Page 14 of Miss Davis and the Spare (Dazzling Debutantes #3)

Chapter Thirteen

“You are an amusing fellow, Balfour. Care to join us for a drink?”

July 1813, Lord Julius Trafford to Peregrine, on his eighteenth birthday.

* * *

E mma woke to the drumbeat of rain pounding on the windows, the heavy downpour blurring the glass as thunder rattled the panes in a bone-deep clatter. She blinked up at the ornate cornices of the ceiling, the patterns lost behind a sheen of unease. Was it an omen? A warning? Something wicked in the air?

She chewed her lower lip as she traced the source of her disquiet. Perry. His strange mood the night before haunted her. She missed him fiercely—but deeper still was the fear that he carried a weight she did not understand. If only men were as easy to comfort as four-year-old boys. If Ethan was troubled, she simply lifted him onto her lap and coaxed out the worry. But Perry was a grown man. He guarded his pain with silence, cloaked it behind rakish charm and veiled remarks.

Emma sighed. I shall become a lie-abed, worrying over that enigmatic fool. She was no help to anyone like this, not to Jane, not to Sophia—not even to herself.

Throwing the counterpane aside, she rose with new purpose just as a soft knock echoed on the door. Betty had arrived to assist her.

By midday, the rain had stopped. The sun emerged tentatively, streaking the tall windows of Balfour Terrace with light, as if nature herself wished to apologize for the gloomy start. The day passed in a dizzying flurry of motion. The countess oversaw a small army of servants and tradespeople. Flowers arrived in abundance, silver candlesticks were placed with precision, and beeswax candles thick as a man’s wrist were arranged to soften the glow of the gaslights that already set the townhouse apart.

Every inch of the place gleamed. Windows sparkled, furniture shone, and a breeze of lavender and lemon oil wafted through the halls. Balfour Terrace was transformed into a golden dream of luxury.

Meanwhile, Emma and Jane practiced every motion and step of the evening ahead, determined to wear their new gowns and slippers with poise. Emma, especially, refused to trip or falter— not tonight. Not when she was being granted this extraordinary chance.

At midmorning, Sophia gathered them for tea in the music room, a tranquil sanctuary tucked away from the bustling preparations.

“Emma, I believe the evening will go well,” the countess said, folding her hands in her lap, “but I must make a confession.” Her fingers fidgeted. “It is rather a small ball, by society’s standards. A hundred or so guests—those we like best. I admit, I become terribly anxious in large gatherings. I was willing to invite more, but Richard insisted we keep it manageable.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “You get nervous? But you always seem so perfectly composed.”

“I have years of practice.” Sophia’s smile was a touch rueful. “But yes, there are situations that make me uneasy.”

“I feel dreadful. We would have forgone the ball altogether, Sophia. Truly, there was no need to put yourself through such a thing.”

Sophia tilted her head, a warm reprimand in her eyes. “It is our great joy to introduce you and Jane to society, especially after all you have done for our family. I only wanted to apologize that it may not be as grand as you expected.”

Jane leaned forward to clasp her hand. “Emma is quite relieved she need only contend with a hundred guests. Any more, and she would have swooned from fright. Our country assemblies are charming—but they do not boast footmen and chandeliers.”

Emma smiled at her sister, pride softening the lines of her face. Jane had grown into herself, just as she had always known she would.

And Emma? She had drawn the eye of a gentleman—though not one who meant to pursue her. The moment dimmed again, her joy tinged with melancholy. She supposed that was her fate: to guide Jane through her debut, to fade into the background, to nurse silent heartache for a man who could not love her in return.

“Thank you, Sophia,” she said quietly. “It was my greatest pleasure to care for Ethan. And I—we—are deeply grateful for the kindness you have shown us. It was difficult to lose him so abruptly, but now that I have seen how dearly you and the earl love him … I am comforted beyond words.”

Sophia’s eyes glistened. A handkerchief appeared as if by magic. “When you are with child one day,” she warned, dabbing delicately at her eyes, “the smallest thing can send you into tears.”

Emma’s heart twisted. The mention of future children should have filled her with light, but she could not imagine such dreams without Perry’s smile beside her.

Sophia tucked the handkerchief away with practiced grace and rose. “I must see to the final arrangements. I suspect a footman is presently misplacing a candelabrum.”

Once Sophia left them, Emma took charge of keeping herself—and Jane—occupied.

“Practice ball gowns? Truly?” Jane groaned as they marched up and down the music room in fine gowns not intended for that evening’s festivities.

But Emma insisted. She was determined to ensure she could move gracefully in restrictive garments. There would be no stumbling or slipping—not tonight. She would not fall on her backside before half the beau monde the way she had tumbled before the carriage ride to Signora Ricci. That had been the first time Perry’s touch had lingered. The first time his eyes had warmed with interest.

She pushed the memory away.

Tonight was not about her. Tonight was about Jane. Her sister must successfully launch and find herself a suitable gentleman. Emma had long suspected that London would prove a poor influence on her heart, and now she was certain. She had allowed herself to dream, to yearn—and now she must find a way to return to Rose Ash Manor with her dignity intact.

So she kept them busy, moving and turning, curtsying and pacing, until the early afternoon.

“It is time for a nap,” Emma announced, at last satisfied that she could attend the ball without tripping over her own hem.

“Zooks, Emma! You are a virago!”

“You do not wish to nap?”

“Of course I wish to nap,” Jane yawned delicately into her hand. “But need you be so imperious?”

“Determined,” Emma corrected.

“What?”

“I am not imperious. I am determined. Tonight will be a success. You will meet dozens of young men who will wish to dance with you. You are as pretty as a princess, Jane.”

Her sister’s tired face softened. “Thank you. I do appreciate your efforts, I do. It is only … I am so tired and you are so very demanding.”

“I apologize if I have been curt. I am … distracted, I suppose.”

“You are thinking about Perry?”

Emma looked away, her gaze skittering to the window as a twinge of anxiety stirred low in her stomach. She could not speak of it. Not to Jane. Not when her behavior had been so reckless. Her beloved, annoying scoundrel had walked away from her without explanation, and she had no one to blame but herself for believing she might tempt a rogue into changing his ways.

How mortifying. How foolish.

Had she truly believed that Emma, a country mouse with ink on her fingers and unfashionable hair, could ensnare a gentleman like Perry Balfour into falling in love?

Her heart gave a painful squeeze.

If only he would talk to her. If only he would let her help.

“Why do you say that?” she asked carefully.

“Because he never left our side, and then after the dinner with the duke and duchess, he vanished,” Jane said. “What do you think happened to send him fleeing?”

Emma’s cheeks flushed as she remembered the kiss—the kisses—and the night that had followed. The heat, the tenderness, the whispered words. And then … nothing. Distance. Silence.

“I do not know,” she mumbled. “You would have to ask Perry himself.”

Jane sighed. “I had hoped that you …” She paused, her voice gentler. “I had hoped you would find your own gentleman, Emma. You were both so animated at dinner. I was sure …”

Emma’s throat tightened. Her eyes burned. She blinked quickly and pressed her lips together. It did no good to remember. That magical night only brought pain now.

Perhaps it was for the best. Perhaps it had only ever been a dream. Perry Balfour was a rogue with shadows in his eyes and secrets locked behind his rakish grin. And she had been foolish to imagine he might choose her.

Tonight must be about Jane. Her sister had grown into a graceful, beautiful young lady—one who would surely draw the admiration of eligible gentlemen. Emma would do her duty and shield her sister with pride, even as she guarded her own aching heart.

Still … as they mounted the stairs to lie down, Emma could not keep her thoughts from straying. She could not help wondering whether Perry would make an appearance as he had promised he would while she led Jane up to their rooms for a lie-down. Her sister was exhausted, and Emma, too, had not slept well since Perry’s abrupt departure from their daily routine. They would need their wits about them that evening when they met more than one hundred members of the beau monde , who the earl and countess had assured them would be a mix of suitable nobility and gentry.

* * *

Since the ball had begun, Emma had kept watch for Perry’s arrival.

Sophia had introduced her to a steady stream of distinguished personages, all of whom behaved with exemplary manners. Condescension had been minimal, and several guests proved to be genuinely pleasant. Emma supposed that since Richard had taken his by-blow into his household, he had swiftly learned which acquaintances were worth retaining—and which were best left behind.

“Emma, may I present Lord Lawson and his daughters?” The countess’s voice called her back to the present. A swarthy gentleman with graying hair bowed deeply, flanked by two charming young ladies.

Sophia explained that the family was musically gifted—their musicales were the toast of the Season. Emma offered polite compliments and exchanged small talk with the daughters, all the while her thoughts drifting.

Perry had not come.

She kept smiling, kept dancing with the young men Richard introduced, all the while scanning the crowd for a familiar figure. Jane was radiant, dancing joyfully and laughing with charming suitors. Emma felt a flicker of pride—and a piercing ache.

He had said he would come.

As the night wore on and the candles burned lower, Emma began to suspect she would not recognize many of these guests again. Her memories of the evening would be fogged over by longing for someone who never arrived.

Then, sometime after eleven, she stood beside Sophia, listening to the countess’s tiny and effervescent cousin Miss Abbott, whose laughter danced through the air like music. But Emma’s mind was elsewhere—still scanning, still searching.

And then she saw him.

A familiar head of thick brown hair above the crowd. At first, she thought it must be the earl—she had made that mistake before—but then the crowd parted, and her heart leapt. It was Perry. And just behind him, Lord Trafford.

Her breath caught.

Then she saw the woman on Perry’s arm.

Lady Slight. Clad in a gown so tight it appeared sewn directly to her flesh, her red hair perfectly coiffed, her flawless décolletage spilling over the neckline like cream from a dish. She clung to Perry’s side as if painted there.

Emma’s blood ran cold.

She stepped back from the conversation and slipped behind a nearby Corinthian column to gather her wits in the sheltering shadows. Her heart pounded in her ears.

He planned this. He must have.

To attend the ball—their ball—filled with friendly faces who had come to ease Jane and Emma into society, and to bring her … it was a declaration. There was no them. No us. No special connection to speak of.

Now it made sense. His vague comment about the dance they once agreed to share. His unfulfilled promise to be present.

He had brought the lovely, wicked Lady Slight to deliver his message. You are nothing to me.

Emma placed her palm against the cold marble. She closed her eyes, willed herself to breathe.

Focus on Jane.

Her sister stood a real chance of making a match. Emma would ensure it. Jane was sweet, clever, beautiful. If she could help Jane find a suitable young man, then she could go home. Back to her father, back to her real life. Where she had control. Where she did not hand over her heart to city bucks with green eyes and reckless mouths.

Her resolve firmed, she stepped from behind the column and glanced around for Sophia and Miss Abbott, only to find them elsewhere in the crowd.

“Well, well, if it is not the country mouse.”

Emma turned slowly and found herself nearly nose-to-bosom with Lady Slight.

Her last thread of composure snapped.

That obscene display of cleavage. That painted pout. That syrupy tone as the woman openly sneered.

Emma had not intended to confront Perry or his fashionable entourage. But if she were to be directly addressed by the strumpet, then she could hardly be held responsible for what followed.

She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“Rather a country mouse than—than—than an adventuress.”

The woman’s eyes went wide. “You little upstart witch!”

“You bit of muslin,” Emma snapped.

Perry appeared as if conjured, inserting himself with well-timed nonchalance. Emma suspected he had been watching.

“Ladies,” he drawled. “Jealousy is such an ugly color.”

Emma took a breath.

It felt so good to be near him, even as it hurt her.

Lady Slight smiled coyly. All evidence of hostility vanished from her beautiful, empty face. “I apologize, Perry. I know the young woman is important to your family. We merely quarreled for a moment. No disrespect intended.”

Emma repressed a growl at the insincere performance.

Then Perry spoke.

“Lady Slight, come now. You are the widow of an esteemed viscount, while Miss Davis is merely the clumsy daughter of a tenant farmer—gifted some negligible land in an unimportant corner of Somerset. She barely possesses a dowry. You need not adopt any airs with her.” His lips curved into a mocking smile as he turned his glittering eyes on Emma. “Does she, Emma?”

He lifted a brow, as if waiting for her to confirm her own insignificance.

Her heart shattered.

Shattered into a thousand sharp, aching shards. The bravado that had surged moments ago vanished like a snuffed flame. She could not even summon the strength to glare at him. She simply stood there—frozen—fighting the rush of tears as the blood drained from her face, her lips, her fingertips.

She had already understood. His arrival with Lady Slight had delivered his message loud and clear.

There is no us.

But this … this was cruelty. Deliberate cruelty.

Emma had known it was a mistake to come to London. She had braced herself for snubs and mockery. But she had been willing to endure it all—for Jane. Her brilliant, beloved sister deserved a chance at happiness. Emma had hoped, too. Hoped to become a success. Hoped that Perry, the charming, complicated man who had once looked at her as if she were a marvel, might … might come to care for her.

And now that man had torn her to pieces in public, wielding her deepest fears and insecurities like a dagger.

Even Lady Slight faltered, pity crossing her face at the viciousness of his remark.

The gentleman who had built her confidence … who had once shielded her from this very woman’s scorn … now eviscerated her with calculated ease.

Emma could not speak. Her throat thickened, her breath caught. She had never, not once in her life, been so thoroughly betrayed by someone she trusted. Her father had protected her. Jane adored her. She had never needed a defense before—because those she held dear had never wielded words like weapons against her.

But Perry had.

And he had struck with precision.

He turned away without another word. “Come, Lady Slight,” he said, offering his arm. “The country mouse has been struck speechless. We ought not waste our evening on her when there is much pleasure to be had.”

Lady Slight hesitated. Then smiled. And took his arm.

Emma watched them go.

The pain in her chest surged, expanding until it drowned the room around her. The flicker of candlelight. The music. The press of fine gowns and gloved hands and glittering smiles. All of it disappeared.

All she saw was him.

Walking away.

With her.

Was that what she had been? Just a fleeting diversion? A foolish country girl dazzled by a rogue with a crooked grin?

They had shared kisses twice. One night of tenderness. A single night of aching closeness. Had that meant nothing to him?

Had she even qualified as a paramour? Or had she simply been a diversion?

Emma tried to think—to move—but her body would not obey. She stood rooted to the marble floor, breath shallow, eyes burning, mind blank.

She did not know how to recover from this.

“May I have this dance?”

It took several seconds for Emma to register that the Duke of Halmesbury—the blond Viking who had dined with them the week prior—was speaking to her. The earl had introduced him as a cousin, had he not?

The duke bowed and straightened, extending a large, gloved hand. “Please, Miss Davis. It will limit the gossip.”

Only then did Emma realize that heads had turned. Members of the ton , elegant in silk gowns and crisp evening coats, were watching her. Watching the scene that had unfolded. And now, watching her—alone.

Somewhere distant, her hand lifted from her side and took his.

Still numb.

She was the most petite woman in the room, swept into the dignified embrace of a waltz with the tallest man she had ever seen. The duke topped six and a half feet easily.

Funny what the mind latches onto when one is in shock.

Emma dared not blink. If she did, the tears would come, and she would be undone.

As if sensing her fragility, the duke lowered his baritone voice to just above a whisper. “I have never seen Peregrine so lighthearted as he was at dinner. I was hopeful for him. But now …” His eyes twinkled with rueful disapproval. “He is acting the arse.”

Emma’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Come now,” he added mildly, “admit that is what you were thinking.”

His dry humor pierced through her despair, and her lips twitched. I live yet. I did not die moments ago.

The duke watched her with thoughtful gravity as they twirled beneath the ballroom’s glittering chandeliers. “Forgive my impudence, but have you considered that he might be afraid?”

“Afraid?”

“Of you. Of what you represent. Great joy is often accompanied by the risk of great pain.”

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “I know it is fear. He could not truly prefer … that woman.”

“Brava, Miss Davis. No, he does not. Lady Slight is a decorative but empty package. This was a performance—for your benefit. A poor one, I must say.”

It was a strange relief, to hear her suspicion voiced aloud. And stranger still, how comforting this duke was.

“What do I do?” she asked softly.

He considered her carefully. “My answer will not please you.”

“Please.”

“Do you know how Russia defeated Bonaparte in 1812?”

She furrowed her brow. “A tactical retreat?”

“Precisely. It is a strategy often employed in chess as well. I believe you play?”

“I do.”

“Then you understand. I think you must leave.”

“Leave?” Her breath caught. “Do you mean return home? To Somerset?”

“I do. If you stay, the wound will fester. But if you leave, he may begin to understand what he is losing. He is at a crossroads. Your absence might force his hand.”

“How can you be so certain?”

He glanced to where his duchess stood beside Sophia, affection softening his features. “Because I was once that foolish. All men are, at some point. And absence … has a way of clarifying what we truly value.”

Emma turned the idea over. A retreat. Not defeat. A move to provoke reaction.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“No, thank you. I have spent years finding Peregrine to be cold, even charmless. But since the earl’s marriage, and through conversations with Sophia, I now understand the depths of what those boys endured. If I had known, I would have done more. But I was too busy with my own complex affairs to notice.” He shook his head. “It was uplifting to see him amused at dinner. To see him smile. And I believe you are the reason for it.”

His words struck her heart. She had brought Perry joy. Once.

“You are practically family now,” the duke continued. “And I have spent time with Ethan. I know what you have given this family. Peregrine needs someone strong to stand beside him. I hope he realizes that before it is too late.”

Emma gave a small smile. “It is tempting to give up on him. But I am not easily dissuaded from my loyalties.”

“And if he betrays you tonight? If he returns to the widow?”

“Then he is not the man I hoped he was.”

The duke’s smile was touched with sorrow. “Let us hope he is.”

When the dance ended, he returned her to Sophia’s side and bowed before moving to join his wife.

Emma laughed and smiled for the rest of the evening, floating through small talk, dances, and introductions. But her thoughts remained fixed on one singular plan: to go home. If Perry followed, it would be because he chose to. And if he did not …

At supper, she conversed with a pleasant young man and said all the right things. If asked later what they discussed, she would have no idea. Her mind was elsewhere.

At last, with Jane chattering beside her, Emma returned to the family wing. Her sister, still flush with excitement, noticed nothing amiss.

But when Emma reached her room and dismissed Betty, she sank to the floor. Silent sobs racked her body as she curled in on herself.

She thought of the best night of her life. Followed by the worst.

She had flown too close to the sun, and her wings had melted. Now she was tumbling, and no one was there to catch her.

But she would not crash.

She would retreat.

And if Perry Balfour ever wished to find his way back to her … he would have to follow.