Page 35 of The Siren of Sussex

Ahmad felt vaguely irritated to think of it.

Foolish of him.

The whole point of the habit he’d designed for Miss Maltravers was to make her an object of beauty, every stitch and seam placed to draw attention to her charms. It was why she’d sought him out.

Finchley regarded Ahmad with interest. “Who is Miss Maltravers?”

Ahmad had seen that look before. The one that said Finchley was inferring meaning where none existed. “A young lady from Sussex. She’s here for the season, making her debut.”

“She wants a riding habit like the one Ahmad made for Miss Walters,” Mira said.

“Not quite the same.” Ahmad crumpled his linen napkin next to his plate. “The point is, I don’t wish her to wait any longer than necessary. Which is why I need Mira. If you can spare her?”

“Certainly,” Mrs. Finchley answered. “If it’s what she wishes.”

“I do wish it.” Mira leaned forward in her chair. “When shall I start?”

“Tomorrow if you can,” Ahmad said. “I only require the week.”

“Is that all?” Mira’s eager expression vanished.

Finchley exchanged a glance with his wife. An unspoken communication seemed to pass between them. The two of them stood, practically in unison.

“Now that we have that settled,” Mrs. Finchley said, taking her husband’s arm, “we’ll give you a bit of privacy.”

“You may use my book room if you’d prefer,” Mr. Finchley offered. “And please, do make free with the port.”

Ahmad rose as the Finchleys exited the dining room. The door swung shut behind them, leaving him alone with Mira. She was oddly quiet. “Would you like a glass?” he asked her.

“Of port?”

“Why not?” He retrieved the decanter and two glasses from the mahogany sideboard. As a rule, ladies didn’t drink port. It was a masculine libation, enjoyed after dinner, when gentlemen lingered at the table to talk among themselves, free from the constraints of female company.

“Because it’s vile,” she said.

“You’ve never tried it.” Ahmad poured out their drinks. It was an old vintage by the look of it. The tawny liquid gleamed in the light of the crystal gasolier that hung overhead. He passed a glass to Mira. It was little more than a mouthful. “Here. Have a taste. It might make it easier.”

Mira raised the glass to her nose and gave it a wary sniff. “Make what easier?”

“Whatever it is you have to say to me.”

Her gaze snapped to his. Her green eyes were watchful, her mouth tugged into a sad little frown.

“I know you, bahan,” he said.

Even if he didn’t, the Finchleys couldn’t have been more obvious. Their sudden withdrawal. Their eagerness to give Ahmad and Mira privacy. It wasn’t exactly subtle.

He sat down next to her. “What’s wrong?”

Mira stared at her drink. Taking a small sip, she grimaced, choked, and blurted out: “I’m missing you.”

It wasn’t what Ahmad had been expecting to hear. Not put quite so bluntly, and with so much rawness lurking beneath her words. A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t think how to respond.

He supposed he knew that she missed him. It was why she was forever showing up at his rooms in what, he suspected, was a vain effort to re-create the closeness they’d shared at Mrs. Pritchard’s. Then, it had been just the two of them in the same attic bedroom, their twin cots separated by a tattered Chinese screen.

Far from ideal.

Given a choice, he’d rather have found work somewhere respectable. Somewhere safe. Unfortunately, there had been no other option. Not if he and Mira were to stay together.