Page 18 of Miss Davis and the Spare (Dazzling Debutantes #3)
Chapter Seventeen
“Twins, Balfour? You disdain interest in a matching set of songbirds who step the boards of Drury Lane?”
July 1817, Lord Julius Trafford to Peregrine, on his twenty-second birthday.
* * *
E mma stared down at the page covered in ink blots, then at her hand smeared with errant ink, and frowned. If Perry were here, he would say?—
“Look at you, making a mess.”
She stilled. The memory of his voice was so vivid, it felt as though he were in the room. Her head snapped up, her heart thudding painfully.
“Perry!”
The exasperating desire of her heart stood in the doorway, looking sheepish and out of place, with guilt written all over his handsome face.
“Indeed.”
Emma stared, stunned. The duke had predicted Perry would follow, but she had not dared to believe it—not truly. She had felt too fragile to hope.
“Did he? Halmesbury always was an insufferable know-it-all,” Perry muttered, with a crooked smile.
Oh heavens. She had spoken aloud again.
She was torn. She wanted to fly across the room and throw herself into his arms. Or strike him with her ink-splattered blotter. In the end, she settled on the safest middle ground: dry sarcasm.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Arrogant?”
Perry chuckled. “That seems fair.”
“I think so. You took your time.”
“I left the morning after you, but we were caught in a rainstorm, and the roads turned to mud. The carriages were bogged down for three days. You, of course, had the finest conveyances at your disposal.”
Emma folded her arms. “And the evening before you left?”
He met her gaze. “I spoke with the earl. We had a long conversation about my misspent youth—and how often I act the part of a bounder.”
Relief washed over her. “And the evening before that?”
“I drank myself into oblivion, out of shame and sorrow for what I had done to you. I passed out. Mostly clothed.”
Emma breathed in deeply, her head spinning with unexpected comfort.
“I am not sure … I … What …”
“Forgive me,” Perry said gently. “I want to be honest with you, Emma. I must admit that, although I was mostly clothed, I was in Lady Slight’s bed. Trafford and Ridley carried me there from the drawing room.”
Emma blinked. “Oh. Why were you not fully dressed?”
“I had spilt wine on my waistcoat and shirt.”
“A disaster of an evening, it sounds like.”
“That is precisely what it was. When I awoke, she and I argued—over you. She asked that I never darken her doorstep again.”
Emma stared at him, trying not to smile. “That is … good.”
Which brought her to the question that mattered most.
“So … why are you here?”
He dropped his gaze to the floor, suddenly uncertain. “To apologize. To explain myself, if you will allow it. I know I do not deserve your understanding. But I owe you the truth.”
Emma stood, hesitant but curious. “Very well. Let us sit by the fireplace. I cannot close the door, but we shall not be easily overheard.”
He nodded and waited as she crossed the room and perched on the edge of a green armchair. He took the seat opposite, folding his hands in his lap as he stared into the unlit hearth.
“It is not a pretty story,” he began, his voice low. “But you deserve to know the truth.”
Emma inclined her head. “I am listening.”
A heavy silence followed as Perry stared into the grate, struggling to find his words. Emma clasped her hands tightly, sensing the tension radiating from him. This was not the time for accusations or hurt feelings—not yet. She had longed for understanding, and now he was offering it.
At last, he spoke. “My father … was not simply unkind. He was a cruel man who took pleasure in tormenting others. After my mother died, he turned that cruelty upon me.”
Emma’s chest tightened. She remembered the shadows that had crossed Perry’s face when certain topics arose—now she understood. The expression she had seen so many times was not flippancy. It was pain. And fear.
She held her breath as he continued, revealing how he had adopted sarcasm and distance as a shield. How he had become glib and reckless because it kept him safe. How his father's behavior had shaped him in ways he did not fully understand until he met her.
And then he stopped, glancing at her with uncertain eyes.
Emma took a long breath. “Your father was monstrous.”
Perry gave a quiet laugh. “Indeed. I regret, more than I can say, that I allowed my past to poison what was growing between us. There is more I could tell you, but it is of a more personal nature. And perhaps best left for another time. I only wanted you to know that meeting you … disrupted everything I thought I knew about myself. You see, I did not mean to care for you, but I could not help it. And once I realized how deeply I did … I panicked.”
He met her gaze fully. “I told myself I had to protect you. That I would ruin you if I stayed. But what I did at the ball—that was not protection. That was cowardice. And I am so deeply sorry, Emma. If there is any way you might forgive me …”
Emma was silent for a long moment, her throat thick with emotion. He had come all this way, carrying the weight of his past, just to speak these words. Just to try.
“I cannot pretend I was not hurt,” she said softly. “You wounded me deeply. But … I understand you better now. And that makes a difference.”
A tentative smile touched his lips. “Then there is hope?”
She gave the faintest nod. “There might be.”
He exhaled, the tension draining from his shoulders. “That is more than I deserve.”
Emma’s lips twitched. “Yes. But I have been known to be generous.”
His smile widened, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. They simply sat across from each other, the fireless hearth between them, a quiet understanding beginning to bloom in the silence.
* * *
Mr. Davis was a stocky man of medium height, with the black hair and sharp eyes that he had passed on to his eldest daughter. He also shared Emma’s keen intellect and fierce loyalty to family.
Thankfully, he remained unaware of the precise nature of what had occurred in London, a truth for which Perry was immeasurably grateful. All the gentleman knew for certain was that his eldest child had returned home in low spirits, and that the man who had escorted her to Town under promises of care and propriety now stood before him, requesting permission to call. It had taken some persuasion—no small feat given Mr. Davis’s clear displeasure—but in the end, he had consented to an evening visit, on the strict condition that Emma welcomed it.
Perry had been relieved beyond words when she did not immediately show him the door. Instead, she agreed to speak with him in the library. Their conversation had been tentative, the silences long, but Emma had listened. That alone meant everything. He had made his apology—earnest, unpolished, and full of regret—and while she had offered little in return beyond quiet understanding, she had not turned away. She had not judged. She had not retreated.
And she had invited him to dine with her family.
It was more than he had hoped for, and he returned to the inn with a lighter heart than he had carried in days. His boots were still caked in mud and his clothes travel-worn, but he had a purpose again. He entered the taproom to find Trafford and Ridley waving him over to a scarred wooden table near the hearth.
He joined them gratefully and ordered an ale and a meal to tide him over until supper.
“Did the bluestocking receive you?” Trafford asked, his drawl a clear indication that this was not his first ale of the afternoon.
“She did. And that is Miss Davis to you, Lord Insolent Oaf.”
Ridley chuckled into his tankard. “I wish I had been there for the first volley.”
“You were there, you inebriated cad,” Trafford grumbled. “You just could not hold yourself upright long enough to notice.”
He turned back to Perry, eyes narrowed with dramatic suspicion. “Remind me again why we are in Sleep Ash?”
“Rose Ash.”
“Same thing.”
“Because,” Perry said patiently, “you are to assist me in my grand gesture. I cannot do it alone.”
“I still do not understand it,” Trafford declared. “You have repeated the plan multiple times, always in that superior tone that makes me want to kick over your ale. I am tired of rain and mud and sheep and trees—and frankly, I am tired of you. When this young lady of yours sees what you have concocted, she will be just as weary.”
Perry shook his head with a wry smile. “One day, you will meet a woman who brings you to your knees, and then you will be glad you had friends foolish enough to come to your aid.”
Trafford made a face. “Let us hope I remember not to parade a provocative widow on my arm while cutting her in public when that day comes.”
“I have apologized.”
“And yet we all must suffer your penance,” Ridley added cheerfully. “But I will say this—I do not enjoy seeing a young lady treated with anything less than respect. I am here to see that you make things right.”
“And to enjoy the spectacle,” Perry murmured.
“That too.”
“I, for one,” Trafford said, leaning back in his chair, “am looking forward to the moment the Davis family watches you make a complete fool of yourself. It shall be a memory to cherish.”
Perry laughed, though nerves twisted tightly in his belly. For all his practice, for all the hours spent rehearsing his plan, he could not deny the thrum of anxiety beneath the surface. But for Emma’s smile—for the chance to restore the pride and confidence he had so thoughtlessly damaged—he would endure every moment.
Even if it meant humbling himself in front of the entire Davis family. Even if it meant risking his heart in such a public manner.
* * *
Emma glanced out her bedroom window and caught sight of the Saunton carriage pulling into the drive. Her heart gave an unsteady lurch, though she told herself it was simply nerves. Turning to Betty—her young maid with a cheerful face spattered with freckles and thick brown hair that never stayed pinned—she urged, “Please hurry, Betty, or I shall be disgracefully late.”
The hair tonic had indeed coaxed her hair into lush curls, but Emma found it intolerably slow going. She ought to already be downstairs to greet their guest, but as it was, she would be the last to arrive.
They worked together quickly, Betty circling her to tug and smooth the folds of her gown while Emma craned to peer at her reflection, adjusting where needed. Despite their hurry, Emma found herself hesitating. She lingered at the mirror, adjusting a nonexistent crease, brushing invisible dust from her skirts.
She was … shy. It was the only word for it. After all that had transpired in London, to now be awaiting Perry in her home—under the scrutiny of her family—left her unsettled. She did not know quite what to expect from him. He had apologized, yes, and his regrets had felt genuine. But what came next? Was he here to court her?
Or to say goodbye?
The memory of their shared intimacy—the kisses, the whispered words in the dark, the stolen moment in the music room—rose unbidden, and Emma flushed. No, Jane had not been privy to all of it. Her younger sister had missed more than she had witnessed, for which Emma was grateful.
She gave herself one last glance in the mirror. Her deep blue velvet gown was modest and appropriate, yet it still brought out the striking contrast of her dark hair and pale complexion. Appropriate for supper at a small country estate, but finer than anything her family would wear. After the London ball, she was acutely aware of the disparity in their worlds. Perry would no doubt arrive looking effortlessly elegant—his cravat just so, his linen fresh, his coat brushed to perfection. He would even dress down in the most fastidious way, probably with his best buckskins.
Impeccable with everyone but me.
Emma sighed at the thought.
Yet even in recalling the sting of that humiliation, her heart softened. The Duke of Halmesbury had been kind. Gentle. He had urged her to listen if Perry came seeking forgiveness—and he had. Not only had Perry traveled through mud and storm to reach her, but he had also bared his heart in a manner that had clearly cost him much. And she had seen the rawness behind his words.
He was trying. And that mattered more than she had expected.
Bluster would serve no purpose now. She had been raised in a household where grudges were inefficient—there were simply too many siblings to hold one for long. Arguments were had, then settled. One said one’s piece and moved on. Even if frogs were involved.
And so she would see what he had to say for himself tonight. She might be cautious, but she was not closed.
“Thank you, Betty.” She squeezed the maid’s hand and left the room.
Descending the stairs, she slowed as the entryway came into view over the banister. Her breath caught, her steps faltered.
At the foot of the stairs, her family stood assembled, her father looking wary, her mother warm but watchful. The boys were freshly scrubbed and dressed neatly—Oliver and Max shining from their bath, and Thaddeus standing solemnly with little Maddie’s hand clutched in his. All their eyes were fixed on the guests.
Guests?
Perry stood in the vestibule flanked by two men.
Two very fashionable, very tall men.
One she recognized from Balfour Terrace—the one with the rumpled blond hair and lazy drawl. Lord Trafford, if she recalled correctly. And the other, whose wit had been drowned in drink the last time she saw him, must be Mr. Ridley.
They looked absurdly out of place in the cozy hall of Rose Ash Manor, all three men dressed with elegance and ease, as if they had just stepped out of a London drawing room and not six days of country travel.
Emma swallowed hard. Her stomach twisted.
“Em—Miss Davis,” Perry greeted, catching himself too late. Her father stiffened, his disapproval unmistakable.
Emma could only manage a faint smile in reply.
Perry cleared his throat, looked to his companions, and gave a quick nod. The three men stood straighter, turned toward her … and began to hum.
Emma’s eyes widened.
And then, to her astonishment, all three burst into song.
Let Bucks and let bloods to praise London agree
Oh the joys of the country my Jewel for me
Where sweet is the flow’r that the May bush adorns
And how charming to gather it but for the thorns
Emma barely dared to breathe. They were serenading her? The popular Dibdin aria that they sang was unexpected— The Joys of the Country . She attempted to ascertain if they were singing in jest; the song being an ode to rural life while secretly poking fun at the nuisances of such. Yet they did not seem to be making sport as they sang the lively lyrics. Was this intended to be a reverent gesture?
Where we walk o’er the mountains with health our cheeks glowing
As warm as a toast honey when it en’t snowing
Where nature to smile when the joyful inclines
And the sun charms us all the year round when it shines
Despite her best efforts to ignore them, the twins were attempting to hold back their mirth, hands clapped over their mouths while their eyes watered with the strain. Thaddeus had dropped little Maddie’s hand in order to plug his ears with his index fingers, while their youngest sister’s mouth hung open, her eyes wide in amazed horror at the spectacle unfolding.
Oh the mountains & vallies and bushes
The pigs & the screech owls & thrushes
Let Bucks & let bloods to praise London agree
Oh the joys of the country my Jewel for me
The joys of the country my Jewel for me
There twelve hours on a stretch we in angling delight
As patient as Job tho’ we ne’er get a bite
There we pop at the wild ducks & frighten the crows
While so lovely the icicles hang to our Cloathes
From the corner of her eye, she could see that her father stared at the ceiling, his lips quivering with a threatening gale of laughter while her mother gazed at the front door as if she contemplated running off into the early evening. All that protected Emma herself from guffawing like a jackass was the sheer surreal shock of it.
There wid Aunts & wid Cousins and Grandmothers talking
We are caught in the rain as we’re all out a walking
While the Muslins and gauzes cling round each fair She
That they look all like Venuses sprung from the Sea
Emma flushed at the bawdy lyrics. She and her family had heard the aria many times, but being singled out and serenaded by three gentlemen from the city highlighted the naughty meaning of the lyrics. She squirmed with the awareness that her parents stood right beside her, restraining laughter at these theatrics. Emma bit her lip to prevent any reaction from crossing her face, but tears of mirth threatened when the trio of … tenors … began the chorus once more.
Oh the mountains & vallies and bushes
The pigs & the screech owls & thrushes
Let Bucks & let bloods to praise London agree
Oh the joys of the country my Jewel for me
Then how sweet in the dog days to take the fresh Air
Where to save us expence, the dust powders your hair
There pleasures like snowballs encrease as they roll
And tire you to death, not forgetting the Bowl
Where in mirth and good fellowship always delighting
We agree, that is, when we’re not squabbling & fighting
Den wid toasts & pint bumpers we bodder the head
Just to see who most gracefully staggers to bed
Oh the mountains & vallies and bushes
The pigs & the screech owls & thrushes
Let Bucks & let bloods to praise London agree
Oh the joys of the country my Jewel for me
As the song drew to a close, Perry fell to one knee at Emma’s feet, his head almost at bosom level as he gazed up at her in adoration.
She frowned down at him, nonplussed, doing her best to bite back the giggle that threatened to spill from her lips as he threw his arms wide and belted out the last line at the top of his lungs.
The joys of the country my Jewel for me!