Page 12 of Miss Davis and the Spare (Dazzling Debutantes #3)

Chapter Eleven

“He died. Did I forget to mention it? My memory is not what it used to be.”

July 1811, the late—and frail—Earl of Saunton, to his son, Peregrine, on his sixteenth birthday, in response to a query about his maternal grandfather.

* * *

A fter the dancing lesson, Emma had little time to dwell on her interaction with Perry or his remark about lacking depth. The first delivery of their gowns had arrived, much to her relief. The Duke and Duchess of Halmesbury were expected for dinner, and she had been terrified that she might be forced to wear one of her frumpy frocks, despite Signora Ricci’s confident assurances of timely delivery.

The countess had arranged for her lady’s maid to assist Emma and Jane in dressing for dinner—a complicated feat for one abigail to prepare three ladies. Sophia had adjourned to her chambers early to ensure there would be ample time for everyone.

Emma lifted her hand to toy with an errant curl, her nerves fluttering. She could only hope that Miss Toussaint could repeat the prior miracle with the hair tonic, despite the limited time at hand.

Ethan moved a chess piece on the board between them, his small brow furrowed in fierce concentration. After a careful moment, he released the knight to complete his move. “And then,” he continued, his voice dropping in pitch as he checked for eavesdroppers, “Papa galloped in Hyde Park!”

Emma gasped. “What? That was terribly naughty!”

“Papa said it was sunrise and the park was mostly empty, so we could risk it for a few minutes.”

Across the room, the earl raised his head from the book he was writing in. “Ethan! That was meant to be a secret,” he said in an admonishing tone that held more amusement than reproof. “Now Emma will think we are ne’er-do-wells who flout the rules of Hyde Park.”

Ethan’s brows knit. “What is a nair-air-dwell ?”

“It is a little boy who makes his papa look like a scoundrel in front of the ladies,” Richard replied with a theatrical sigh.

“What is a scown-drill ?”

Chuckling, the earl rose and crossed the room. Leaning down, he scooped Ethan up into his arms. The boy squirmed and giggled in protest. “Papa! I am in the middle of a game!”

“Chess is for little lads who keep their secrets. Come along. I shall teach you the meanings of your new vocabulary.”

“Are we really nair-air … dwells?”

“How about I explain it first and you may decide for yourself?”

Emma watched their affectionate exchange with a sharp pang of longing. Would Perry one day have a son? Would the boy have dark curls and piercing green eyes like Ethan? A lump formed in her throat. Would she ever have a son of her own? She pressed her lips together, the sudden wash of emotion threatening to rise.

Desperate for a distraction, she stood abruptly and summoned Jane to join her in their chambers to await their turn with Miss Toussaint.

Two hours later, she tilted her head from side to side in front of the mirror, taking in the unfamiliar figure reflected back at her.

“You look so beautiful, Emma!” Jane’s voice was thick with emotion.

Emma turned, startled. “Are you crying?”

“It is just … I have never seen you like this. Sophia!”

Her sister’s voice trembled as she called for the countess, who came to stand behind Emma. Her reflection appeared in the mirror beside them as Emma stared, hardly believing her own eyes.

“Signora Ricci is an artiste,” Sophia murmured. “The cut of the dress perfectly suits your figure, and that color—Mazarine blue silk—” she bit her lip.

Emma turned her head. “Are you going to cry, too?”

“You just look so beautiful,” Sophia whispered, her eyes glistening.

Miss Toussaint had tamed Emma’s hair into a cascade of glossy curls, artfully mounted into an elegant coiffure. Along with the deep blue silk of the gracefully draped gown, Emma was forced to admit that she had never looked so comely—despite her mild discomfort at the low-cut bodice, which revealed the upper slope of her bosom. She was, quite possibly, fit to meet a duke—a peer second only to royalty.

“If you are concerned about meeting the duke, do not be. He is the kindest gentleman of my acquaintance,” Sophia assured her gently. “He and the duchess are fully aware that this is a practice dinner for you both, and they will do everything they can to set you at ease.”

Emma smiled at Sophia’s reflection in the mirror. The Balfours had turned out to be as generous and warm as her own family, and despite her earlier misgivings, she was profoundly grateful for all they had done.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “For everything.”

Sophia looked close to tears again. She cleared her throat and touched her middle in that same protective gesture Emma had noticed more and more of late. “It has been our great pleasure, Emma. What you did for Ethan can never be repaid. The earl is … so relieved that his unintentional neglect has caused no lasting harm. A family like yours, cherishing our boy until we knew he existed … it is more than we could have hoped for. You nurtured his character—and his genius.”

Emma gave a tremulous smile, blinking back the tears that stung her own eyes.

“Goodness! Look at us.” Sophia reached for a handkerchief and gave a little laugh. “We are turning into watering pots. Come. We must go down and prepare for the arrival of the duke and duchess.”

She ushered them from Emma’s room, and Emma took a moment to smooth her skirts. She could not help hoping that Perry would be at dinner, despite her very best intentions to keep her distance from the rogue. If he had found her desirable before, what would he think of her now—elegantly attired and coiffed like any other lady of fashion?

The evening began without incident. The Duke of Halmesbury was warm and composed, with the imposing appearance of a Viking god, towering over the earl and even Perry. The duchess was a genial young woman with unusual brandy-colored eyes that glinted beneath the gaslights. But Emma barely noticed the impressive couple after Perry entered the drawing room.

His emerald gaze had found her instantly—and to her great, irrepressible gratification, it had remained fixed on her for the rest of the evening.

They were seated beside one another at dinner, and he kept her engaged in animated conversation while the footmen served the first course. Despite her earlier resolve, Emma could not help but bloom beneath the glow of his attention. For the first time in her life, she felt beautiful.

“Thank you, Timothy, but I shall not have the soup tonight.”

Perry’s confident voice rang out, cutting through the hum of conversation. The footman froze in confusion, halfway to placing the bowl before him. The table quieted. Perry’s smirk was unmistakable as he met Emma’s startled gaze.

“It was a jest, Timothy. You may leave the soup.”

The servant exhaled in visible relief and lowered the bowl gently before retreating. The other guests resumed their conversation as though nothing had occurred.

Emma thumped him lightly on the thigh beneath the table with the back of her fist. “You did that to make fun of me!” she whispered.

Perry grinned, boyishly pleased with himself. The soft lighting made his features appear younger, less guarded.

“I merely demonstrated what would happen if you ever dared disdain the soup.”

She pressed her lips together to smother the giggle building in her throat. “In that case, Sir Galahad, I thank you for sparing me from the gravest of social crimes.”

“Heaven forfend you commit social suicide over a bowl of broth.”

The giggle escaped. She laughed aloud, and the sound was a delight—light, silvery, and so unforced that it seemed to catch even the duchess’s notice across the table, who smiled faintly at her.

Emma flushed, dipping her head to sip her soup from the side of her silver spoon like the well-coached lady she was trying so very hard to be.

* * *

Perry was enjoying dinner with Emma at his side in the lavish Saunton dining room. Not in the practiced, feigned manner he had cultivated over the years to conceal his thoughts—but genuinely, viscerally enjoying her company.

From the moment he had entered the drawing room earlier, he had seen the difference in her. His wildflower had found her confidence. She stood with poise, her chin lifted, her gaze bright. The transformation was not only in the graceful fall of her Mazarine-blue gown or the artful sweep of her dark curls. No, it was something internal—a glow from within that rendered her incandescent.

He had made certain to arrange a seat beside her for dinner. How could he not? She had pulled him into her orbit, and there was no use pretending he wished to resist it.

After his jest with the soup, she had thumped his thigh beneath the table, and it had taken every scrap of his control not to seize her hand in his own and trace the elegant curve of her fingers. Bare fingers. She had removed her gloves for dinner, and the sight of her unadorned skin was enough to distract him with the notion of how soft her skin would feel against his.

He clenched his jaw, suppressing the surge of whimsy. It was no longer mere fascination. He was, he feared, falling into infatuation. Despite his best intentions to stay away—to protect her from his darker inclinations—he had failed miserably. He was a moth to her flame, and the worst part was that he no longer wished to pull back.

Emma leaned in with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Did you notice that Jane and I both sipped the soup from the side of our spoons? Without instruction or supervision? I believe we might be ready to dine without your constant oversight, Mr. Balfour.”

Perry chuckled, the sound low and warm, but his focus remained on the graceful slope of her neck. The candlelight danced across her skin, golden and tempting. He dragged his gaze higher with effort, avoiding the view afforded by the bodice of her gown.

He leaned back slightly, attempting composure—and caught the duke observing him from the head of the table. Halmesbury gave him a knowing smile before returning his attention to the earl. Perry blinked, then realized he had failed to respond to Emma’s teasing.

“So,” he said smoothly, “you claim to be prepared for an evening without my guidance, Miss Bluestocking?”

“I am quite certain I could manage,” she replied pertly, tilting her head just enough for another curl to tumble against her cheek.

“But would you want to?”

The question left his mouth more softly than intended. There was humor in it, yes—but beneath the jest lay something that felt perilously close to hope.

Emma stilled, the jest fading from her expression. She glanced at him, her gaze unwavering. “No. It is better when you are present.”

His heart stopped. The words were simple, but her sincerity hollowed out his chest.

He drew in a deliberate breath, inhaling the delicate chamomile fragrance that had been teasing him all evening, and let it sink into him—this moment, this closeness, her sweetness. He would remember it, cling to it, when the time came to step aside and let her go.

* * *

Emma sat on her bed, her gaze unfocused as her thoughts drifted back to her earlier exchange with Perry. It pained her that he thought so little of himself. Over the past days, he had been a marvelous tutor, guiding her with patience and cleverness. Thanks to him, she believed she could now survive the upcoming ball without incurring any great disaster.

There could be no doubt—Peregrine Balfour possessed untapped potential. The problem was not capability, but intent. He had no desire to mature, no interest in embracing the responsibility that lingered just beyond his reach. That, she reminded herself sternly, was why she must avoid him. She had no wish to suffer the heartbreak that would surely follow if she allowed her foolish heart to wander too far.

Her fingertips lifted unconsciously to her lower lip, tracing the place where his mouth had pressed in a kiss of such fire, she had trembled for hours after. She had not known such intensity could exist—an embrace so consuming, it stole breath and reason alike.

Shaking her head, she dropped her hand and exhaled deeply. No good could come from dwelling on impossible dreams like some heroine in a gothic novel. Her sister had been wrong to encourage her, and she had been wrong to listen—just because she wished it were possible that Perry might come up to scratch.

Soon, Jane would meet an eligible gentleman, and then it would be time to go home. She had a life to return to. A real life. This world of elegance and moonlit kisses belonged in books, not in her practical future. This is Elizabeth and Darcy’s fault, she thought irritably. They planted these ideas in my head with their everlasting love and glorious misunderstandings!

She allowed herself one final moment of reflection—one last bask in the memory of his regard—before rising from the bed and tightening the sash of her wrapper. She needed a distraction. A new book, perhaps, to see her through what would otherwise be a restless, tormented night.

She padded to the door and turned the handle, easing it open.

And stopped dead.

“What the living blazes—” she gasped, clapping her hand over her mouth in alarm, praying her outburst had not woken anyone in the family wing.

Perry stood in the hallway, framed in the doorway, staring down at his Hessians as though he had been in the middle of a fierce debate with them.

“I could not stay away any longer,” he said, still speaking to his boots.

Emma’s breath hitched.

He was disheveled—his jacket missing, shirt unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the strong line of his throat. His sleeves had been rolled up, exposing the lean muscles of his forearms and the dark sable hair that dusted his golden skin. The lamplight from within her room fell over him like a benediction, and Emma had to clench her hands into fists to stop herself from reaching out and touching him.

Her heart surged with reckless joy even as her conscience screamed a thousand warnings.

He had come to her.

And now everything was in peril.

* * *

Perry had struggled with his conscience since dinner. Emma had always been a temptation, but now—artfully attired, confidence blooming across her expressive face—she had become utterly devastating to his equilibrium. Her mere presence lifted his spirits. Her cleverness, her fire, the spark in her eyes when she laughed or challenged him—they undid him completely.

For weeks, the only shield he had possessed was the memory of her plain gowns and unfashionable hair. Now, even that fragile defense had crumbled.

He had tried to leave the house. Truly, he had. His boots had carried him down the corridor with every intention of seeking distraction among his friends, but somehow—without conscious thought—they had taken him here. To her door. And there he had stood, caught between longing and honor, until the door opened and she appeared like a vision conjured by the ache in his heart.

“I could not stay away any longer,” he confessed, still staring at her slippers, ashamed and desperate all at once.

Emma said nothing at first, but she opened the door wider, allowing him in. Gently, she closed it behind him. Her fingers trembled ever so slightly on the handle.

“What is this?” she asked quietly. “Between us?”

“I do not know,” he replied, lifting his gaze at last to meet hers. “It is powerful, is it not?”

“Not unlike the orbit of the moon around the earth.” Her answer, so characteristically Emma, tugged a smile to his lips.

He could not remember the last time he had smiled this much. Since the day she had marched into the drawing room at Rose Ash Manor, she had brightened his world like starlight on black water.

Reaching out, he took a single dark curl between his fingers, letting it coil around his knuckle. “You looked beautiful this evening,” he murmured. “A true lady of the ton. Except … well … you.”

She tilted her head in bemusement. “Except me?”

“I meant … you are better than any debutante or belle of the Season. They pale beside you.”

Emma’s dark eyes widened in wonder, and he saw it—hope blooming in their depths.

“My defenses are crumbling, Emma,” he said softly, his voice hoarse. “I do not know how to protect you from myself anymore.”

Her brows pulled together, gently furrowing her smooth brow. “Protect me? From what?”

But Perry could not answer. Not without unravelling the past he had spent a decade burying. Instead, he stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately. His gaze dropped to her lips as he bent his head, giving her every chance to turn away.

She did not.

When his lips brushed hers, it was as though time paused.

Soft. Tentative. Reverent.

Emma made the smallest sound of wonder—a sigh, a breath, perhaps a whispered name—and Perry cupped her cheek, deepening the kiss with aching restraint. He kissed her slowly, reverently, as though he were memorizing her. Her arms lifted to twine gently around his neck, and he felt her lean into him, trusting, warm, entirely present.

He kissed her again—longer this time—until he had to pull back for breath, pressing his brow to hers.

“Emma,” he whispered. “Sweet, feisty Emma.”

She smiled up at him through lashes dark with emotion, and his heart fractured and healed all at once.

He drew her into his arms, holding her tightly but chastely, like something precious he could not bear to relinquish. Her cheek nestled against his chest, and he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, memorizing the way she felt there. Perfect. Home.

I wish she could be mine. Forever.

But that was not his fate.

He had this moment. This kiss. This joy. And then he would let her go, so she might find a future worthy of her heart.

* * *

He tasted of wine and mint, Emma had discovered, while their lips molded together in a deep, spellbinding kiss. Her heart raced as she leaned into the strength of Perry’s arms, safe in the circle of his embrace. There was a quiet desperation in the way he held her, as if he had yearned for this moment as long as she had.

They had not spoken of what this night might bring. He had made no promises, and she had not asked for any. But there, in the sanctuary of her softly lit room, with the hush of night around them, Emma could not bring herself to resist. She did not want to. Not now.

She had been fighting her attraction to the charming rogue since the day they met, and now—now that he had kissed her as if she were his very breath—she could no longer pretend it was anything less than love blooming in her heart. She trusted him, even when he claimed he could not trust himself. She believed in the goodness she saw in him, even if he could not yet see it in himself.

Perry’s breathing was ragged as he drew her near, pressing his cheek to her temple, brushing a reverent kiss there before lifting her chin to seek her mouth once more. This time, the kiss was softer—slower—but no less intense. She felt his thumb brush the corner of her lips as he deepened it with gentle insistence, and her knees nearly gave way beneath the sweet pressure of his mouth moving against hers.

He pulled back slightly, his forehead resting on hers, both of them breathless.

“You are extraordinary, Emma,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I have never met anyone like you.”

She blushed at his words, caught off guard by the reverence in his tone. Her hand found his, their fingers entwining without thought.

“I have never felt this way before,” she confessed, her voice just as soft. “You make me feel … as though I matter.”

“You do,” he breathed, brushing his lips across her cheek. “More than I ever thought anyone could.”

He kissed her again—this one lingering, his lips moving over hers with tender purpose, as if memorizing the shape and feel of her kiss. Her arms slid around his neck, drawing him closer, her fingertips trembling as they brushed the nape of his neck.

Perry’s hands settled on her waist, then one slid up her back to cradle her head as he kissed her once more, deeper this time, yet still tender, still reverent. Emma sighed into him, her entire world narrowed to the feel of his lips and the aching sweetness that bloomed in her chest.

The moment was exquisite—achingly perfect. Not a single part of her wished to rush it. She wanted to remember every heartbeat, every breath, every soft sound he made against her skin. This was not a kiss of seduction. It was a kiss of longing. Of truth.

He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I should not have come,” he whispered. “But I could not stay away.”

Emma looked up at him, her eyes luminous. “I am glad you came,” she replied, her voice steady. “Even if this is all we are allowed. This one moment.”

They stood there, holding each other in the quiet hush of the night, their foreheads touching, breaths mingling, the unspoken words between them as powerful as the kiss they had just shared. Emma knew that something had changed. That this was not simply desire. It was something deeper. Something lasting.

No matter what the future held, she would carry this moment with her always.