Page 103 of The Siren of Sussex

“And very handsome, I understand.”

Evelyn didn’t reply.

“A young lady can’t be too careful,” Lady Heatherton said. “To permit a man to make her dresses—”

“Mr. Worth is a man.”

“An Englishman, trained in the French style. Where has Mr. Malik trained?”

Evelyn knew exactly where he’d learned his trade, but she had no intention of sharing that information with anyone, Lady Heatherton least of all. “I haven’t inquired,” she said. “It hardly seems relevant when a dressmaker exhibits such inherent skill.”

Lady Heatherton’s smile was as brittle as glass. “You are very young, aren’t you. Or is it only that you’re countrified? Girls from small villages know little of our London ways. You must permit me to advise you.” Her gaze was as rigid as her smile. “Take care where you give your custom. A lady’s reputation is a fragile commodity.”

The fine hairs rose at the back of Evelyn’s neck. Lady Heatherton’s words sounded alarmingly close to a threat.

Did she know about Fenny? About the scandal that had erupted three years ago?

Surely her ladyship could have no interest in such things?

No. She was only sharpening her claws, as Stella had said. Asserting her dominance in some twisted effort to dampen Evelyn’s nascent success.

Evelyn resolved to ignore it. When riding, one never prospered by stopping to focus on a horse’s naughtiness. The only way one ironed out disobedience and intractability was to keep moving forward. Things invariably worked themselves out along the way.

“My reputation is in good order,” she replied. “But I thank you for the advice.”

Ahmad dropped the stack of dress boxes down onto the morning room sofa. The drapes were open and the fire lit. Sunshine streamed through the high windows, suspending dust motes in shafts of light. It was half past ten. Most ladies of fashion were still abed. Were it anyone else, he would have delayed his call.

But Evelyn Maltravers wasn’t a typical London lady.

She was a country lass with country habits. He knew that much about her. She sometimes rode at dawn with her new equestrienne friends—Lady Arundell’s daughter and two other young ladies, Miss Wychwood and Miss Hobhouse.

Ahmad had seen them in Hyde Park this morning. He’d been out walking at sunrise to clear his head, and there they were, the four of them talking and laughing as they trotted past.

Evelyn had been wearing her newest habit. The one of mink-brown Venetian cloth he’d made for her. It was a sumptuous love letter of a garment. Every stitch and seam contrived with sensual intention. Indeed, the rich fabric embraced her with all of the care and reverence he longed to embrace her with himself.

Worsted wool was a poor substitute for his arms. But in Miss Maltravers’s case, it would have to do.

The alternative was nothing at all.

Soon, she’d meet someone and marry. It was inevitable. She was already garnering attention. He’d twice seen her mentioned in the society pages, the second time only yesterday. It had been in regard to her appearance at the Arundell ball.

Reading the report, Ahmad had felt a gnawing jealousy. He would have liked to have seen her at the ball for himself. He would have liked to have danced with her.

“Good morning.” Miss Maltravers entered the room as though his thoughts had conjured her. Her hair was rolled back in an invisible net, her spectacles settled on her nose. She wore a day dress of pearl-colored poplin.

One of his designs.

It was trimmed with Solferino velvet, sewn in banded waves along the edge of the full skirt and up one side of it to form a bright purplish-pink velvet bow at the edge of her waist.

A sweetly feminine gown, with none of the fussiness of a typically fashionable day dress. There was no unnecessary bulk. No profusion of flounces, fringe, or ribbons. There was only her. The soft lines and the shape of her, honored rather than obscured.

“When Mrs. Quick told me you were here, I feared I’d forgotten one of our appointments,” she said, smiling warmly. “We haven’t one this morning, have we?”

“Not today, no.”

Her attention was diverted by the stack of dress boxes. “Is this my latest order?”

“Part of it. The skirts and blouses, and several more of the day dresses.”