Page 27 of The Siren of Sussex

It was a departure from the style he usually made. Something new, as functional as it was beautiful. A garment well suited to a lady like Miss Maltravers, and one he hoped she would favor.

He’d sent a note round yesterday informing her that he was ready to do her second fitting and asking if Sunday afternoon would be convenient. She’d responded almost immediately in the affirmative.

As he tied off his last stitch, he felt a throb of anticipation at the prospect of seeing her again.

Ridiculous.

He was a man of thirty, not some raw lad pining over his first woman.

It was because of the habit, that was all. He was anxious to see it on her. To fit it to her figure, pinning it into an approximation of its final style.

But even as he told himself that—even as he assured himself that there was nothing personal about his desire to see her again, to touch her and speak with her—he recognized the truth of his feelings.

Miss Maltravers hadn’t merely inspired him. She’d aroused his interest.

A dangerous thing, curiosity. Especially when it came to Englishwomen. He prided himself on the lack of it. The less one knew, the less one was tempted to get involved.

Things never ended well when one tangled with an English female. There were too many differences. Too many inequities to account for. If he’d learned nothing else from his years at Mrs. Pritchard’s, he’d learned that.

It didn’t stop his pulse from leaping when a knock sounded at the front of the shop.

Setting aside his sewing, he walked into the empty showroom to unlock the door. Miss Maltravers was waiting on the other side of it. Alone.

“My maid has a half day off on Sunday,” she explained as she entered the shop. She shook the raindrops from her drab wool cloak. It was drizzling outside. Had been ever since sunrise.

He shut the door behind her and slowly turned the lock. “You might have said so. You could have come another day.”

“I didn’t want to wait another minute.”

Ahmad gazed down at her. Her face was framed by the hood of her cloak. “Your habit isn’t finished yet.”

“I know that.”

“There’s a final fitting after this one.”

She smiled. “I know that, too. I still couldn’t wait. I’m anxious to see how it’s coming along.”

He motioned for her to precede him through the back curtain that led into the gaslit fitting room. Once there, she drew back her hood. His heartbeat quickened. Her dark auburn hair was no longer a bushy cloud of curls around her face. It was sleek and elegant—the sides rolled back, and the length bound up in a beaded hairnet. “You’ve seen Monsieur Phillipe.”

“I have. And Madame Lorraine as well.” She unfasted her cloak. It slid from her shoulders, revealing the dress beneath—an overly flounced confection made in a shade of magenta so garishly bright it nearly burned his retinas.

Ahmad regarded her in mild horror.

Her face fell. “You don’t like it?”

“Did you choose it?”

“No. It was part of an order for someone else. This and another dress. Madame Lorraine persuaded me to buy them so I’d have something to wear while I await the rest of my order. She said the colors were flattering.”

“Blinding, more like it. What color is the other dress?”

“Rose.”

He grimaced. “Worse and worse.”

Miss Maltravers cast her gown a rueful glance. “Is it truly that bad?”

“You don’t see it?”