Page 123 of The Siren of Sussex

Stella was silent for a moment. “Well, then,” she replied at last. “We must see what we can do for the fellow.”

Twenty-Five

Ahmad was at his worktable in the back of Doyle and Heppenstall’s, cutting a length of figured green grenadine barege, when Doyle poked his head into the room.

“A pair of ladies is here,” he said in somber tones. “They’re inquiring after your dresses.”

Setting aside his scissors, Ahmad carefully folded away the thin gauzelike fabric he’d chosen for one of Evelyn’s day dresses.

He’d been expecting new customers. After Evelyn’s attendance at Lady Arundell’s ball, they were all but inevitable. He nevertheless felt a glimmer of anticipation.

This was his goal. Not romance. Not falling in love. But building a fashionable clientele. It was past time he set his mind to it, instead of spending every waking hour brooding over Evelyn.

And he had been brooding.

Never mind that it had been only two days since he’d kissed her. Since he’d told her about his mother, and about his childhood in India. Secrets he’d never shared with anyone.

It was a sordid history. But it was his history. He didn’t regret confiding it to her.

At the time, he’d meant it as a warning. It was only later, as the brougham had pulled away from the garden gate of her uncle’s town house, leaving Evelyn safely behind, that Ahmad had realized how much he’d wanted her to know. Not just for her sake, but for his own.

Another infuriating part of this attraction he felt. This blasted desire to share every last piece of himself with her.

It was foolish. Dangerous.

If he wasn’t careful, such impulses would ruin them both.

Rising from his worktable, he reached for his coat and pulled it on.

Seated nearby, Beamish and Pennyfeather cast him nervous glances as he strode past them to the curtained door. It was they who were responsible for filling Doyle’s orders for gentlemen’s suits at present. Orders that had lately been coming with decreasing frequency.

But that was none of Ahmad’s concern at the moment.

He entered the sunlit showroom to find two young ladies standing at the counter. One was dressed entirely in black. The other—though she could be no older than her early twenties—had the most astonishing head of gray hair.

He recognized the pair of them. They were Evelyn’s riding companions: Lady Anne Deveril and Miss Stella Hobhouse. They were accompanied by a smartly dressed lady’s maid and a footman in Arundell livery. The footman’s arms were filled with wrapped packages tied neatly with twine.

“Mr. Malik, I presume.” Lady Anne’s gaze swept over him. “You’re Miss Maltravers’s habit-maker?”

“I am,” he said.

“And her dressmaker?” Miss Hobhouse asked.

“That, too.”

The ladies exchanged a weighted glance.

Ahmad looked between the two of them with a growing sense of uneasiness.

Had Evelyn said something?

He doubted it. Not about their kiss, at any rate. But she might have said something else. Young ladies often shared confidences about men. Indeed, at Mrs. Pritchard’s, Ahmad had frequently been the subject of secret glances and giggling whispers. He’d thought himself past the age of being embarrassed by such things.

But this was different.

This was Evelyn.

Heat rose beneath his collar.