Page 13 of Miss Davis and the Spare (Dazzling Debutantes #3)

Chapter Twelve

“Perry, it is most unusual that you have never left home to attend school like other boys—men—your age. As the new head of the household, I … I wondered if you had any thoughts regarding your future?”

July 1812, Richard Balfour, the newly titled Earl of Saunton, to his brother Peregrine on his seventeenth birthday, two days after their father passed away.

* * *

E mma woke midmorning and stretched with a luxurious sigh, the warmth of lingering memories bringing a faint smile to her lips. The night before shimmered in her mind like moonlight on water—Perry's arms around her, the tender weight of his body beside hers, his kisses like a benediction pressed along her temple and jaw until she had drifted to sleep.

Now, she was awake and alone, the sunlight slipping across the floor, and a bittersweet ache settled in her chest. She had shared something extraordinary with him. Not merely a kiss—though there had been many, each one reverent and breathtaking—but a sense of trust and affection so deep it had made her feel cherished.

Love?

The thought struck her like a wave. She sat up, startled by the realization. Could she have fallen in love with a man as unrepentantly rakish as Perry Balfour?

Surely not. And yet …

She pressed her palms to her cheeks, trying to cool the warmth there. Perhaps it had all been too heady, too enchanting. He had held her with such reverence, spoken to her as though she mattered—not as a passing amusement, but as something rare and treasured. And yet he had stopped short of any behavior that might ruin her.

He had protected her.

That thought alone offered a sliver of hope. But still, questions chased through her mind. Had he stepped away because he cared for her, or because he did not? Was he sparing her reputation … or sparing himself responsibility?

Emma sighed deeply, drawing the counterpane tighter around her. Her joy waned under the weight of uncertainty. If Perry intended to pursue her honorably, he would court her openly. Perhaps he would. Perhaps the restraint he had shown was proof of his better nature—of an intention to woo her properly.

She prayed he would.

Rising from the bed, she tied her wrapper at the waist and tried to marshal her thoughts. She needed to be practical. To think. To steady herself. That was the sensible thing to do.

A small stack of torn cotton squares lay on the bed—an impulsive decision made to distract herself from overthinking. She had begun tearing an old night rail, her hands needing something to do, and before she knew it, the pile had grown. Not her best idea, perhaps, but in the moment, it had kept her from dissolving into a puddle of sentiment.

A knock at the door startled her. She jumped, one hand pressed over her heart.

“Come in!” she called.

The door swung open to reveal the countess, elegant as always in an blue and cream day gown that perfectly suited her golden hair. Behind her, Jane trailed in, rubbing her eyes and looking pale and weary.

“You failed to sleep again?” Emma asked with concern.

Jane groaned as she dropped into the nearest chair. “I do not understand it. I have never had trouble sleeping before. London is simply too exciting. My mind refuses to quiet until the sun rises.”

“I offered to send for the physician,” Sophia said with a trace of worry. “But your sister insists there is no time.”

Emma blinked. “No time?”

Sophia’s face brightened. “Signora Ricci has sent a new delivery, and the new lady’s maid has arrived. I thought we could have you and Jane try everything on and see what adjustments may be needed.”

At the mention of new gowns, Emma’s spirits lifted. Fresh gowns meant possibilities. New beginnings. And perhaps, another opportunity to see Perry. She ought not to hope—but she could not help it.

“That sounds delightful,” she replied, smoothing her wrapper. “I shall dress, and then we can go down.”

As the other women stepped further into the room, Jane’s gaze fell upon the pile of cotton squares on the bed.

“Emma … what is that?”

Emma froze for a moment. “Oh. I tore an old night rail that had grown too worn. I thought I might use the pieces to practice embroidery.”

Sophia’s brow lifted delicately. “We have spare fabric for that, my dear. I can have some sent up.”

Jane, despite her sleep-deprived state, fixed her sister with a long, skeptical look. “Embroidery? This is the second time I have heard of you voluntarily taking up a needle.”

Emma straightened her shoulders. “I mastered the waltz, did I not? I thought I should attempt to conquer another weakness.”

“Well.” Sophia offered a gentle smile, even if her eyes still held questions. “That is very industrious of you. The gentleman who marries you will be fortunate indeed.”

Emma smiled faintly, uncertain whether her secret was safe—but knowing at least that her heart, for better or worse, was no longer entirely her own.

* * *

Perry ran a hand through his hair in mounting frustration. He had slipped from Emma’s rooms before sunrise, careful not to be seen. There had been a moment—just a moment—when he was certain someone else stood in the corridor with him. He had paused, holding his breath, listening. But the silence remained unbroken, and he was left alone with his guilt.

Back in his chambers, he had dressed hastily and fled the townhouse before the household stirred. As the soft light of dawn bathed the quiet Mayfair street, he had wandered aimlessly until his feet took him to his club, where he picked halfheartedly at a solitary breakfast.

He could not stop replaying the night before in his mind. The way Emma had looked at him. The way she had touched his face. The way her kisses had unmade him. He had long suspected she would undo him entirely, and now he knew it with certainty.

He had held her. Kissed her. Lost himself in the heady wonder of her affection. But he had not gone further. Somehow, some part of him—some deep, hidden flicker of decency—had found the strength to stop.

Perry dragged in a sharp breath and clenched his fists to still their trembling. He could not—must not—touch her again. Her gentle affection had already branded him. And still, even now, he imagined her fragrance clinging to his coat. A memory he both savored and cursed.

But he would not ruin her. He could not. To steal her future, to tarnish her name for the brief indulgence of his own desire, would strip him of the final scrap of self-respect he had clawed back from the edge of ruin. He had already failed once in his youth—spectacularly—and he would not live through another fall.

Perry inhaled in a rush. Do not think about that night!

He ground the heels of his palms into his eyes. He must stay away. No matter the temptation. No matter the cost.

He would see to it that she was safely launched into society and matched with a man worthy of her intellect, her kindness, her fire. Not a wayward scoundrel like himself, born of rot and sin, who had spent too long pretending to be something other than the damaged man he was.

The next time he saw her, he would be cold. Curt. He would say whatever necessary to drive her away.

Even if it meant breaking his own heart.

“Are you listening?” Trafford snapped, startling him.

Perry blinked and looked down at the polished table. “Of course.”

“Then why have I repeated myself three times to no effect?”

He sat up, forcing composure into his limbs. “Forgive me. I am not at my best today.”

“I should say not. You have been intolerable ever since you returned from the country.”

Perry forced a careless smile and lifted his wineglass. “I suspect your new conquest is proving disappointing, and now you seek to cast your vexation upon me.”

He downed the contents in one go, the clink of the empty glass on the tabletop punctuating his resolve. “What shall we do tonight, gentlemen? The night is young, and so are we!”

Trafford stared at him, clearly taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. Across the table, Brendan Ridley narrowed his eyes, but said nothing.

Perry ignored both expressions.

Tonight, he would remember who he was: a disreputable scoundrel. And if he could not have the woman he wanted, he would lose himself in every diversion London had to offer.

Let them call him rake and reprobate. At least that was a role he understood.

* * *

On the third morning of taking breakfast without a single sign of Perry, Emma finally accepted the truth.

He was avoiding her.

The feckless rogue had become frightened by their connection, and now he resisted it in the only way he knew—by vanishing. She told herself she should be thankful they had only kissed. There was no scandal. No ruin. No risk of a babe. But the knowledge gave her little comfort as she listlessly picked at her breakfast.

“Where is my brother?” Richard growled, addressing his wife with a scowl. “I thought those days of vanishing without a word were behind us. Yet I have not seen hide nor hair of him in three blasted days! He promised to assist the young ladies with their dance instruction, and now the ball is nearly upon us.”

“He is sleeping in his bed at night,” Sophia said gently, her tone that of one soothing a volatile child. “I know he worries you, but he does come home. Albeit at unusual hours.”

Richard’s expression grew doubtful. “And how would you know that? I rise at dawn, and I have not laid eyes on him once.”

“The servants have said that by the time they enter his rooms at sunrise, his bed is unmade,” Sophia said, still in that careful, coaxing tone. “He is at least returning home. That is something.”

“It is not enough.” Richard’s voice deepened with frustration. “There is something I must speak to him about—something of genuine importance—and he dodges me at every turn. This behavior is beyond the pale. I am quite out of patience.”

“Richard,” Sophia said in a warning tone, her eyes flicking toward Emma and Jane. “Do not frighten our guests.”

Emma’s stomach twisted at the mention of Perry. She was not frightened—she was furious. And heartsick. And increasingly concerned.

“Emma learned a great deal from Perry,” Jane interjected, her voice firm despite the shadows under her eyes. “I can practice with her now and help polish the rest.”

Emma caught the flicker of color in her sister’s cheeks as she sipped the coffee she had grown so fond of. She was proud of Jane’s poise and quick thinking.

“I agree,” Emma added smoothly. “Jane and I have tried on our new gowns, and Betty has mastered the taming of my hair.” She lifted a glossy curl between her fingers. The new lady’s maid, Betty, had taken to her duties admirably after a little guidance from Miss Toussaint—and the mysterious hair tonic that now seemed to work miracles.

“Today we shall run the full set together. You need not worry about us,” Emma said brightly.

But worry they must—about Perry.

Her heart throbbed with quiet alarm. Perry was not merely avoiding her. He was retreating from everyone. From life. That deep unease she had sensed in him since the first day in Rose Ash was not imagined. The last few days only confirmed her growing suspicion: he was a man tormented by shadows no one had seen clearly.

Emma’s appetite was gone. Her chest ached with the dull pressure of guilt. She had missed the signs—too wrapped up in her own infatuation, her own pleasures. She had been selfish in her pursuit of stolen kisses, never stopping to ask why he so often looked like a man on the verge of unraveling.

She pressed her napkin to her mouth and stood.

“Shall we go practice now?”

Jane looked up in surprise but nodded. Emma needed movement—needed action—or she would go mad from the tumult of worry and resentment that now stirred beneath her skin.

She had a plan forming. And if Perry would not speak to his brother, she would find another way to reach him.

Whatever secrets haunted him, she would no longer stand by and allow them to consume him in silence.

* * *

The tall casement clock down the hall tolled twice as Perry entered Balfour Terrace, utterly exhausted. For days now, he had kept to a punishing schedule—riding, carousing, debating—anything to occupy his mind. Anything to keep himself from arriving, once again, at Emma’s door.

Because the next time he crossed that threshold, there would be no stopping himself.

The memory of holding her, cradling her as she sighed his name in the solitude of their midnight embraces, still lingered. It mocked him with its sweetness. With what could be, if only he were someone else. Someone honorable. Someone who had not ruined a young woman’s life. Someone who had not driven away every soul he had ever cared for.

He would lose Richard, too, if he made the same mistake with Emma. Of that he was certain. His brother would never forgive a betrayal so deep—not toward a young woman Richard now considered family.

Thank heavens he did not know about?—

No. Stop. Do not think of her.

Perry ran a hand through his hair, as though he could dislodge the memories that had lodged there like thorns. For years, he had masked the wreckage of his conscience with smiles and glib lines. It was only now—after witnessing Richard’s slow, stumbling redemption—that Perry had dared to hope there might be a path forward for him as well.

And then he had met Emma.

And he had remembered the truth. That he was the son of Satan. That no amount of longing could absolve a man of damnation.

Richard was a natural leader, a respected peer. Perry was nothing. Worse than nothing—a destroyer. And if he ever revealed the truth of that night, his brother would recoil. The last shreds of connection he held to anyone would shatter.

He still did not know why their grandfather had abandoned him. As a boy, Perry had pleaded with the old man to rescue him from Saunton Park. To take him to Shepton and save him. And his grandfather had promised he would. But instead, he had vanished from Perry’s life altogether.

He had never returned. Never written. Never sent word.

The next thing Perry knew, the old man was dead—and Perry was left alone in hell with a madman for a father and no idea why the only person he had counted on had turned his back.

He had never dared to ask Richard. What if their grandfather had remained in contact with his elder brother all those years? What if Perry had simply been discarded as a hopeless case?

There were too many things he could not say. Not even to the one person who might have understood.

A sharp breath escaped him. These maudlin thoughts were dragging him under.

He missed the numbness. The easy, careless existence of a man who felt nothing and cared for no one. But ever since Emma had slipped into his life, he had begun to feel too much.

His feet slowed. He looked up and found himself outside her room. The door loomed, and without thinking, he raised a hand to press his palm flat against the wood. Was she asleep beyond? Or lying awake, as he had done each night since?

He ached to return to that peace—to that warmth—to her.

But he must not. He must never again open that door. If he did, he would destroy her.

And this time, there would be no coming back.

He forced himself to move, turning down the corridor toward his own room. He would sleep for a few hours. Then flee the house again. The only reason he returned at all was to feel connected to something—to remind himself he still had family, even if the tie was fraying.

His obsession with Emma had proven what he had always feared: he was not capable of change.

But he could at least protect her. That, he would do. At the ball, he would ensure their connection was broken. Deliberately. Decisively. Something so unforgivable that she would never look at him again.

It was the only way to save her from himself.

Feeling grimly resolved, he reached his door and opened it?—

Then froze.

His heart slammed into his ribs.

He was not alone.

A slender figure sat on his bed, lit softly by moonlight through the window. She turned.

“I have been waiting for you.”

* * *

When the countess mentioned that Perry had been returning home in the early hours, Emma recognized an opportunity to make amends for her insensitivity. She had been so consumed by her own feelings, she had failed to see how deeply Perry struggled. Tonight, she would offer her support.

Long after the household had retired, Emma sat atop the tall bed, too restless to read. She rehearsed her words, fidgeting with her wrapper and twisting her hair into nervous knots.

The door opened without warning.

Emma gasped, her hand flying to her chest. She had not even heard his approach.

“I have been waiting for you,” she whispered. So much for preparation.

Perry stood silhouetted in the darkened doorway, shoulders tense, his expression unreadable. He looked exhausted—wan and drawn—but her heart leapt at the sight of him.

He closed the door behind him with deliberate care.

Reminding herself that she had come for his sake—not to chase foolish dreams—Emma slid from the bed to stand at its foot.

“I see that,” he said coolly.

The frost in his voice wilted what remained of her confidence. Her shoulders dropped.

So much for fire. So much for feistiness. She was completely unarmed.

“I wanted to … verify that you were all right.” The words sounded weak, even to her ears. She flinched inwardly.

They had shared something intimate—deeply intimate—yet still undefined. He had made her feel cherished even as he wrestled with his demons, and she had done nothing to help. She had failed him.

“All right?” Perry’s voice was bitter. “You should return to your bed.”

“I know I may not seem helpful to you, but I am not as fragile as you believe,” Emma replied, forcing steel into her voice. “I assist my father with estate matters and I raised Ethan as though he were my own. I may be young—perhaps even na?ve—but I am observant and practical, and I care for you.”

Perry stepped forward. “Get out of my room.”

Emma faltered. “Why? What have I done to upset you so?”

“Your presence upsets me.”

The words landed like a slap. Sharp. Deliberate. Wounding.

She swallowed past the ache in her throat, her pride fraying. But she had come to offer comfort, not demand it.

“I see,” she murmured, turning toward the door.

She reached for the handle—but Perry caught her wrist.

“Emma—” His voice broke on her name.

She turned slowly.

He tugged gently, drawing her into his arms. His lips descended, soft and searching, and she met him halfway, rising onto her toes to kiss him back with aching relief. His mouth lingered on hers before he turned his face into her hair, drawing a deep breath like a drowning man who had broken the surface at last.

“You always smell like freedom,” he whispered against her ear. “My sweet, fiery Emma.”

She closed her eyes, her hands resting against the warm breadth of his chest, her heart thudding against his as he held her tightly, as if letting go would cost him too dearly. For several quiet moments, he simply held her, his hands stroking the length of her back, grounding himself in her presence.

At last, he exhaled heavily and pulled away.

“Will you be at our ball?”

There were several moments of silence. Emma wished she could see his face, read his expression, understand what troubles he shouldered. “Of course I will be there.”

His tone was odd, mounting Emma’s misgivings that she had failed him in some manner.

“Will you dance with me?”

A long pause. “Perhaps. Goodnight, Emma.”

Dismissed, she departed, casting one last glance to her beloved rogue before gently closing the door to stand in the hall and wring her hands in frustration. For a moment, she had made some progress with him, but then the moment had evaporated to leave her more worried than before.