Page 4 of Miss Davis and the Spare (Dazzling Debutantes #3)

Chapter Three

“No young woman of real worth will ever accept a mere spare. But take heart, my boy—there will always be a widow or two willing to ease your disappointment.”

July 1803, the late Earl of Saunton to his son, Peregrine, on his eighth birthday, upon noticing the boy’s interest in the squire’s daughter.

* * *

P erry did not understand his desire to be close to the ridiculous, yet fascinating, Emma Davis. Something about the young woman fired his blood and made him feel invigorated.

He had planned to ride his own mount as they made their leisurely way home, but had instead been drawn into the carriage, where he had now watched her read for the past two hours, surrounded by the faint scent of chamomile and wildflowers.

There was no arguing that he was behaving like an untried youth battling his first infatuation. She had delicate features, a sweet heart-shaped face, and those large black eyes that seemed to look directly into his soul. He should know. They had been the subject of his dreams the night before—dreams he was not eager to revisit.

Emma also possessed the same luminous skin as her sister, smooth and glowing. But it was not the younger sister who had captured his imagination. He could only be grateful Emma was so entirely oblivious to fashion and the finer points of dress. Fortunately, her mud-colored carriage gown dulled her otherwise warm coloring, and its many layers and tucks left little to distract him.

And yet …

There was something disarmingly endearing about her earnest expression as she licked a finger to turn the page, her focus utterly fixed on the dry text before her. Perry found himself almost envious of her dedication.

He considered following Jane’s example. Her sister had fallen asleep not long after they set off and had remained in peaceful repose ever since.

Perry’s sleep the night before had been anything but peaceful.

The coaching inn had been noisy, the sounds of distant footsteps and slamming doors echoing through the thin walls. But worse than the noise had been the dreams.

He had dreamt of Emma. Not in the way that usually troubled his rest, but in a different, more unsettling way. In one moment, she was dancing with him, her face lit with laughter, her hand warm in his. In another, they were seated on a garden bench, engaged in an intense argument that somehow left him smiling before he had leaned down to capture her lips with his. And still another dream found him waking beside her in some future time, with her tousled curls spilling over the pillow, her sleepy voice teasing him about something clever and absurd.

The dreams had been far too vivid. And far too pleasant.

He had awoken restless and oddly wistful, the vision of her cheeky smile refusing to leave his mind and the softness of her mouth still present on his lips.

Across from him, Emma stirred, as if sensing his thoughts. She raised her hands to unfasten her outer gown, clearly intending to remove the heavier layer in favor of the lighter muslin beneath. The idea unsettled him far more than it ought to. It was much easier to forget her womanly form with the hideous carriage dress to hide the generous curves of her bodice.

“Keep it on!”

She turned, startled by the sharpness of his tone. “Why? The morning has been warming up, and I wish to be comfortable.”

Perry scrambled for a reasonable explanation, schooling his expression into a lazy smile. “We shall stop at an inn for luncheon shortly. As you said, the roads are dusty, and I imagine you wish to keep your day gown pristine.”

Emma tilted her head, as if considering a retort, but after a moment, she sighed. “You are correct. It would be pleasant to wash up and change properly. You finally concede that the carriage dress is serviceable?”

He nodded absently, though he had not truly registered what she said. He was simply relieved she had left the gown in place. She was the least ornamental female he had ever met, and yet …

He scowled out the window. Where had this vacillation come from? You are a buffle head, Balfour.

Before he could stop himself, he barked, “You really ought to find better reading material!”

Well done. Why not just set a match to gun powder?

From behind the edge of her book, large black eyes narrowed. “What, pray tell, did you do to entertain yourself on the way to Rose Ash?”

“I rode my mount and enjoyed the country air.”

A triumphant smile played across her lips. “I knew it. You are in this carriage to be close to me.”

“No—I—” He floundered for a reasonable explanation. Anything but the truth, which was that he wanted to be near her.

“Admit it, Mr. Balfour. You have made it a sport to irritate me.”

He reclined back into the squabs with a faint smile. “Irritating you is considerably more entertaining than riding.”

Emma rolled her eyes and returned to her book. “Would you care for something to read, Mr. Balfour? It appears you are in need of occupation.”

Perry considered it. Reading would be preferable to thinking. He gave her a terse nod.

Emma marked her page with a ribbon and leaned forward to reach her basket.

His eyes darted away. The carriage dress remained as unflattering as ever, yet somehow the grace of her movement still managed to stir his awareness. He gritted his teeth. Get a hold of yourself.

“Here you go.”

He looked up to see a green volume with gold lettering being thrust into his hand.

“ Pride and Prejudice, Volume One? ”

“I have the other two volumes when you are ready. It is a delightful book about etiquette .” Her emphasis was unmistakable.

“You have read a book on etiquette?” He blinked. “And now you expect me to read a romantic novel?”

Emma’s jaw set. “As you wish, Mr. Balfour. It is either a romantic novel or a text on animal husbandry.”

He eyed the weighty tome she had been reading earlier with a grimace.

He sighed in defeat. “I shall read the novel.”

Emma returned to her own book and leaned back into the corner of the carriage, content to ignore him once more.

Perry opened the volume and read the first line.

* * *

Jane Davis was at that age when she was a strange mix of giddy girl and astute young woman. Emma could not decide which version had just spoken, as she stared at her younger sister, mouth agape.

“Have you gone mad?”

Jane merely shrugged, continuing to plait her hair in preparation for bed, her expression infuriatingly serene.

They had stopped for the night at a comfortable coaching inn. Once again, it was clear that Jane had not been part of the original plans for the return to London—evidenced by the fact that they were sharing a chamber that had clearly been reserved for Emma alone when Peregrine Balfour passed through on his way to Rose Ash.

The weather had been mild, the pace unhurried. Mr. Balfour, it seemed, had planned for a leisurely journey, which Emma had to admit she appreciated. They had paused for a pleasant midday meal earlier in the day, and this evening’s accommodations were the finest Emma had ever seen in an inn.

A cheerful rug covered the polished floor, and a large bed awaited them—plump with clean linens and thick counterpanes. One of their trunks had been brought up by the footman, adding to the sense of ease and comfort.

Still, none of it settled Emma’s thoughts. She turned back to Jane, who was now humming as she tucked the end of her plait beneath her nightcap.

“Jane!”

“I stand by what I said.” Jane adjusted her nightcap, entirely unruffled. “Mr. Balfour continues to tease you because he is smitten.”

Emma shook her head in disbelief. “But … but … he is him, and I am …” She gestured helplessly between them, waving her hand back and forth as if that explained the enormity of the gap.

“Emma,” Jane said gently, “you are a unique woman. Despite your tragic neglect of your appearance, you are quite comely. And Mr. Balfour cannot seem to stop looking at you.”

Emma scoffed. “That is absurd. Mr. Balfour is a handsome second son of an earl, with a healthy annuity, I am certain. He could have any young lady he wished. He teases me because it amuses him. He as much as said so.”

“I do not believe that is what I am witnessing,” Jane replied calmly.

Emma turned away, arms folded across her chest. “Jane, he is clearly experienced with women. And I am … no one.”

“Women, perhaps,” Jane allowed. “Ladies, not so much. And certainly not intelligent, forthright young ladies of honor. More like—” she wrinkled her nose, “—widows, if I were to hazard a guess.”

“Jane!” Emma hissed, appalled.

“Well, I cannot say for certain, but it is clear he has not spent time with anyone like you.” Jane fluffed her pillow. “And that may be precisely the reason he cannot look away.”

Emma blinked at her sister, a faint flush rising to her cheeks as she stared at her younger sister in amazement. Jane truly believed her words. Not only that—but the very subject of her remarks suggested she was not quite the na?ve young miss Mama had implied the previous afternoon.

A flash of pride bloomed in Emma’s chest as she studied the beautiful, composed young woman before her—so full of grace and wit. Jane was going to excel during her Season. That much was certain.

Then, as swiftly as the sentiment had formed, Emma recalled the ludicrous notion that Peregrine Balfour might be infatuated with her and promptly stamped her foot in outrage.

“This conversation is absurd! Mr. Balfour—nay, any gentleman of the ton —would not give me a second glance. And if he were enamored of intelligent young ladies of honor, it would be you he was mooning over, not me!”

Jane, undeterred, simply folded the end of her plait and tied it neatly with a ribbon. “Emma, we are two very different personalities. There is something about you in particular that calls to the gentleman.”

She met Emma’s gaze steadily. “I know when a man is looking at me with interest—and I assure you, Mr. Balfour is not. It is you who has captured his attention.”

Emma narrowed her eyes. Jane had gone mad. There could be no other explanation. The stress of an unexpected London Season among the elite had clearly unbalanced her and robbed her of all reason.

Jane continued serenely. “If you yourself were not so infatuated in return, you might notice the signals.”

“WHAT?”

Emma clapped a hand over her mouth in horror.

Had she just howled?

In a public inn?

Lud! What was the matter with her?

Nay. What was the matter with her sister?

Emma’s concern for her sister’s mental state deepened. Perhaps she ought to insist they return home. She had no notion how to care for Jane if something had truly gone awry.

This conversation was so far removed from anything she had ever experienced, Emma briefly considered whether she, too, had been driven mad by this ill-advised journey.

Jane, unperturbed, sat down to remove her slippers. “Usually, if you think a man is of inferior intellect,” she said mildly, “you politely rebuke him and walk away. But Mr. Balfour is an intelligent and worthy adversary, so you argue with him. You engage him. His wit has clearly earned your admiration.”

Jane looked up, her tone perfectly reasonable. “The more he bests you in conversation, the more fascinated you become. It does not hurt, of course, that he is one of the most attractive men either of us has ever laid eyes upon. I think you shall be married long before I, Emma.”

She stated it with such startling calm, as though she had not just delivered a pronouncement of such profound absurdity that the family might have to lock her in her room lest the neighbors suspect madness and summon someone from Bedlam.

“MARRIED?” Emma gasped.

The very air had been knocked from her lungs.

Fisting her hands at her sides, she drew in a fortifying breath. “Jane, are you quite well? Did something disagree with you at dinner? Are you overwhelmed by the pressure of this journey?” She reached forward to feel her sister’s forehead. “We will finish the journey and then I shall ask the earl to send us home with a promise that we shall return later—after we have had time to prepare properly. We might find a tutor to assist us, and you can have time to rest?—”

Jane laughed softly, rising from her seat. She took Emma’s hands in her own, her blue eyes searching Emma’s face.

“He is not at all what I would have predicted for you,” she said gently, “but he is interesting, and I am positive you will work out your differences.”

Emma frowned. “Jane, Mr. Balfour is not the marrying kind. He is a gentleman who—who—” she floundered, “—engages in scandalous pursuits. You have seen the gossip columns. You have heard the whispers about him and his brother. He will never settle down.”

“The earl did,” Jane replied, with infuriating logic.

Emma huffed. “The earl has a title, Jane. He needs an heir. Once that is accomplished, all pressure is lifted from his brother to procreate. Mr. Balfour will most likely never marry. There is nothing—nothing—about his conduct that suggests he is in want of a wife.”

She took a breath, her voice rising with indignation. “Consider Pride and Prejudice — ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’ Well, he has no fortune of his own! He is the earl’s dependent!”

Jane smiled serenely. “Indeed… consider Pride and Prejudice .”

With that cryptic remark, she dropped Emma’s hands. “Time for bed, I think.”

“You napped all morning!” Emma objected.

“And embroidered all afternoon,” Jane replied breezily. “All that fine needlework and travel has quite taken it out of me. Which side would you like to sleep on?”

She climbed into the bed without awaiting a response, tucked the counterpane around her with practiced ease, and within seconds, her head sank into the pillow as she released a soft, huffing snore.

Emma stared in disbelief.

Damn Jane and her uncanny ability to sleep like a carefree babe.

How dare she make such outrageous declarations—suggestions of affection and marriage, no less—and then simply close her eyes and drift off as though she had merely discussed the weather?

Emma paced the room, her ire at full staff, muttering beneath her breath as the full strangeness of their conversation replayed in her mind.

Yes, Mr. Balfour was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. That much was indisputable.

But that did not mean she admired him.

And what utter rot about his intellect impressing her!

The man was a buffoon.

Yes, his emerald eyes made her want to drown in their depths, but that was a customary response to an attractive male, was it not? Entirely involuntary. Unimportant.

His words, however, made her palms itch.

He fired her blood in the worst way, making her want to grab him by his broad, arrogant shoulders and shake him until … until … until?—

She stopped mid-step, chest heaving.

Until what, precisely?

“Oh, lud!”

Emma dropped into the armchair in the corner of the room and lowered her head into her hands, overcome with mortification.

Until he kisses me like he means it.

The horrifying truth reverberated through her mind.

She was nothing more than a shallow, feather-brained young woman whose head had been turned by a tall, perfectly sculpted specimen of manhood—without the least consideration for the odious personality housed within.

She was going to hell.

Nay, I am already there.

The very idea that he might feel the same inexplicable yearning to embrace her in return—as Jane so blithely suggested—was beyond comprehension.

Physically, he was flawless. A Grecian statue come to life. And she was … a country mouse with hair like a bird’s nest and the fashion sense of, well … a country mouse.

Emma snorted into her cupped hands.

Developing an infatuation is robbing me of my intellect. Even my analogies have become redundant.

This could only lead to heartbreak.

Hers, not his.

He would never know of her absurd feelings. It would be humiliating—excruciating—for him to suspect. If his mockery was aggravating now, it would become intolerable if he discovered she harbored any sort of attachment.

Emma groaned aloud.

What was she to do? She had read enough novels to know this never ended well for the foolish heroine.

She would not be some poor girl who dared to aim too high, only to be painfully snubbed for her presumption.

She would not be Icarus, hurtling from the sky for daring to fly too close to a man carved from sunlight and smugness.

This requires a healthy dose of realism, Emma Davis.

Yes. That was the only way forward. She would focus all her energy on preparing for the Season. She would keep her head down, make no spectacle of herself, and do her utmost not to be considered a fool.

She would help Jane find a suitable young gentleman—one worthy of her sister’s grace and kindness—and once Jane’s path was secured, Emma would return at once to Rose Ash.

There was no question that Jane would attract notice. She always had. In Derby and in Somerset, gentlemen had admired her, though Jane had yet to show interest in any of them.

But Emma?

Emma would avoid Mr. Peregrine Balfour with military precision.

Once they reached London, he would vanish into his clubs and idle pursuits—just as she expected—and she would be free to return to her natural state of mind.

All she had to do was not engage with him.

Avoid him at all costs.

Surely that would be simple enough.

* * *

The next morning, just before midday, Mr. Balfour laid the final volume down on his lap with a contented sigh.

Emma glanced up from her own book.

“Did you enjoy the novel after all, Mr. Balfour?”

Wonderful, Emma. So much for your solemn vow not to engage.

“It was excellent,” he said. “Truly a masterpiece.”

Emma tilted her head, eyes narrowing in surprise. “Truly?”

It was her most beloved novel—her comfort during long winters, her solace when the world seemed to hold no prospects. To hear him echo her thoughts was … startling.

“Mr. Darcy,” he mused, “was most astute regarding the troubles of a gentleman.”

Emma frowned. “What do you mean by that?”

He turned toward her, all lazy charm. “That Bennet flibbertigibbet was entirely unsuitable. A gentleman of such class and distinction … to be brought down by such a snare. Quite lowering.”

Emma leaned forward in disbelief. “I am not sure you understood the?—”

“—the troubles of managing country mice? Oh, I assure you, Miss Davis, I am intimately familiar.” He gave a mockingly tragic sigh. “The story is a heartbreak, truly. A romantic tragedy.”

“Tragedy?”

“That a man of Mr. Darcy’s consequence should be dragged down in station by a family so far beneath his own. All those sisters, and the embarrassing mother?—”

Emma shook her head in disbelief. “Mr. Bal?—”

“He should have escaped when he had the chance,” Mr. Balfour interjected airily. “Once he learned of the sister’s elopement, that was his opportunity. And he blew it.”

Emma, to her dismay, made a rather unladylike squeaking noise. “That was not?—”

“And what a prideful, ill-mannered young woman this Elizabeth Bennet was,” he added, sounding almost offended.

Across the carriage, Jane calmly set her embroidery frame down on her lap and reached out to place a soothing hand over Emma’s tightly clenched fist. “Each reader takes away their own interpretation of a story, Emma.”

“But—”

Mr. Balfour looked genuinely confused. “Have I said something you disagree with?”

Emma's spine straightened like a snapped ribbon. “Mr. Darcy was insufferable!” she burst out.

“I do not understand.”

“He was arrogant and pompous! He refused to dance at the Meryton assembly, which is the duty of every gentleman of good character. And his first proposal—do not even get me started—it was insulting! He spoke of how unsuitable she was while asking for her hand!”

Mr. Balfour gave an exasperated shake of his head. “Darcy could hardly encourage the notion he would marry a silly chit from the country. He was a man of substance! And I would argue it was rather honorable that he offered for her instead of proposing the—ah—more customary arrangement for a woman of her situation.”

Emma gasped. “You mean—as his mistress?”

Perry gave a negligent shrug. “It would not have been unheard of.”

“It is a comedy, Mr. Balfour. A beautiful love story!”

He leaned forward, eyes glinting with challenge. “It is a tragedy. A cautionary tale of what becomes of a man when he fails to keep women in their proper place.”

Emma’s brows arched. “What place is that?”

“Women,” he said loftily, “are purely ornamental. When a man forgets that, he finds himself drowning his sorrows in drink. Speaking of which”—he glanced out the window—“I could very well do with one now.”

“ORNAMENTAL?”

There was no denying that last was a shriek. Emma was so furious, she half-contemplated leaping across the carriage to pummel the arrogant idiot with her fists.

But then?—

A strange expression crossed Mr. Balfour’s face. Not smugness, not amusement … but something oddly unsettled.

Emma’s fury stuttered. He looked stricken.

“I apologize,” he said quietly.

Her mouth fell open. She had thought her outburst had shamed her, but it appeared Mr. Balfour had been inspecting himself—and found something wanting.

“That is something my fa—” he hesitated. “Something someone once said to me when I was a boy. I did not realize it had taken root in my thinking until I heard myself repeat it aloud. It was … appalling.”

He drew a steadying breath. “Miss Davis. Miss Jane. Please accept my apology. You are both lovely young ladies. And more than that, you have been … remarkable company.”

He reached up and tapped on the roof of the carriage.

The carriage gradually slowed to a halt.

When it stopped, he opened the door and descended the steps.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, bowing politely, “I believe I shall ride for a few miles.”

Without another word, he closed the door gently and disappeared from view.

Emma and Jane turned to stare at one another.

“I think the gentleman hides a dark youth,” Jane murmured.

Emma groaned aloud. That was the last thing she needed—to begin empathizing with the devil who both taunted and tempted her so.

“Please do not tell me I must now care about his point of view,” she pleaded, sinking back into her seat. “I … I thought about what you said, and I admit it—I have grown attracted to him. But Jane, it is a disaster! The very first man to attract my admiration is wholly unattainable. And worse still—we do not even like each other.” She covered her face with her hands. “Now he is having some grand revelation about his erroneous thinking. This is already such a pickle!”

Jane broke into a wide grin. “What an adventure this is turning out to be!”

“Jane!”

“Well, I am highly entertained. There is a gentleman who clearly needs a woman’s influence in his life. Did we not read in Debrett’s that his mother died when he was only four or five years old? That is Ethan’s age, Emma. Poor man. What if he had no one like you to guide him?”

Emma groaned again. “Please do not make me sympathize with that impudent man! His ghastly teasing has already made me nervous enough about appearing in London society. And now, besides being attracted to the rogue, I am beginning to feel concerned for his well-being.” She closed her eyes in dismay. “Next I shall imagine I am in love with him—that I could somehow save him from his troubles—and then my torture shall be complete.”

Zooks, Jane’s sentimental whimsy is going to get me into trouble!

Jane ignored the outburst entirely. “I think I understand why he is so intrigued. There is no woman more capable of influence than you, Emma. Look at the way you cared for Ethan when Kitty passed away. And you were just a girl—younger than I am now!”

Emma softened slightly. “Thank you, but?—”

“Though,” Jane cut in, “even I must admit your conduct these past two days has been most unbecoming. Quite unlike your usual even temperament. When do you intend to allow Mr. Balfour to meet the real you?”

Emma stared at her sister in disbelief. “Never, Jane. There is no future for the two of us. I have admitted my attraction, but if Mr. Balfour harbors any interest in me—which I very much question—I would be nothing more than a novelty. A curiosity. The moment a more alluring woman enters the scene, he would immediately lose interest in the strange little rabbit he was sent to fetch from Somerset. He is a polished member of the beau monde , a fashionable buck of London society. I am merely an inelegant bluestocking from the countryside.”

Jane tilted her head. “It all sounds so eerily familiar,” she mused, her voice light with mischief. “Almost as if it were the plot of a grand romance.” Her gaze flicked meaningfully toward the book Mr. Balfour had left on the opposite bench.

Emma followed her line of sight, scowling when she saw the third volume of Pride and Prejudice . She snatched it up and gave a dismissive humph.

“Our Season in London is not a work of fiction, Jane,” she muttered. “In the real world, such an ill-matched couple could never find their way to a fortunate marriage, you sentimental goose.”

Jane leaned back with a contented sigh, her smile lingering. “Perhaps not a novel,” she said softly, “but that does not mean your story cannot have a remarkable ending.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Now you sound like Mama.”

“I shall take that as a compliment.”

Emma clutched the book to her chest and turned toward the window, her reflection faint in the glass as the countryside rolled steadily past.

She would not imagine a future that could not exist. She would not let herself yearn for something foolish. She would be practical, poised, and protect her heart.

Still, in the faint shimmer of glass, she caught sight of herself—and wondered, just for a moment, what a woman like Elizabeth Bennet might have seen when she looked back.

The carriage hit a rut, jostling them gently. Jane stirred, glancing toward the window.

“We must be nearing the city,” she said.

Emma nodded. “Yes.”

London loomed ahead, with all its glittering promise and peril. She would face it. With dignity. With purpose. And, if fate allowed, without giving her heart to the green-eyed rogue who had, thus far, made a mockery of her common sense.