Page 61 of The Siren of Sussex

“Is that her?” Mira had whispered from her place beside him. “On the bay?”

“It is.” Ahmad’s chest had tightened painfully as Miss Maltravers trotted by. She’d looked more than beautiful. She’d looked formidable. A veritable goddess on horseback, drawing the eyes of everyone she passed.

“Are you sure she’s not a courtesan?” Mira had asked.

Looking at Miss Maltravers now, seated in her chair, with an old cashmere shawl drooping around her shoulders and her spectacles slipping down her nose, he saw no resemblance to one. No trace of the powerful sensuality she exhibited when riding.

“My entire wardrobe?” she repeated in tones of disbelief.

“Yes,” he said. “Excepting what you’ve already ordered from Madame Lorraine.”

He had just enough left in his savings to cover the expenses for fabric and trimmings, and to hire seamstresses to assist him. It would deplete his resources until Miss Maltravers settled her bill, leaving him with no funds to take over Doyle’s lease.

A gamble, indeed.

If it failed, he and Mira would be left with nothing at all.

“I haven’t ordered much,” Miss Maltravers said. “Not yet. I confess, I’ve been wholly focused on my habits.”

“Understandably so. They’re an important piece of your plan.”

She gave him a faint smile. “You must think me silly to have contrived it. To come to you as I did, claiming I could rival the charms of Miss Walters and the other Pretty Horsebreakers. Considering their attributes—”

“You have attributes to surpass theirs.”

“When I’m riding? Yes.” A spark of that familiar determination lit her face. “As for the rest of the time . . . I’ll endeavor to do my best, but I have no illusions.”

“You believe you can’t make a success of your season unless you’re on horseback?”

“Not a success, no. Outside of riding, the best I can hope for is that I won’t distinguish myself in some unfortunate way.”

Ahmad’s brows lowered. He refused to accept that she could give up so easily. Not her. Not the young lady who’d entered Doyle and Heppenstall’s a week ago, all but demanding he make her a habit. The one who rode with such innate poise and skill. “You’re either too modest, or—”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re not.”

“I hope I am, sir. One can’t make a successful plan without assessing one’s strengths and weaknesses. I’ve done both. And quite impartially, I might add.”

“Very impartial. You’ve never had a season before. Never before even been to London, as far as I can tell. And yet you’re convinced you have nothing to offer outside of Rotten Row.”

Miss Maltravers stood suddenly. Tightening her shawl about her arms, she walked toward him, coming to a halt only a few feet away.

His heart thumped heavily. She was near enough he could reach out and touch her. And he wanted to touch her quite badly. To take her hand or to cradle her cheek. To reassure her somehow.

“I know myself, Mr. Malik,” she said. “And while I should very much like to have a ball gown of yours, I can offer you no promises about how well it will be received if I’m the one wearing it.”

He stared down at her, half of him irritated at her for underestimating herself, and the other half aroused by her proximity.

Which wouldn’t do at all.

He wasn’t here because he was attracted to her. He was here because she had possibilities. Distinct possibilities. The potential to make a success of her season, and to make a success of him. He was supposed to be persuading her, not romancing her.

“That’s what you meant, isn’t it?” she asked. “When you said that making gowns for me would benefit us both?” She pushed her spectacles further up on her nose. “It’s obvious how it would benefit me. But I don’t see how you would gain any advantage from it.”

Ahmad didn’t mince words. “In six months’ time, I mean to open a dress salon. To do it, I need fashionable ladies to see my designs.” He gave her a pointed look. “You’ll be out in fashionable society.”

“I will, but there are no guarantees.”