Page 9 of Miss Davis and the Spare (Dazzling Debutantes #3)

Chapter Eight

“Steer clear of intelligent women. They are dull company and see through a gentleman’s attempts to charm.”

July 1808, the late Earl of Saunton to his son, Peregrine, on his thirteenth birthday.

* * *

I t was with some trepidation that Emma ascended into the Saunton carriage after Jane. She was anticipating their arrival at the modiste while simultaneously dreading it. Emma was certain that nothing could be done about her appearance, while hoping that a magical transformation might occur to make her look as fine as her beautiful sister.

Distracted by her thoughts, she sat down rather too firmly—only to miscalculate and land with a thump on the carpeting in the aisle between the seats. Her buttocks smarted, while a fiery blush spread across her cheeks.

Perry coughed behind her from the open carriage door, completing her humiliation when she realized he had observed her graceless landing. He held out a gloved hand to assist her, which she reluctantly accepted, raising herself onto her knees before fumbling to her feet. She nearly flinched at the tingle his touch produced, even through the gloves they both wore.

Once she was seated, he let her hand go and climbed in to sprawl across the opposite bench.

“Signora Ricci is very talented. She shall make up a full wardrobe befitting a young lady of the gentry.” Perry was clearly attempting to settle her nerves after the embarrassing spill, which Emma both appreciated and resented. Why could she not be a charming young lady who might attract the attentions of a gentleman such as he? It was laughable to think she would ever entice a worldly man of such high standards with her gauche lack of polish.

“Oh, yes! A visit to the modiste shall work wonders!” Jane’s attempt to smooth over the mishap was transparent. Emma felt her blush threaten a second appearance. Desperate to change the subject, she searched for a topic that would not lead back to her unfortunate tumble. She could feel Perry’s gaze upon her as she stared down at her clenched fists. This was mortifying.

“I am very pleased with the progress we made yesterday. Once your wardrobe is ready, we shall invite our cousin and his wife to dinner, so you may practice with the peerage.”

Jane perked up. “Your cousin?”

“I forgot to inform you. The Duke of Halmesbury is our cousin. The duchess shall sponsor you once you are ready to enter society.”

“Oh! Her Grace is the duchess you mentioned at Rose Ash?”

Emma was grateful that Jane and Perry had entered into a discussion of family connections while she took a few moments to recover her composure. She might miss some of what was said, but Jane could recount it to her later.

“Yes, Halmesbury is very influential, and the duchess is an amiable young lady. I believe you shall find much in common, as she, too, grew up in the country and has only recently come to London for the first time.”

Emma drew calming breaths and gazed out the window as the carriage rattled through several blocks before slowing in traffic. Soon it drew to a stop in front of a narrow shop. The gold lettering above the entry proclaimed they had arrived at Signora Ricci , much to Emma’s relief.

She was long past due to tame her wild hair and to wear something that complemented her figure, rather than simply covered it. Privately, she admitted that had always been the general purpose of the clothes she selected for herself.

It was time to make a change—something a little more daring and contemporary than her collection of muted, dowdy gowns. Her eyes flicked to the source of her newfound interest in fashion. Despite herself, she wished to attract a glance of admiration from the handsome gentleman who glanced back at her, a question written in his emerald gaze. If she could see his face suffused with admiration for her womanly form, even once, she might then follow through with her pragmatic decision to steer her thoughts away from such unattainable desires.

The fierce yearning that pierced her heart—to be the object of his desire for even a fleeting moment—was bittersweet. The countess had assured her she might attain a level of competence in her appearance. Emma remained unconvinced, but it gave her hope that she might someday elicit Perry’s fleeting esteem.

Though she knew she could never hold the attentions of such a sophisticated rogue, she would be forever grateful if she might experience his regard and know what it was to be beautiful and desirable, such as her younger sister, who never lacked admirers in Derby, nor at Rose Ash.

She was determined to obtain at least one gown that elevated her appearance, before she inevitably ruined it with an awkward stumble or ill-advised comment on a topic that would send any well-bred gentleman into panicked retreat.

Lost in her thoughts, she failed to notice that she was the only one remaining in the carriage. Perry stood, holding out his hand to assist her, a quizzical expression across his features. Emma drew a shuddering breath, still mortified from her earlier mishap, then grasped his hand to disembark. She nearly wept at the untimely heat that surged through her at the contact.

Collect yourself, Emma! Perry is not—and never shall be—your young gentleman!

“Are you all right, Emma?”

She pressed her lips together, unable to voice complaint over his solicitousness, though she was ashamed to be receiving it due to her lack of poise. That he was so attuned to her embarrassment only worsened it.

“I shall never be ready to enter society.”

Perry appeared genuinely concerned. “I do not believe that is the case. I would never have manipulated the situation if I thought it would do you a disservice to be here. I swear it.”

“We are both witness to the fact that I do not belong. I am not cultivated. Jane shall do splendidly, while I shall make a disgrace of myself.”

Unlike Perry. He was perfection itself—immaculately attired, his broad shoulders filling his forest-green coat, cutting a dashing figure with strong thighs, slim hips, and a flat abdomen. He possessed the languid grace of a cat and the predatory gleam of a wolf.

Perry lifted a hand to tuck an unruly lock behind her ear, the carriage door shielding the intimate gesture from the street beyond.

“I believe you belong wherever you choose to be. You are a determined young woman with strong opinions, and in certain circles, that shall be welcome. I would change nothing about you.”

Emma’s heart melted. She stared into his captivating eyes—flecked with emerald and gold—knowing she must mask the adoration surely written across her face.

“Except, of course,” he added, his gaze dropping, “for this unholy mess of a dress. This, I would gladly burn on your behalf.”

Emma’s feet landed back on the ground with a firm mental thump. She was almost grateful for the rude awakening. Swatting his hand away, she pushed past him and marched through the shop door, which Jane was holding open with a questioning eyebrow at the unseemly delay.

* * *

Staring down into Emma’s coal-black eyes, Perry could see the warm affection his words had inspired. It had thoroughly dismayed him to find himself swaying toward her, a heartbeat away from leaning down to claim her pink lips.

But she was not one of his wayward widows, and he had no right to her sweet fire. Desperately, he had sought for something—anything—to put distance between them.

Unfortunately, his gaze had once again fallen upon her bodice, with the impressive curves it concealed beneath that ghastly mud-colored gown. The vile garment had provided the perfect inspiration to push their interaction into the abrasive once more.

Truly, that dress belonged in a fireplace. It was indescribably awful.

With their bristling animosity restored, Perry followed her into the shop to introduce her to Signora Ricci.

* * *

Signora Ricci was an attractive Italian woman in her late thirties who spoke almost as much with her hands as with her voice. Emma was gratified to note that the modiste did not appear to be the least judgmental about her appearance—although her reaction to the much-maligned carriage dress had been barely concealed horror. With a sharp order in Italian, she had the gown whisked away by an attendant and promptly called for a pelisse from the back.

“We have a young woman who no longer needs il pelisse , and I think il colore is perfect for la donna! ” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “This color, it is non va bene. Miss Davis, you need color!”

Soon, Emma was enveloped in a deep blue pelisse—slightly too long, but cut so well it enhanced her figure in a way she had never before experienced. She stared at her reflection, astonished by how the rich hue made her hair gleam and her complexion glow. Perhaps Jane had been correct all along about Emma wearing the wrong tones?

The garment was whisked away again, this time for alterations, with Signora Ricci adamant that Emma must leave the shop wearing it. Emma did not dare ask after the fate of the mud-brown carriage dress. She suspected it no longer existed.

The modiste presented fashion plates suited to Emma’s contours, then turned them toward Perry, who studied them thoughtfully and nodded his agreement. Once they had selected several styles, Signora Ricci began draping bolts of rich fabrics—silks and velvets—in vivid colors across Emma’s bodice to study the effects. Her eyes widened in wonder as the mirrors reflected back a version of herself she had never imagined: softened, luminous, lovely .

Once, she caught Perry’s reflection as he smiled faintly at her repeated gasps of amazement. A rush of warmth bloomed in her chest at his quiet attention.

After several hours of discussion and selection, Perry placed the order for both sisters—expedited, no less—and scheduled the first fittings. As they waited for the altered pelisse to return, the three of them wandered over to admire a display of gloves near the front windows. Perry advised they purchase a variety of colors to match their new wardrobe.

Just then, the bell above the door chimed as it opened, and two women—both in their late twenties—swept into the shop. Emma’s eyes widened at the vision of an attractive redhead dressed in a gown cut so low and tight that it could scarcely be decent. From the corner of her eye, she saw Perry stiffen.

The women spotted him immediately and approached in a swish of silk and a cloud of sweet perfume.

“Mr. Balfour! It has been too long!”

Emma noted how Perry flicked a glance in her direction before bowing politely over the woman’s hand. “Lady Slight. What a pleasure.”

“Have you taken up with someone new, Perry?” Lady Slight purred, turning her frosted blue eyes on Emma and Jane with naked disdain.

“These are Miss Davis and Miss Jane,” Perry replied smoothly. “They are houseguests of the earl—distantly related to the Balfour family.”

Emma wondered if he and the earl had discussed precisely how their introductions were to be handled. She and Jane curtsied with impeccable decorum.

“Relations?” Lady Slight’s voice was sugar-sweet and laced with venom. She inhaled delicately, before the two women tittered into their gloves.

Emma narrowed her eyes. She knew derision when she heard it, and this was not Perry’s style of teasing. This was something else entirely—mean-spirited , bordering on cruel.

Without thinking, Emma stepped in front of Jane in a defensive stance. If these harpies dared insult her sister, she would not hesitate to retaliate. She only wished she were wearing that blue pelisse rather than the hideous gown that now seemed even more mortifying under Lady Slight’s icy gaze.

“Surely, you jest!” Lady Slight crooned. “I cannot believe these girls are related to the preeminent Balfours. This young woman—her hair is as artless as the Scottish Highlands, and—heavens, a double-dimity petticoat! Do they still make such things? Confess, Perry—these are rural strumpets you’re dressing for amusement.”

Emma’s fury rose, but her tongue stilled as Perry stepped forward and lifted a hand to stay her. She obeyed his silent instruction, curious to see how he would handle such insolence—and whether he would defend her.

“Now, now, Harriet,” Perry said with cool amusement. “There is no need to be jealous. The earl has developed a deep and abiding interest in familial matters. You would not want word to reach him that you were unkind to his houseguests. Saunton is an affable man, but when it comes to defending his family …” He trailed off with an elegant shrug.

Lady Slight’s expression flickered. Her smile faltered. “Perry, you must know I was only teasing. Miss Davis, of course you knew I was jesting?”

Emma inclined her head. “But of course. Any friend of Perry’s is a friend of ours.” Her voice was light, her smile serene.

Inside, she was awash with admiration. Perry had neutralized the encounter with finesse , all without a single word of overt rebuke. He had protected them both and preserved the illusion of civility—a lesson in etiquette and strategy that Emma could not ignore.

At that moment, the altered pelisse was returned. As the two ladies wandered off in search of other prey, Emma slipped it on with Jane’s assistance. The soft fabric enveloped her in renewed confidence.

They exited the shop moments later, the memory of Lady Slight already dissolving into the bustle of the London street behind them.

* * *

When Perry stepped out into the street, still unsettled by the social skirmish he had only just averted, his attention was immediately drawn to a scene unfolding down the block. An older gentleman, accompanied by a footman, had just taken delivery of several bunches of moss roses from two young flower girls.

The girls’ expressions were pinched with fury, while the overweight fop, overdressed in a plum-coloured coat and silver-buckled shoes wholly unsuitable for the street, smiled down at them with appalling condescension. He threw back his head in laughter, then turned and ambled away. His footman, clearly uneasy, hesitated before following, his arms filled with the stolen flowers.

Perry’s mouth tightened. No coin had changed hands.

His suspicion was confirmed when the older flower girl wrapped her arm around the younger. The smaller child’s shoulders shook with silent sobs.

Familiar rage rose in Perry’s chest. It was just the sort of cruelty his father would have found amusing during his own wretched reign as Earl. He strode across the street without hesitation.

“Good afternoon, ladies. Do you require assistance?”

The older girl looked up, one hand gripping a basket of blooms, the other still embracing her sister. They were barefoot, clad in well-worn, repeatedly mended frocks—dark calico, clean, and threadbare. Her ruddy face was set with a belligerence that reminded Perry of Emma. “Tha’ skinflint refused to pay us and walked off with our profits for the day! We be orphans, we be, and we need tha’ coin!”

His jaw clenched. “Did he offer a reason?”

“Said we should feel privileged to serve a gentleman like him.” Her voice wobbled despite her anger. She could not have been more than fourteen. The younger child, perhaps nine, peered up with tear-streaked cheeks.

“And ’ee called us hussies!” the elder girl burst out. “Said we could make up our profits on our backs. But oi’m a good girl, oi am! Oi never go among boys!”

Fresh tears welled in her brown eyes. Perry looked up and down the street, but the man had vanished.

These girls were clinging to the margins, and this loss might well tip the balance. He pasted on a mild smile.

“I shall pay for his flowers.”

The girl immediately stiffened, then raised her chin with a pride worthy of a duchess. “Oi do no’ want no charity.”

Perry withheld a wince. He should have anticipated her reaction based on her indignant protests. “Then allow me to make a purchase.”

He glanced back to where Emma and Jane were approaching, drawn by the commotion.

“These ladies are visiting from Somerset,” he said smoothly, gesturing to the sisters. “Miss Davis has spoken most fondly of her garden. I had promised her flowers. Might you have anything of fine quality?”

The older girl’s expression transformed as instinct took over. “Oi sell only the finest, sir. Got primrose, wallflowers, and green lavender. No roses, though …” She looked regretful but held up her basket.

“Miss Davis, would you care to inspect the wares and give your opinion?”

Emma stepped forward solemnly and examined the bunches. “These are flowers of excellent quality, Mr. Balfour.”

“How much for all of them?” he asked.

The younger child perked up, sniffling, as the elder calculated.

“That’d be one shilling, sir.”

Perry hesitated with exaggerated incredulity. From the corner of his eye, he saw Emma tuck a stray curl under her bonnet—discreetly flashing three fingers in the process.

He straightened. “One shilling? For such beauty? I cannot in good conscience pay less than … three.”

The younger girl’s mouth dropped open while her sister beamed. “Cor, sir, tha’ be right kind of you!”

Perry drew out his purse and, careful to conceal the transaction from the street, passed her the coins. She smartly scanned the crowd before concealing the shillings somewhere on her person. He then took several bunches of primrose and lavender, which he handed to Jane, and passed more blooms to Emma before gathering the last of the wallflowers himself.

Bowing slightly, he said, “Thank you, ladies. As you can see, Miss Davis is delighted.”

Emma smiled down at her bouquet as if it were a priceless treasure.

“Ye be welcome, mister!” The girls spun on their heels and disappeared down the lane, their basket bobbing behind them.

Perry exhaled in relief, following Emma and Jane back to the carriage. The footman opened the door, and the sisters climbed in with their spoils, still holding the flowers. Perry followed, settling back with the scent of lavender and primrose wrapping round him like a perfumed cloak.

“It smells like a perfumery in here,” Jane declared, delighted, her face buried in a bunch of lavender.

Emma raised her head, eyes dancing. “You are a good man, Peregrine Balfour, to help those girls while allowing them their dignity.”

He flushed, glancing out the window. “I despise it when the privileged abuse their status. Nobility ought to mean something more than coin and title.”

Her mouth curved into a crooked smile. “Well said, sir.”

He shrugged. “They deserved our support.”

Emma watched him a moment longer, her expression soft with admiration, before returning to fiddle with the blooms in her lap.

* * *

After dinner, Perry sat alone in the study, a glass of wine in hand, still unsure what to make of the day. The scent of green lavender lingered faintly in the air, having been placed in vases about the room. The flower girl had not lied—her blooms were indeed sweet.

Richard entered and dropped into the opposite armchair, lifting a steaming cup of tea. He stared at it with a look of suspicion, then scowled before taking a sip.

“Will I ever grow accustomed to drinking tea?”

“There are other unspirited beverages available to you,” Perry offered dryly.

“Unspirited,” Richard repeated with a chuckle. “Perfectly put. It describes the beverage and myself of late. But I must admit, I feel sharper since I switched to it. Clear-headed. Sophia says it improves my disposition.”

He paused, swirling the tea in its cup. “I want to expand the estate’s output—secure something lasting for Ethan. He will need every advantage I can provide. An inheritance of his own, perhaps. And I must consider the possibility of future daughters. All of it requires foresight.”

Perry regarded his older brother with quiet reflection. Richard had always been the charming one, good-humored, well-liked. But he had not endured their father. He had been sent off to Eton at nine and returned only for brief visits, largely absent during the earl’s most vicious years.

Perry, by contrast, had never escaped.

He often thought himself too serious, too shadowed. He could summon charm when needed—most often in the company of rakish friends or worldly women—but it was a masquerade. He rarely smiled with genuine feeling.

Not until the last few days.

Emma had coaxed real smiles from him. She made him laugh. He had even felt … lighter. But that, too, was dangerous. He had nothing to offer her. He was no suitor. He was a spare, living on his brother’s grace.

Richard’s voice pulled him back. “What of you, Perry?”

He frowned. “What about me?”

“Do you have any thoughts for your future?”

Ah. Here it was. Big brother’s obligatory appeal to purpose and self-worth. Ever since Sophia had come into his life, Richard had become insufferably introspective. There had been discussions of legacy, of meaning, of family.

But Richard had not endured their father’s gaze in the dead of night.

Perry deflected. “Are you cutting off my allowance?”

“Of course not,” Richard said, straightening in his chair. “It is your right to benefit from the family fortune. It is only fate that made me the heir.”

Perry gave a glib smile. “Then I shall continue frittering my coin on worthless pursuits. It is my obligation as a man of leisure.”

Richard leaned forward, undeterred. “I have been reflecting on something. Did I ever tell you—on my twelfth birthday, our father arranged for two street women to visit my bedchamber?”

Perry went very still.

“I ran,” Richard continued. “Locked myself in a guest room for days. A maid smuggled me food.” He gave a hollow laugh. “It was ... grotesque. Did he ever—? I mean, with you?—?”

Perry’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. The walls of the room pressed inward. He could not speak.

Change the subject.

“Our father lived for pleasure and died of the pox,” he said lightly. “What more is there to say?”

But his tone was too smooth. He could feel it.

He rose to his feet. “If you will excuse me, Trafford is expecting me.”

That was a lie, but he needed air. Space. Anything but this.

Richard’s voice stopped him at the door. “Perry.”

He froze.

“If you ever need to speak of it—truly—I am here. I wish I could have done more to protect you.”

Perry forced a scoff, masking the roiling mess beneath. “How sentimental you have become since you married, Saunton.”

But he could not quite pull off the sneer. Not when he remembered what Richard had given him in those early days of grief—freedom. Options. The first kindness he had known in years.

He wanted to say thank you. But his throat tightened. The words would not come.

“Goodnight, Richard.”

His hand trembled on the handle. And then he was gone.