Page 152 of The Siren of Sussex

He fancied her like mad.

“People are staring,” he warned her.

“Let them stare,” she said. “They don’t matter.”

Waltzing her around the pagoda, he began to believe it. Violins sang out, in company with flutes, oboes, and the deep soul-stirring vibrations of the cello. As they looked into each other’s eyes, the rest of the world seemed to melt away. It was only the two of them, alone with the colored lights and the orchestra, waltzing beneath the stars.

For that suspended moment, she was right. It didn’t matter what the rest of society thought. All that mattered was that she was here, in his arms.

He had no intention of letting her go.

As the music came to a close, he kept his hand at her waist, guiding her from the floor. Behind them, the orchestra struck up the music for the next dance—an energetic harmony of flutes, fiddles, and reverberating horns. Stomping feet thumped heavily on the wooden platform as hundreds of couples commenced the galop.

“Can we go somewhere a little quieter?” he asked.

She took his arm. “I’d like that.”

They turned away from the platform—from the dancers and the clusters of fashionable people seated at tables nearby. Ahmad wondered if any of them would intervene. A chaperone of some sort. Evelyn’s uncle or Lady Arundell, perhaps.

But no one stopped them.

Evelyn strolled at his side unimpeded, away from the pavilion. They crossed the lawn toward one of the wide, tree-lined avenues that Cremorne was known for. Lamps hanging in the branches lit the way, flickering in the darkness. It was already approaching eleven o’clock. A full moon hung, luminous, in the star-scattered sky above.

“Have you been here before?” she asked.

“Many times, when I was younger. Whenever the weather was fair and I had a few extra shillings in my pocket, I would bring Mira to see the exhibitions.” He cast her a glance. “Why? Do I look out of my element?”

Her hand tightened around his arm. “You look perfect. I’ve never seen you in evening clothes.”

“There’s not much cause to wear them.” He noticed a faint blush rising in her cheeks. His pulse quickened in response to it. “Do you approve?”

“I could hardly fail to,” she said. “When I saw you standing there, I felt as though everyone else disappeared. It seemed there was just the two of us.”

“A romantic thought.”

She didn’t reply.

He feared he’d embarrassed her. “Evie—”

“Why did you come here tonight?” she asked.

Ahead of them, a dense, tree-shrouded path led off the main thoroughfare. It was a dark walk. A famous feature in London’s pleasure gardens, particularly for couples seeking a bit of privacy. He led Evelyn down it, and then down yet another, turning to an even darker path, illuminated by a single lantern hanging from an elm tree.

He stopped beneath the light to face her. “Why did I come here?” he repeated. “I thought it was obvious.”

“You came because I told you to.”

“You never said to come to Cremorne Gardens.”

“Not expressly, but I said you must seek me out at one of the events I was attending. And this is the only place that doesn’t require an invitation.” Her brows drew together. “I hope you didn’t take it as an ultimatum?”

“No. And I didn’t come here because you told me to. I came because . . .” He shook his head.

Designing her clothing was one thing. He could put his heart and his soul into every stitch. Expressing himself with words was something else altogether. He’d never felt less articulate.

Her expression became uncertain. “Was it my gown?”

“What?”