Page 11 of Miss Davis and the Spare (Dazzling Debutantes #3)

Chapter Ten

“A real man does not concern himself with the feelings or emotions of women or other inferiors. It makes him appear weak. Fear not, son, I will teach you to be a true gentleman.”

July 1810, the late Earl of Saunton to his son, Peregrine, on his fifteenth birthday.

* * *

“I am warning you, Emma! If you snap at me one more time, I shall plant you a facer, and you will have to explain to the Balfours why your eye is blackened!”

Emma sighed heavily and slumped back in her chair. “I am truly sorry.”

“I must confess it flabbergasted me when you insisted we sit in the drawing room and embroider. You hate to embroider. Is that why you are such poor company today, or is there another reason?”

Emma stared down at the tangle of threads stretched over her embroidery frame and chose to obfuscate. “It is so frustrating that I never improve at this.”

“You never improve because you attack it in the same ill-advised manner each time. If this were any other subject, you would take a moment to reflect, perhaps approach it differently, with patience—but we both know you have no true interest in needlework.”

Emma had hoped it would distract her from the embrace with Perry, after reading had failed to settle her thoughts. Jane was right. She had attacked the embroidery in a frenzy, all while stinging her blameless sister with sharp words. Carefully, she picked at a poorly placed thread to remove it.

Jane lowered her head and resumed her needlework, which looked faultless. “So … the embroidery is the reason for your foul mood?”

Emma licked her lips. “Of course.”

“So, it has nothing to do with the fact that Perry left during our dancing lesson?”

She hesitated. “Of course not.”

“Or that he kissed you?”

Emma stabbed her thumb with the needle, dropping her embroidery frame as she flushed in humiliation. Her eyes remained lowered as she mumbled, “How do you know that?”

“I was only pretending to sleep for the final few moments. I pretended to snore as a discreet way to interrupt, once it became clear the two of you needed to be interrupted.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I knew there was something between the two of you. But what does it all signify? Will he court you?”

Emma groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “That seems rather far-fetched. He is a rogue, after all.”

“Not that far-fetched. The earl had a terrible reputation, but it is clear he is reformed. He spends all his time with Sophia and Ethan when he is not engaged in business. Who is to say that Perry is not prepared to follow his brother’s example?”

Emma raised her head and contemplated the Monnoyer still life above the fireplace. It was exquisite in its detail—a vase overflowing with trailing blooms. The riot of colors—from blossom pink to turkey red and deep burgundies—felt more lifelike than any painting ought. She imagined, for a moment, what she might look like in a gown of such richness, while she tried to untangle the knot of feelings in her chest.

“I dare not hope for such a thing,” she said at last. “I cannot allow myself to fall in love with a man I cannot rely on. It would break my heart.”

Jane tilted her head, her eyes thoughtful. “That is a possibility, then? That you could see yourself falling in love with Peregrine Balfour?”

“I admire him, despite his excesses. He is intelligent and … he possesses so much potential, if he could only apply himself.”

“Oh, my goodness,” Jane breathed. “I would never have thought of such a man for you, but now that I have seen you together … it is clear there is a connection. A deep one. Perhaps?—”

Emma waited, but Jane left the thought trembling in the air like the rain clouds pressing against the windows.

“Perhaps?” she prompted gently.

“Well, you love lively debate, and he is an enigma—a challenge, if you will. As for his interest in you—you are steadfast, loyal, the very essence of reliability. Perhaps the orphan in him seeks your attention.”

“Orphan? You are so fanciful, Jane.”

“The man was barely five when his mother passed away, and his father died while he was still a lad. Perhaps he was one of those boys kept in the nursery, entirely neglected by a cold father. Is it truly inconceivable that Perry is starved for love and affection? And we both know there is something dark in his past—just look at his temper this morning at breakfast. Who has their day ruined by receiving a gift? There is a story there. A compelling one.”

Emma squinted at her sister in surprise. “When did you grow so insightful?”

“I am a woman now. You just never noticed because you still think of me as your little sister. But I have grown up, surrounded by love, and I can see that not everyone has been as fortunate. One day, I hope to have a large family of my own. The Davises have much to bring to the world, Emma—in how we love, in how we live.”

“Yes, you do have much to bring,” Emma replied softly. “And I apologize if I have condescended to you in the past.”

Jane waved her embroidery frame in the air with a dramatic flick. “Forget about it. It is the natural order of things for big sisters to mother their siblings. But do not think I missed your deflection. I stand by what I said: you have much to offer that gentleman. It would not surprise me if something develops—despite your best intentions to protect your pride.”

“ Pride! ”

“Sister, it is no secret in our family that you are so terrified of embarrassing yourself that you avoid socializing entirely. You are intelligent and enterprising, but you could be more adventurous—willing to pursue your own path outside of Papa’s interests.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “What the blazes, Jane?”

Jane shook her head in gentle reproach before setting aside her frame and needle. She picked up her cup of coffee and sipped deeply, then returned it to the saucer with calm precision.

“It is not ladylike to curse,” she murmured primly. “Mama made me promise I would encourage you to meet gentlemen and try new things.”

“What? She made me promise to protect you!”

“Then we both have our orders, do we not?” Jane said sweetly. “And I believe you should take a chance on love.”

Emma’s gaze turned wary. “Jane, I appreciate that you are an optimist. But I cannot give my heart to a man who cannot love me back.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” her sister replied, unabashed.

Emma let out a long, regretful breath. Jane’s advice was terrible—well-meaning, yes, but hopelessly misguided. They both liked Perry, that much was true. But Jane believed in a future that could never be. His behavior that very morning had proven it: fleeing their embrace like a frightened rabbit. That was not the act of a man intent on courtship.

No. Emma would stick to her original plan. She had come to London to help Jane meet a suitable young man, and once that was done, she would return to the comfort and safety of Rose Ash Manor. There, she would assist Papa with the new estate, just as she always had.

And if foolish, romantic fantasies of a life with the enigmatic Mr. Balfour teased her thoughts—well, she would sweep them into the farthest corners of her mind.

They were nothing more than dreams.

* * *

Trafford wavered unsteadily on his feet as he concluded his rambling recital, flinging out one arm with drunken flourish and inadvertently flinging droplets of claret onto Perry’s head. A few men seated around the glossy walnut table offered a lackluster clap. Trafford bowed dramatically, then collapsed into his creaking chair with the smugness of a man who fancied himself Byron reborn.

Perry stared into his own burgundy-hued wine, feeling as though it were staring back—mocking him. He felt hollow. Again. Always.

He wondered what Emma was doing at that very moment.

The other men launched into an amicable quarrel over whose verse was the most inspired—Perry stifled a groan. The evening was devolving into absurdity. If he could trust himself in her company, he would be at Balfour Terrace, perhaps seated across from her in the drawing room, engaged in the kind of sparkling debate he had come to crave.

But no. He could not risk her. Everything he touched eventually wilted or burned. His very presence seemed to stain the good in others. His brother was the only soul who had survived him unscathed—and even that had been a close call.

The flickering sconces on the dark panelled walls did little to illuminate the corners of the room, where tobacco smoke curled lazily above velvet armchairs and lacquered card tables. The hum of male voices mixed with the clink of cut crystal, muffled by thick Turkish rugs. White’s was exclusive, prestigious, and filled with men who fancied themselves philosophers—but Perry saw only masks. He was tired of masks.

He could not allow Emma to be dragged into the shadowy pit that was his past. To desire her was perilous. To act on that desire would be unforgivable.

Confound it! Stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about her.

Brendan Ridley leaned closer across the table, lowering his voice beneath the din. “Is it just me, or have these evenings grown particularly asinine of late?”

Perry huffed out a breath. “Perhaps. Or perhaps it is our own state of mind that is shifting.”

Ridley frowned. “Hmmm. I do not know. After our little carouse the other night, I felt positively wretched. I cannot even remember what prompted us to drink that much.”

“That might have been my fault,” Perry admitted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I was in a foul mood and encouraged a handful of idiotic drinking games. I sought to forget my thoughts by drowning them.”

Ridley’s brow furrowed, eyes glassy under the flicker of lamplight. His chestnut hair fell in loose waves over his collar as he tilted his head, trying to recollect. A long-time friend of Richard’s from their Eton days, Ridley had married into the extended family when his sister wed their cousin, the Duke of Halmesbury. A good man, despite his frequent flirtations with mischief.

“Did we go to Balfour Terrace that night?” he asked cautiously.

“We did.”

“Blazes.” Ridley looked alarmed. “I cannot recollect a single moment.”

“We were only there briefly. You said very little.”

Another drunken clubman rose unsteadily to perform a loud, horrendous ode to a barmaid in Kensington. Perry winced at the rhymes, then turned back to Ridley—who had not yet dropped the thread of their conversation.

“Why are you so maudlin, friend?” Ridley asked, studying him.

“I am thinking about a woman.”

Ridley grinned. “Ah, well then! That I can help with. I happened to encounter Lady Slight, and she mentioned you—glowingly. Apparently, you spent a memorable night together last month?”

Perry gave a noncommittal shrug. “It was … pleasant.” But not memorable. Certainly not in comparison to?—

“Well, it is not how the widow remembers it. She would be delighted to receive another visit. I could not even charm my way through her door in your stead. She remains rather taken with you.”

“I did not mean I am thinking of women.” Perry drew a long breath. “I meant one woman. Singular.”

Ridley’s grin faded as comprehension dawned. “Ah. A particular young lady has caught your attention?”

“Yes. But there is nothing to be done about it.” The confession left Perry’s mouth before he could second-guess himself. It was a strange relief to speak the truth aloud, if only once. He could not tell Richard, of course. His brother would immediately intervene to end the acquaintance. And perhaps he should. But Perry was not ready. Not yet.

“She is unavailable?” Ridley asked. “Do I know her?”

“You met her the other night. At Balfour Terrace.”

Ridley blinked, confused. “I do not remember meeting anyone. I thought Saunton no longer permitted loose women near the family wing?”

Perry’s gaze sharpened. “She is not a loose woman. She is a houseguest. Saunton and the countess are sponsoring her for the Season.”

Ridley sat back slowly in his chair, the color draining from his face. “Good Lord, Perry. Tell me you are not taken with a young lady?”

Perry cleared his throat, stiffening his spine. “It will pass.”

“Blazes, I hope so,” Ridley muttered. “You are younger than I am! Please do not tell me you are considering the parson’s noose. What would I do with myself? Left alone in the company of these buffoons?” He gestured toward the other club members—one of whom had begun weeping in earnest over his own ode to a lost mistress.

Perry summoned a mirthless chuckle. “Never fear. It will pass. No young lady deserves the likes of me.”

A flicker of genuine concern passed across Ridley’s features, but Perry raised his glass quickly in a toast to forestall further inquiry. He could not afford sympathy tonight.

Not when his heart already lay in pieces on the drawing room floor of Balfour Terrace.

* * *

“One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two, three.” As the music came to a close, Perry drew them to a halt.

When they stopped fully, Emma’s face lit up, her coal-black eyes shining as he stepped back and released her hand. “I did it! I completed the entire set!”

“You did. You were remarkable.”

“Thank you so much, Perry. You have been a wonderful instructor.”

“I concur,” Jane called from the pianoforte. “I have tried to teach Emma many times, to no avail. You have performed a miracle.”

Perry suppressed the swell of pride her words stirred. “Emma deserves the praise. She has worked very hard at this.”

“I could not have done it without you. You are … an excellent dancer.” Emma dropped her gaze, a becoming flush blooming on her cheeks.

Perry’s pulse kicked. Was she thinking about the kiss, as he was? He had labored to keep it from his thoughts, avoiding any time alone with her, terrified he would yield to the temptation to kiss her again—worse, to seduce her. She responded with such fiery innocence, and he had no right to kindle that flame.

She was meant for a gentleman. A true gentleman. One with honor and a future, who would marry her and give her a home and children. Perry had nothing to offer but charm, regrets, and a family name he barely deserved.

“If we are finished for today, I would dearly love to take a nap.” Jane’s interruption was pointed.

Emma frowned. “You did not sleep again?”

“I did not. Who can sleep when our first ball is nearly upon us?”

“You do not want to attend with dark circles under your eyes.”

“Precisely. That is why I wish to lie down.” Jane’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “In fact, you finish discussing any further preparation for the dances, and I will leave you to it.”

Perry narrowed his eyes, suspicion rising. Jane was matchmaking. That had been no casual exit.

I am alone with Emma.

His breath shortened. Every fiber of his being was straining with awareness. Days of waltzing instruction, hands on her waist, her perfume in his lungs, the way her eyes danced when she caught on to a step. He longed to devour her again. The taste of her lips haunted him.

He must leave. Now.

He turned toward the door.

“Are we ever going to speak about it?” Her voice was low, tremulous—but it stopped him as effectively as a shout.

“Speak about what?” He kept his face averted. He dare not look at her—his wild, glorious creature with storm-dark curls and eyes that unpicked every knot of his soul. One glimpse and he might forget every vow he had made to protect her from himself.

“The kiss. Our kiss.” The words were scarcely above a whisper.

He swallowed hard. They were not meant to be alone. He had no plan for this moment.

“Jane thinks you could be honorable. That you might court me, if you were encouraged.”

His chest ached. How he wanted to deserve her. But he could not. He must not.

“You think I am dishonorable?” he asked, hoarse.

“I do not know. I think you are invested with much potential, but you bury it so deep only the most astute observers can see it.”

He flinched. Potential? No, she was wrong. She might be brilliant, but she did not know him. Not truly.

Spinning, he stalked toward her and leaned over her chair, his voice harsh. “I am acting with honor, Emma. I have stayed away from you, have I not? There are no hidden depths to plumb. What you see—” he threw out his arms, presenting himself like a rogue on a stage—“is all there is. So no. We shall not discuss what happened. And we certainly shall not spend time alone.”

He turned on his heel and strode into the corridor, slamming the door behind him.

The flash of pain in her eyes would haunt him. But it was better this way. He would rather bruise her heart now than destroy her completely later.