Page 128 of The Siren of Sussex

“I’ve told you what you are to me.” His voice went gruff. “You’re my muse.”

“Yes. Well. That’s splendid.” She removed her spectacles. “But I suppose I want to be more than that.”

“You are.”

“Then tell me so,” she whispered.

His jaw tightened. Taking her spectacles from her fingers, he withdrew a clean handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and cleaned the tear-fogged lenses. “There’s no point.”

“Why not?”

“Because nothing can come of it.”

She refused to accept it. “Just because you say that doesn’t make it true. I believe—”

“What you believe is irrelevant.” He settled her spectacles gently back onto her face. His fingers traced the thin metal earpieces over the curve of her ears. “I know how it is from actual experience.”

And there was the rub. She hadn’t any experiences to weigh against his. Only her heart and her determination. Proceeding from a position of strength, like her mother had taught her. It had to be enough.

But it wasn’t.

Evelyn saw it plainly on his face. Despite how tenderly he touched her. Despite how his voice deepened and his body loomed so protectively over hers. Despite all of that, he’d set his mind against their being together.

Her throat squeezed with unexpected emotion. “I realize I don’t know anything. Living in Combe Regis, the rest of the world feels very far away. I spent every day there worrying over my own family’s troubles. There was precious little opportunity to think of anyone else’s. No doubt it makes me seem small-minded and countrified, but I’m trying to do better. To listen and to learn. If you would but give me a chance—”

“You’re not small-minded. You’re innocent. You can’t imagine what my life is like from day to day. The suspicious looks and the muttered remarks and innuendo. They come with such regularity I scarcely notice them anymore. But you would. You’d be hurt by them.”

She felt a swell of frustration. He was trying to protect her. It was at once endearing and infuriating. “Ahmad—”

“You can’t come here again without a chaperone,” he said. “We can’t be alone together like this anymore. It’s too dangerous.” He turned to walk away from her.

Evelyn placed a staying hand on his forearm. His bare skin was impossibly warm beneath her fingers. It sent a quiver of awareness through her.

He felt it, too, she could tell. He stilled at her touch, his expression transforming into something like a scowl.

It wasn’t very encouraging.

Dropping her hand, she made one last attempt. “I’m stronger than you think.”

He briefly averted his face. “Strength has nothing to do with it.”

“But it does,” she insisted. “I would endure anything for someone I cared about.”

He glanced back at her, his eyes dark with frustrated longing. “I know you would,” he said. “But I’d never ask you to.”

Twenty-Seven

For the purchase of fake flowers, foliage, and fruits, there was no better warehouse in London than Messrs. Valmar and Richardson in Cripplegate. It was a small establishment by most standards, but one packed full of lavishly exhibited stock.

Hands thrust into the pockets of his trousers, Ahmad strolled alongside Mira as she passed from one glass-fronted case to another. Inside were blossoms of every imaginable shade and size. Roses in all their forms—from humble dog roses to the most exquisite of French hybrids—kept company with orange blossoms, jasmine, and lush pink and white camellias.

“May I see this one, please?” Mira asked. “The pale pink?”

The warehouse clerk withdrew the tray of camellias from the case and set it down on the counter. “Is this for a hat, ma’am?”

“A lady’s toilette.” Tugging off her glove, Mira picked up one of the camellias with her bare fingers. The flower petals were nearly translucent.

“It’s made of rice paper,” the clerk explained. “With a flexible stem.”