Page 8 of Miss Davis and the Spare (Dazzling Debutantes #3)

Chapter Seven

"I arranged for her to visit you for your birthday. After that fiasco with your brother, I thought it best to ensure your first experience was with only one woman—no confusion this time."

July 1807, the late Earl of Saunton to his son, Peregrine, on his twelfth birthday to explain the presence of the lightskirt in his bed.

* * *

“W ell, well. If it is not Sir Drinksalot!”

Perry groaned, clutching his head as Emma’s voice struck him like a church bell to the skull. “Let me get some coffee in me first, and then you may proceed to mock me.”

Jane perked up with interest, putting down her fork. “Coffee? I have seen advertisements for it, but I confess I am not familiar with it. We never drank it at home. I suppose we could now that we are landowners, but as tenant farmers, we never encountered any, owing to the price.”

Perry dropped heavily into one of the delicate chairs at the breakfast table. The piece gave a creak of protest, which echoed in his skull like a death knell. “You will encounter it shortly, I assure you. Marcus? A pot, if you please. A large one.”

The footman nodded and moved swiftly to the sideboard, where a silver coffeepot already awaited him. Evidently, word of Perry’s late-night adventures had reached the staff. From the sympathetic arrangement of strong coffee and headache-friendly fare, they had clearly anticipated his condition.

The tall, slender pot was placed before him, Marcus laying out a cup and saucer with practiced efficiency.

“It is darker than tea!” Jane squeaked, wide-eyed. Perry winced. Was she always this enthusiastic, or was he merely afflicted?

“Yes,” he bit out.

“It smells heavenly!”

“Yes.”

He raised the cup to his lips and drank, only wincing slightly as the heat seared his tongue. Even so, the bitter brew was salvation in liquid form.

“May I try a cup?”

Perry stilled, frowning into the steam. “It is more of a gentleman’s drink.”

“Why? Does it contain spirits or some such thing?”

Emma snorted softly. “No, Jane. It is simply one of those things men like to keep for themselves, to exclude women.”

“Perry will let me try it. He is practically our family.”

Perry scowled but lacked the will to argue. If it would quiet her exuberance, she could sip brandy straight from the decanter for all he cared. “Marcus, another cup, if you would.”

A second cup was placed on the table, followed by a rounder, smaller pot of coffee. Marcus poured carefully, ensuring not a single drop escaped the elegant spout.

Jane inhaled deeply. “Goodness, it smells divine.” She took a cautious sip, then made a face. “Oh! It is quite bitter.”

She returned the cup to its saucer with theatrical delicacy.

Perry drained his and poured another, the world sharpening with each sip. Perhaps he would survive the day after all.

“I wonder if it would taste better with cream and sugar?” Jane mused, mostly to herself. “I shall try it as I take my tea, I think.”

Marcus, ever attentive, placed a delicate silver cream jug and sugar bowl in front of her.

“Thank you, Marcus.”

Perry, his vision clearer now, arched a brow. “One does not thank the servants, Jane. One does not even notice them.”

Jane blinked in confusion, her mouth parting slightly.

From the corner of his eye, Perry observed Emma’s eyebrows draw together.

“Why not?” asked his little hoyden.

Not mine, he reminded himself, fighting the inconvenient urge to grab her and erase that frown with a wholly inappropriate kiss on her pink lips.

“You will move amongst the ton . That is simply how things are done.”

“Sir Drinksalot is giving us etiquette lessons over breakfast while he can barely hold himself upright?”

His lips quirked into a half-smile. “Indeed. As your tutor, it is my solemn duty to correct your every mistake.”

“And what of yours, Mister Carousing-After-Midnight?” Emma fired back.

“A lady does not remark upon the activities of the gentlemen around her.”

She sat back in her chair, her posture radiating belligerence. “Well, that is convenient. For the gentlemen.”

“It is,” he agreed with a maddeningly sanguine expression.

Emma huffed. Retrieving her fork, she stabbed at her eggs, no doubt imagining they were his ribs. Jane, mercifully unfazed, stirred her coffee with care, added sugar, and lifted the cup again with reverent anticipation.

“Zooks! That is delicious,” Jane cried, staring down into her cup with awe. She took a long, appreciative sip and dabbed delicately at her mouth with a napkin.

Emma leaned toward her. “Just be sure not to drink it in company. Heaven forfend a lady be caught sipping a gentleman’s beverage.”

Perry grinned. “See? Already you are learning, Emma. Before long, you will be a perfectly polished lady of the beau monde .”

She growled softly and turned her attention back to her breakfast, deliberately ignoring his bait.

“I would like to point out,” she said loftily, “that family, integrity, and upholding one’s honor are far more important than which beverage one drinks and whether one is so crass as to thank the servants for their service.”

“You would think that was the case.”

“Are you saying it is not?”

“I would say,” he replied slowly, “that etiquette is the grease of social interaction. Each level of society has rules of conduct to facilitate their affairs. Ignoring those rules marks you as someone who does not belong.”

“And why should I care whether spoiled lords like your friend Trafford believe I belong?”

“If you are to live within this world, you will need the cooperation of others. These are peers. They hold the power of the realm in their hands. Flouting the rules will place you at a disadvantage. You must learn to play the game—then you may begin to win it. That said, Trafford was unforgivably rude, and you were fully within your rights to defend yourself. Vigorously.”

Emma looked thoughtful. “What about integrity and doing what is right?”

“What of it?”

She gave a vexed sigh. “How does one’s honor fit into this world of rigid rules?”

Perry sipped his coffee and sighed. It was far too early, and he was too far into his convalescence from the night before to engage in philosophy.

“I suppose it might be possible to do both,” he allowed. “Surely great statesmen must navigate etiquette and ideals in equal measure. They must envision a better future and use grace and persuasion to bring it about.”

“You mean like you persuaded me to leave Somerset? By manipulating the invitation to include Jane?”

“Precisely.”

Jane’s cup clattered onto its saucer. “I was not included in the invitation?”

Perry closed his eyes in pain. “Of course you were! Emma was merely posing a hypothetical situation. Were you not, Emma?”

Emma set her jaw and glared at him over the pristine linen tablecloth. “Yes.”

Jane looked between them, her brow furrowed. “I do not understand. Was I invited or not?”

Emma’s lips pressed together as Perry gave her a long, warning look. At last, she relented.

“Of course you were invited, Jane. I was only—” she exhaled through her nose “—posing a hypothetical situation.”

Relief softened Jane’s features. She turned back to her coffee, added more sugar and cream, and took another sip. Perry grimaced. She was utterly spoiling the brew, but he had not the strength to object. His sparring with Emma had exhausted what little fortitude remained in him.

Then he remembered the previous evening—how she had stood, fierce and resolute, holding her ground before Lord Oaf. She had been incandescent.

He sat straighter, admitting the truth: he had dragged his aching body down to breakfast solely to see her. To bask in her nearness. She invigorated him.

You have nothing to offer her, you worthless bounder.

The reminder did nothing to dampen his awareness of her. He dropped his gaze to his plate and focused on forcing down enough food to restore himself.

* * *

Emma knew her brow was furrowed, but try as she might, she could not relax the muscles in her face.

“But what if I do not want the soup?”

Perry rubbed his hands over his face, clearly still recovering from the night before. “You must accept the soup.”

“What if I do not like the soup that is served?”

“It does not signify. One always accepts the soup.”

Jane interjected, still babbling incessantly, as she had been since breakfast. “I like soup. I like all kinds of soup. In fact, there are few soups that I would ever think to reject. I like brown soup. And white soup, especially with ground almonds, though I am not so fond of it when anchovies are added. It quite spoils the taste, in my opinion. Do you think soup will be served tonight for supper? What am I saying? Of course there will be soup …”

Emma shook her head in dismay. What had gotten into her? Jane was frequently exuberant, but this was an entirely new level of enthusiasm.

“As I was saying”—she glared at her sister, who belatedly realized she was chattering and slapped a hand over her mouth as if to hold the words inside—“why must I eat soup if I do not want it?”

Perry growled, then lifted his head to glare at her. “Emma, one must accept the soup. I do not know why this is the case—it simply is. If you dislike the soup, or if it is soup in general that you so eloquently despise, then toy with your spoon and pretend to consume it until the fish course arrives.”

“I do not understand why it is poor manners to reject soup!” Emma brought her fist down on the table, causing the porcelain and silver to clink and jump.

Perry groaned at the cacophony, clutching his head in agonized frustration. “Jane, could you leave us for a moment? I would like to converse with your sister.”

Jane unclamped her hand from her mouth and stood. “I think I shall locate some tea. I am quite parched, for some reason.”

With that, she made her exit. Once they were alone, Perry turned to Emma.

“I feel I owe you an apology for what transpired in the library. I did not know you were in there.”

“Your friend, Trafford, was a complete boor. He raked his eyes over me as if I were a street harlot!”

Perry frowned. “What do you mean?”

“His eyes …” Emma waved at her bodice. Perry’s gaze dropped to where she indicated, lingering several seconds longer than was appropriate, before snapping back to her face. He looked dazed.

“I am sorry. I quite forgot what you said,” he admitted.

Emma clenched her fists. “Trafford was most unseemly in his gaze! Not to mention insufferably rude about my reading.”

Perry’s face hardened, his features set into grim lines. Is he angry with me… or with Trafford?

“Trafford can be an arse—” He caught himself. “I mean, he can be a …”

“I grew up with rambunctious brothers. Arse is not the worst I have overheard.”

“Then Trafford calling you a bluestocking was not that devastating?”

“No, I suppose not. I find it an honor to be associated with such intellectuals. Both Sarah Fielding and Samuel Johnson were members of The Blue Stockings Society. I do not care if it is now considered a derogatory term for educated women—I would have proudly taken a seat at one of their meetings.”

“Then why are you still angry with me? I swept them out the moment I realized it was ill-advised to inflict them on you. I am apologizing again. What more do you need from me?”

Emma dropped her eyes, toying with the linen tablecloth. “I disliked seeing you in that state,” she mumbled.

“Miss Mouse,” he said softly, “are you concerned about my welfare?”

Her cheeks warmed. “I am. You should not spend time with someone like Trafford. He is an … arse.”

Perry was silent for a long moment. “I think … you might be saying … that I am not?”

“No … you are … you. Not like Trafford.”

Emma glanced up, testing the waters. Perry appeared bemused—but undeniably pleased.

“That might be the nicest compliment anyone has ever paid me.”

“I barely said anything,” she muttered, mortified.

“Nevertheless … thank you, Emma.”

Hesitantly, she raised her eyes to his. “You are welcome, Mr. Arrogant.”

Perry chuckled. “May we continue this lesson, then?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “As you wish. Let the arbitrary rules of dinner time commence.”

“We shall have to find Jane, then.”

Within ten minutes, they had all resumed their places at the dining table.

“As I was saying, one always accepts the soup course …” Perry cast Emma a look of mock severity.

“And if one does not wish to eat it,” Emma recited with a sigh, “one toys with it until the fish course.”

Perry grinned. “Precisely. Then one quietly sips from the side of the spoon—never the tip. And one must avoid vulgar slurping noises?—”

“Zounds, Perry! We have eaten soup before!” Emma protested.

“I felt I should be thorough. But I am pleased to hear it. I shall be watching this evening to ensure you both conduct yourselves with the utmost decorum, so I expect you to be on your very best behavior.”

“We shall see,” Emma replied pertly, though a secret smile tugged at her lips.

He was staying home tonight.

And that, she could not help but admit, made her exceedingly glad.

As their dinner lesson continued into the afternoon, Perry suggested various dishes, prompting Jane and Emma to select the appropriate utensil for each. It turned out they were relatively well-versed—aside from one minor misstep when both sisters chose a fork in response to his query about tarts, rather than the correct spoon.

By the time the lesson on table manners had concluded, Emma felt relatively confident she could dine within high society without appearing a complete ninny. Even the rules of precedence when entering a dining room did not seem overly complicated—so long as they accepted that they were likely always to be the lowest ranking members at any such event. Emma, by virtue of being the elder, would outrank Jane by a hair.

Now, if only she did not look like an unfashionable relic from a far-flung estate, she might consider being seen in public to discover whether all gentlemen of the ton were as rude as that Trafford fellow—or whether there might be some worthwhile personages of character to meet.

As she climbed the steps to return to their rooms, Emma glanced down at her gown, and all her newfound confidence evaporated, leaving a tight knot of anxiety in the region of her stomach. Raising her eyes to look at Jane, who walked beside her on the stairs, did nothing to restore it. Her sister looked utterly delightful in a day gown of deep blue-green—a creation she had sewn herself. The color perfectly complemented her silky ebony locks, golden skin, and bright blue eyes.

Emma exhaled a long breath. Nothing about this trip was turning out to be simple—not her role, not her appearance, and certainly not her conflicting feelings regarding the handsome Mr. Arrogant, whom they had just left behind to change for dinner.

For some unfathomable reason, she was drawn to the charming, indolent gentleman—a fact that was both illogical and deeply problematic. She would be fortunate to catch his attention for more than a moment, let alone sustain it for a lifetime. Which, of course, was academic. They had absolutely nothing in common.

Nevertheless, as her slippered feet ascended the grand staircase, Emma could not deny the truth that pressed on her heart like a physical weight: she was no longer guarding her emotions with the careful discipline she had so recently resolved to uphold.

* * *

The next morning, Emma paced up and down the corridor outside their bedchambers, her stomach growling in protest. She paused to glare at Jane’s door. What on earth was keeping her?

Several more minutes passed without any sign of her sister. At last, Emma crossed the hall and knocked firmly. No response. That was most peculiar. Jane was invariably the first one awake, eager for breakfast and conversation. Had she already gone downstairs without her?

Frowning in bewilderment, Emma opened the door and stepped inside. The room was still dark, the heavy curtains drawn against the daylight. She peered around, surprised to see the bed still occupied.

Jane is still sleeping?

Padding closer, Emma called gently, “Jane?”

There was no reply. Anxiety stirred. Her sister never overslept. Drawing back the covers, Emma revealed the familiar tumble of dark curls on the pillow. Still no movement. Panic flared. Reaching down, she shook Jane’s shoulder.

“Jane!”

Her sister’s eyes flew open. Both girls jumped in shock before letting out relieved gasps.

“Emma?”

“You are still asleep?”

Jane blinked blearily. “What time is it?”

“Well, there is just enough time left for a quick breakfast before Perry accompanies us to the dress shop.”

Jane groaned. “That late?”

“What happened? You always sleep like the dead!”

“I do not know. I simply could not fall asleep. I was awake until sunrise.”

Emma’s jaw dropped. “But you never have trouble sleeping. You are the envy of the entire household!”

“I was restless. Look—” Jane gestured to the side table where her embroidery frame displayed the finished rose-and-ash motif she had begun in Somerset. “I must have passed out just after dawn.”

Emma shook her head in wonder. “Well, you’ve had a few hours at least. But we must keep the appointment Perry made. Get dressed. Quickly. You can eat downstairs.”

Jane stretched with a loud yawn. “This is an outrage. I was so looking forward to meeting a London modiste, and now I must prop myself against the counter like a rag doll.”

Emma smirked. “Perfect. It will mean I can speak to her without you monopolizing the conversation. I have far more need than you do. You already look genteel.”

“I have tried to advise you on colors, but you never listen to me!”

“I am quite sure I shall not look half as elegant in those rich shades you wear.”

“Hmph. Wait until the modiste confirms everything I have ever told you. Then you shall owe me an apology for months of stubborn resistance.”

“Jane, stop quarreling and get dressed. I need something that will not make me feel like a poor relation.”

Jane shot her a sideways glance, suspicion gleaming. “Why? Do you wish to impress someone? A certain Mr. Arrogant, perhaps?”

Emma dropped her gaze. “I have no idea of what you speak, you silly creature. Just hurry.”

Soon they were racing downstairs to eat their eggs and ham in unseemly haste, fortunately without any witnesses to their indecorous display. Emma dabbed her mouth with a napkin, her thoughts already leaping ahead to their meeting with the dressmaker. Meanwhile, Jane sighed blissfully as she lifted her freshly poured coffee.

“Oh my, the whole day seems brighter now!” she declared, sipping with dreamy reverence.

Emma shook her head, amused despite herself, and rose from her chair.

She needed that modiste like a parched woman needs water.