Page 156 of The Siren of Sussex

“I’m disappointed in you, Miss Maltravers. Don’t you realize what people will think? And you, poised to make something of yourself in society!”

“It’s my fault,” Ahmad said.

“Too right, sir,” Lady Arundell shot back. “But you’re not my responsibility. That honor belongs to you, madam. I’ll not have you risking your good name by wandering off with a stranger.”

“Mr. Malik isn’t a stranger,” Evelyn said.

“Yes, I know,” Lady Arundell replied impatiently. “He’s your dressmaker. You’ve mentioned him often enough. But this isn’t Bond Street or wherever it is he plies his trade. You can’t be alone with a man in these circumstances. Not unless he’s your husband or your betrothed.”

Evelyn caught Ahmad’s gaze.

And he looked at her.

How he looked at her.

There was no anger in his eyes any longer. There was only tender concern. Affection, and a glimmer of rueful apology.

“Perhaps we should have stayed for the galop,” he said.

She smiled. “I’m glad we didn’t.”

He didn’t return her smile. His face was solemn with resolve. “I shall call on your uncle tomorrow, if that’s acceptable to you.”

Her heart thumped swiftly. “Yes.”

He gave a final press to her hand before relinquishing it, and then, at Lady Arundell’s urging, he took his leave.

Her ladyship watched him go with a look of exasperation. “Your Indian dressmaker!”

“I love him,” Evelyn said. And he loved her, too. He’d said so himself. And now he was going to call on her uncle. There could only be one reason for such a visit. She felt a flush of wild anticipation.

“Love!” Lady Arundell scoffed. “How can that possibly be?”

“He sewed pockets in all of her skirts,” Anne said.

“Pockets.” Julia sighed. “Imagine.”

“And she didn’t even have to ask him to do it,” Stella said.

“Pockets?” Lady Arundell frowned as she shepherded them back to the pavilion. “This is all very vexing,” she said. “Yes, quite vexing, indeed. I shall have to consult Dmitri on the matter.”

“He means to call on me?” Uncle Harris eyed Evelyn from across the dim interior of the carriage. His evening clothes were rumpled and his cheeks flushed from too much champagne.

They’d left Cremorne as soon as Lady Arundell had delivered Evelyn back to the pavilion. It was nearing midnight. Still early by the standards of the season. Uncle Harris appeared a trifle irritated to have his evening cut short.

“What have I to do with it?” he asked. “It’s Nora who must give her approval, not I.”

Evelyn’s brow furrowed. “You want him to apply to Aunt Nora?”

“She’s your guardian.”

“Not formally. But if you’d prefer Mr. Malik go to Sussex—”

“Malik,” Uncle Harris repeated with a snort. “Don’t know which is worse. That he’s an Indian or that he’s a tradesman.”

She stiffened. “He’s a brilliant dressmaker. And he’s as much English as he is Indian.”

“You think that mitigates the matter? A hint of Indian blood is as damning as a surfeit of it. A touch of the tar brush, people call it.” Uncle Harris gave her a narrow look. “Don’t suppose he can pass for English?”