. His expression betrayed none of the pressure Gemma felt. She wondered—not for the first time—whether anything ever did.
“The chandeliers are holding,” he murmured without looking at her.
She blinked. “Were we expecting them to fall?”
“I always assume the worst. It keeps me pleasantly surprised.”
Gemma glanced up. “Then you’ll be delighted to know the flower arrangements also remain upright.”
A moment of stillness hung in the air before a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth offered a fleeting, indecipherable hintof either amusement or approval and then their first guests were announced.
“Lord and Lady Willoughby.”
Gemma offered a gentle smile as Lady Willoughby swept forward in a sea foam satin gown, accompanied by her husband, who bore the look of a man both deaf and contented by it.
“Lady Willoughby,” Gemma greeted, inclining her head. “How lovely to see you again. Your gown is most becoming.”
“You are too kind, Lady Brokeshire. And what a splendid evening—so elegant. Quite like something from Bath.”
Jameson gave the requisite bow. “Let us hope without the gout.”
There was a pause.
“Indeed,” Lady Willoughby said faintly, before allowing herself to be ushered onward.
“Promising start,” Gemma murmured once they were out of earshot.
“Did I not say I expected disaster?” Jameson replied mildly.
Before she could reply, Helena appeared in the archway, announced with as much pomp as a dowager might reasonably expect. Her gown—lavender silk with a lace fichu—shimmered under the lights. But it was her expression, half-pride and half-sentiment that struck Gemma most.
“My darling,” Helena said softly, embracing her daughter with gloved hands that trembled only slightly. “You look every inch a viscount’s daughter—and every inch a baron’s wife.”
Gemma smiled, though it felt fragile. “Thank you, Mama.”
Jameson bowed. “Lady Sinclair.”
Helena’s eyes narrowed—just slightly—but she nodded. “Lord Brokeshire. I shall assume your part in all this was… minimal?”
“I have been known to approve floral budgets.”
“Remarkable,” Helena replied. “A skill my late husband never mastered.”
“Mama, I believe the musicians are beginning to tune. You ought to look at the quartet Jameson hired from Paris.”
Helena smiled and made her way towards the musicians with a look that promised future interrogations were awaiting.
As the receiving line continued, guests began to pour in at a steady pace—names and titles were given and Gemma barely had time to register. Her smile remained perfectly poised, but inwardly she was taking note of everything—who seemed impressed, who looked for flaws, who lingered at Jameson’s side with too much familiarity.
She was aware, always, of the eyes upon them and of how very husband and wife they must appear.
