Page 41 of The Siren of Sussex

“Yes. Thank you.” She took it, clasping it to her breast. “What are you doing here?”

“The same as you, I expect.”

“Forgive me. It’s just . . . it seems so odd to see you outside of a fitting room.” Indeed, gazing up at him, she couldn’t help but recall the last time they’d met. She’d been in her knickers, and he’d been touching her with as much familiarity as a lover.

A faint smile edged his lips, as if he knew precisely what she was thinking. “Likewise.”

Heat crept up her throat. Good heavens. He was just a tailor, that was all. Not a lover. Not even an eligible gentleman. She had to stop thinking of him in such terms.

It was his own fault. A habit-maker shouldn’t be so terribly good-looking. It made one melt into a puddle of treacle whenever one saw him.

Whenever she saw him.

She moistened her lips. “You, ah, look very well.”

What?

“And you . . .” His gaze dropped to her plain wool paletot and day dress. A frown notched his brows. “Is this something new?”

“Something old. I’ve only slipped out of my uncle’s house to fetch this book. I’m still very much incognito.”

“Not for long,” he warned.

“No. Not for long.” The prospect of her new habit lifted her spirits. “Are you shopping for a novel to read?”

“It isn’t for me. It’s for someone else. Why? Do you have any recommendations?”

“That depends on the person you’re shopping for. What sort of stories does he enjoy?”

“She.”

She.

A surge of disappointment dimmed Evelyn’s smile. It occurred to her, quite suddenly, how little she knew about him.

Of course, he must have a sweetheart. Heaven’s sake, he was probably married! Just because he didn’t wear a wedding band didn’t mean he didn’t have a wife—and probably several children besides. It was none of her affair.

She turned back to the shelves. “In that case . . . What about a romance?”

“No romances,” he said darkly.

“No?” Was he one of those stuffy men who disapproved of romance novels? Many did. Even so, she’d expected better of him. A man who designed clothing so beautifully shouldn’t be averse to sentiment. “What about this one, then? Silas Marner. It only came out last year.”

Mr. Malik drew it from the shelf. It was bound in brown cloth with gilt lettering on the spine. “What’s it about?”

“An individual and his place in society. The hero of the story is a weaver. A man with no family to speak of, who keeps himself apart from his community.”

“A bit too close to home.” He returned the book to the shelf. “She needs something bright. Something to boost her spirits.”

Evelyn wondered why. Was she ill? Melancholic? Had she had some sort of disappointment? “In that case”—she reached for a Jane Austen novel—“I recommend this one.”

He took it from her, giving the title a dubious glance. “Northanger Abbey.”

“It’s Miss Austen’s satire of a Gothic novel. A vastly entertaining read. It should take her mind off whatever it is that’s troubling her.”

Mr. Malik thumbed through the pages. His expression was doubtful.

“I confess,” she said “there is a romance in the story, but it’s witty rather than mawkish. I can’t imagine she won’t enjoy it.”