Page 10 of Miss Davis and the Spare (Dazzling Debutantes #3)

Chapter Nine

“It is despicable how you treat the boy. Allow me to take him to my home and educate him properly.”

July 1809, Peregrine’s maternal grandfather to the late Earl of Saunton, on the boy’s fourteenth birthday.

* * *

W hen Perry awoke, he found that the weather had turned gloomy overnight. A torrent of deafening rain roared against the roof and windows so that one could barely hear one’s own thoughts. Perfectly fitting for his dark mood.

His valet cheerfully dressed him, chattering on about the heavy downfall and how it had prevented Cook from going to market, despite Perry’s best attempts to glower him into silence.

Eventually, he made his way downstairs to the breakfast room, feeling far worse for wear. He had drunk wine until the early hours with Trafford, who had waxed poetic about a widow he was currently pursuing—and even read aloud some rather pitiful verse he had composed for the inane woman.

It had all been intolerable, hence the wine. He had even contemplated seeking out Lady Slight. Just a fortnight earlier, he had enthusiastically visited the woman at her townhouse in Grosvenor Square, but now the thought of returning to her was singularly unappealing—for reasons he preferred not to examine. The widow, it seemed, had lost her allure.

So he had drunk and debated and smoked cigars until he was sure everyone at Balfour Terrace had long since retired, returning home at last to stumble into his room in the family wing.

Now, near midday, he squinted against the glare in the breakfast room, where every available lamp and candle had been lit to ward off the dismal gloom. He was dismayed to find the entire family present—including the Davis sisters. His brother and Jane sipped coffee, while the countess tackled a hearty portion of eggs and ham with obvious enthusiasm, no doubt due to her current condition. Emma sat quietly, sipping her tea, while Ethan babbled ceaselessly, each syllable another hammer-blow to Perry’s aching head.

He had hoped to avoid them all by coming down late, but they must have either risen late themselves—or, worse, waited for him to eat.

He passed the chattering assembly without a word of greeting, nearly tripping over the chair piled with cushions so that Ethan could reach the table. Clenching his jaw in repressed irritation, he skirted around his nephew and made his way to the sideboard, dishing up a generous portion of eggs and ham and adding a thick slice of toast.

Returning to his usual seat, he scowled in confusion at the wrapped package resting on the table before him.

“What is this?” His tone was hostile—he heard it himself—but a sinking feeling gripped him, warning that something deeply unwanted was about to occur.

Emma, seated directly across from him, leaned forward slightly to examine the package he indicated with his fork. “It is a birthday present—from Jane and me. Sophia mentioned the occasion after dinner. Our family always makes a bit of a fuss, so we thought …” She gave a small shrug.

His chest tightened. His jaw slackened.

It had been ten years since anyone had acknowledged his birthday.

Ten years since he had walked in on his father with the village girl. The last birthday that had meant anything at all—before his father’s descent into madness.

Panic rose, swift and choking.

There was no fifteenth birthday. That day does not exist.

He repeated it in his mind like a litany until the ache in his chest eased and the memory retreated.

“I do not want it,” he snapped.

The room fell silent. All chatter ceased. The clink of cutlery halted. Everyone stared.

His brother’s brow furrowed with concern that Perry neither wanted nor deserved. He only needed to be left alone. To forget. Not to pretend he was someone worthy of kindness. Of love. He was a dark soul, and there was no redemption in store for him.

Emma calmly reached across the table and picked up the package. “We did not mean to offend you. We thought it would be a kind gesture.”

“Feeling guilty for your ingratitude, more likely,” he sneered.

The words were cruel. He nearly winced at himself. He was being a belligerent bounder. But he needed these overtures to stop.

Emma lifted a hand to her brow and looked down at the linen-wrapped gift with an air of disappointment. He hated himself for the expression on her face.

Richard spoke, trying to ease the moment. “Brother, this is my fault. I told them you would appreciate it. Please, sit and have breakfast in peace.”

But Perry could not. He shoved back his chair, nearly knocking it over, and stalked out of the room without another word. His face burned. His thoughts were a tangle of shame and fury. He needed—desperately—to find a drink.

* * *

Perry sat alone in the narrow library, staring at the brandy he had poured. At present, he was merely a man who had poured a drink before midday.

But if he drank it …

If he drank it …

If I drink it, I become my father.

His brother’s recent crisis over the same matter, just a few months prior, suddenly made a sickening sort of sense. Perry would pay any price not to become the man who had sired them.

Light footsteps echoed on the parquet flooring, soft and certain. He knew who it was without turning.

“Did I do something wrong?”

He dropped his head into his hands. “No, Emma.”

“Oh.”

He exhaled slowly. “My birthdays have never been joyful occasions. I do my best to forget them. You took me by surprise, and … too many unwanted memories surfaced at once.”

Her skirts rustled as she came nearer, then she slipped quietly into the chair beside him. He breathed in the subtle scent of chamomile and wildflowers. The darkness within him eased, just slightly. His shoulders relaxed.

Still staring blankly at the rows of book-laden shelves, he clenched his jaw and preempted the words forming on her lips. “I apologize for my ingratitude. It was thoughtful of you.”

“Thank you. I am sorry your birthdays have been so horrid.”

He curved his mouth into a humorless smile. The books across from him stared back with stoic indifference, unmoved by the moment, just as they had been unmoved by all the years before.

“Will you give us lessons today?”

“I shall.”

“If you would prefer to take the day … although it is raining, and?—”

“I would rather remain busy.”

“Oh.”

Perry stilled. Emma acquiescing so easily unsettled him. Next, she would offer comfort, perhaps friendship. And from there, it would be but a short, fatal step toward … more.

And that must not happen.

He turned his eyes to her. “It is pronounced rain, by the way.”

“What is?”

“You said rah-ahning. It is raining. Rhymes with Spain.”

To his annoyance, Emma took no offense.

“Truly? I never noticed! Rah-ahn … Spain … ray-ahn … Spain … raaayn … Spain … rain … Spain.” Her face lit up. “Did I say it correctly?”

“You did.” He arched a brow. “Why is your hair still untamed?”

He watched her stiffen at the jab. “The earl does not currently employ a lady’s maid, so his man of business will be hiring one for us.”

“Ah, yes. My brother did very little entertaining before he married. Except, of course, for single female visitors of a particular persuasion.”

Emma scowled, as he had expected. At his indelicate innuendo, she stood abruptly.

“I shall be in the breakfast room with Jane when you are ready.”

She stomped from the room, her steps heavy with irritation.

Perry grinned, suddenly buoyant. It was so very easy to bait her.

* * *

Taking hold of Perry’s hand, Emma stepped into his embrace. He led her through several steps before sweeping her into a twirl—only for Emma to land squarely on his foot. Perry yelped, squeezing his eyes shut as his square jaw tensed.

“I apologize.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“Why would I do that?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

“Because you are angry with me, and instead of expressing it, you have chosen to passively attack me every chance you get.”

“That sounds far too complicated. A simpler explanation might be that I am clumsy and not very good at dancing.”

He glared down at her, resentment stiffening every line of his six-foot-something frame. Emma sucked in a breath as she stared into those startling eyes—emerald green flecked with gold—even in the midst of mutual vexation.

The music from the pianoforte came to an abrupt halt.

“I am so tired!” Jane’s lament interrupted their eye combat.

In unison, they turned to find her slumped over the bench, fatigue writ large on her features.

“Are you still having trouble sleeping?” Emma’s brow furrowed. Jane rarely struggled to sleep. She could relax in the middle of a thunderstorm, or a family debate about crop rotations.

“Ever since arriving in London, I cannot sleep until the sun rises. Perhaps it is all the excitement. I fear I cannot play another note!”

Perry’s deep voice sent a traitorous shiver across Emma’s skin. “I need to practise the steps with Emma. You may rest, Jane. Until she masters the basic movements, there will be no further advancement, so I will simply count out the beat.”

Jane nodded and stood, smoothing her skirts. Even in exhaustion, she looked elegant. She drifted across the room and curled up on a nearby chaise.

Turning back to Emma, Perry drew a breath, visibly composing himself. “Can you make a sincere effort to learn the steps?”

“I am such a lummox. I shall never learn this,” she muttered.

He sighed. “Emma, the inability to dance is not a character flaw. It is a matter of persistence and practice. This might be more difficult for you than for some, but you can do it.”

Emma inclined her head. Perhaps she could try harder.

Perry began to count in a low, steady voice. “One, two, three—confound it!”

He broke away, limping several steps as he tried to conceal his agony. Emma winced.

“I am sorry.”

“We have been at this for an hour, and I swear you grow heavier with each step. For such a little thing, you are astonishingly solid. Where do you pack all that weigh?—”

His gaze dipped. A strange expression flickered over his face, and he abruptly bit off the rest of the sentence.

Emma looked down. Had she spilled tea on herself at breakfast? She craned her neck to peer down her bodice, then raised a single brow at him.

Perry was now staring at his boots, muttering to himself.

“Perhaps it is cumulative?”

He blinked, confused. “Pardon?”

“Perhaps each time I step on your foot, the pain accumulates?”

“Perhaps,” he snapped. “Or perhaps you are deliberately stomping harder every time.”

“Do not be ridiculous. I would never hurt you on purpose. Tell him, Ja?—”

A nasal snore interrupted her. They turned to the chaise to find Jane fast asleep, her mouth open in unflattering repose.

Perry stared. “Does your sister require a physician?”

“I do not know. She seems fine except for failing to sleep at night. Perhaps a little more excitable than usual, but mostly herself. I think the anticipation of the ball must be keeping her up.” Just the previous morning, the earl had announced his intention to host a ball, the first to be held at Balfour Terrace—or any Saunton holding—since Richard had inherited the title. It was to be attended by friendly peers and allow her and Jane to practice their entrance to society among familiar faces. Familiar to the earl and Sophia, that was, not Emma and Jane. Jane had clapped her hands in gleeful pleasure at the news, while Emma had prevented a groan from escaping her lips. She had not wanted to sound ungrateful.

“I suppose she will fit right in with the usual Season schedule, then.”

“Late to bed, late to rise?”

“Of course. No person of good breeding is familiar with early morning,” Perry quipped.

“Well, that settles it. I do not belong here. I still rise early every morning!”

Perry frowned in disagreement. “It was a jest. Richard himself goes riding at sunrise since you arrived and Ethan is sleeping through the night.”

Emma quelled her own irritation. Irritation that Perry still teased her. Irritation that she could not master the simple steps of the waltz. Irritation that she was so utterly distracted by the pleasure of being encircled in his powerful embrace that she simply could not calculate where her feet were supposed to land each time he attempted to tutor her. Not to mention irritation that she still wore her frumpy gowns, while he was so perfectly attired every time she saw him.

He looked especially fine, despite his sour mood, in his buckskins, snowy linen, and navy wool coat, while she still wore her worn-out muslin. Pursing her lips in displeasure, she breathed in deeply through her nose to settle her nerves.

“If you will be patient with me, we can try again.”

Perry walked back and placed his hand on her waist. Once again, her heart fluttered at the feel of his warmth seeping into her skin. Blowing a fortifying breath, she willed herself to concentrate as he took up her hand in his.

“One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three …”

Somehow, this time, perhaps in the absence of music to distract her, Emma stepped in time and they completed several repetitions without incident. As they drew to a halt, she laughed joyfully, looking up at him. “We did it!”

Perry bent his head to look down at her, a strange expression crossing his face as his eyes dipped to her chin. Emma froze in anticipatory silence, barely daring to draw breath as the moment stretched into eternity. As slowly as the movement of the sun across the sky, he lowered his head. In dizzying delight, she realized… “Are you going to kiss m mphh ?—”

All further words were cut off as his warm, firm lips found hers and Emma received her very first kiss.

Quivering delight spread from her lips. In raptures, she raised herself onto her toes to press closer to him, his spicy scent entrancing her senses. Dropping her hand, his arms gathered her closer, bands of steel and muscle as he encircled her and lifted her off her feet to press his lips to hers. Emma was dizzy with sensation, reminding herself to breathe, taking in air before losing herself further into the maelstrom as her hands stole over his broad shoulders.

She murmured in surprise when their kiss deepened. He tasted of coffee and fruit as he gave a low growl of approval, intensifying her own response.

“I have dreamed of this …” he whispered in her feverish skin as he nuzzled her cheek.

A loud snore caught Emma’s attention. In a daze, she remembered her sister—her innocent, younger sister—was just fifteen feet away and could awaken at any moment. Perry sluggishly raised his head. His eyes slowly regained focus.

A look of rousing horror crossed his visage while she continued to gaze up at him and he down at her. Slowly, he stepped back and, for several moments, they just stared at each other.

“I … shall … see you tomorrow … at breakfast.” With that, he sank into a tense bow before bolting out the door. Emma watched his exit with dazed delight, lifting her fingers to stroke her lips in bemusement.

She had fervently wished to be the object of his interest if even for a few moments, and it would seem that she had received far more than she had bargained for when she made her plea to the universe.

Perry definitely was interested in her. Now that she possessed such knowledge, she would need to ensure she did not act on it. He was a rogue, and he would never pursue an honorable courtship with her. If he were ever to marry, it certainly would not be to a country mouse with tangled hair and atrocious style. It would appear she had wished for fire, and now … now it threatened to envelop her entirely.