Page 64 of The Siren of Sussex

And before she knew it—before she could clamp her teeth to stop the words from escaping—she heard herself saying, “There’s something else that might pose a difficulty.”

Mr. Malik stilled, his hand clasping hers. His grip tightened for a moment before he released her. Any sign of relief was gone from his face, replaced by an expression as solemn as the grave.

She registered the change in him, even as her words continued to tumble out, unchecked. “The thing is, I like you.”

What?

She felt a vague sense of horror. It was the truth, but—good lord! There was plain speaking and there was plain speaking. This was . . .

Exposing herself entirely.

A stupid notion. As if he didn’t already recognize her feelings. Even if their brief kiss could be passed off as purely accidental, there was still their chance meeting at Hatchards. He’d marked her reaction to him then. Had noted how flustered she became in his presence. She recalled how he’d smiled at her, seeming to be amused by her obvious attraction to him.

He wasn’t smiling now.

He merely continued to look at her, his gaze even more intent than it had been before.

She forged ahead. “What happened between us at Doyle and Heppenstall’s . . . When I . . . When we . . .” Oh, why couldn’t she simply spit it out! “What I’m trying to say is that, whenever I’m with you, I feel something. A sort of connection. I don’t know what to call it. But if we’re to work together with any frequency—and I imagine we must if you make all of my gowns this season—then it’s better we’re honest with each other about these things. We neither of us would wish a recurrence of what happened last time.”

Still, he said nothing. She began to fear she’d rendered him speechless.

Heat rose in her cheeks. “I daresay it’s only me. No doubt you’ve been on the receiving end of countless—”

“It isn’t only you,” he said gruffly.

“I know that. It’s what I was trying to say. That countless ladies must feel this way in your presence—”

“No,” he interrupted. “That’s not what I—” He took a step forward, coming to an abrupt halt in front of her. He gazed down at her face. “It isn’t only you who feels it. I’ve felt it, too.”

Evelyn was glad she had the window frame at her back. Without it, she might have swooned into a heap on the drawing room floor. “Felt it,” she said. “Past tense?”

Mr. Malik gave her a fleeting smile. “I feel it every time I’m near you.” An endless pause. “I’m feeling it now.”

Her breath dammed up so tight in her chest, she could barely manage a whisper. “I’ve never experienced this before. Not with anyone.”

“Nor have I,” he admitted.

“What do you suppose it is? Some form of particularly strong attraction? Something chemical, or what have you?” She thought it must be. Something primitive and elemental. What else? She’d met handsome men before and had never responded to them the way she responded to him.

“I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that you inspire me. That when I look at you, I feel something here.” He touched his chest.

“Do you?” Her question was a mere thread of sound. So soft, she was astonished it wasn’t drowned out by the mad hammering of her heartbeat.

“Every time I see you,” he said. “It stands to reason that others will, too.”

Her heart stopped. “You’re talking about your designs?”

He inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. “We will have to work together with some frequency in the coming weeks, but you have nothing to fear from me. This thing between us—the connection you describe—I’ve heard of it happening on occasion in the creative world. If an artist is very lucky, he sometimes meets his muse. The day you walked into Doyle and Heppenstall’s, I believe I met mine.”

She swallowed. How was it possible to feel at once so moved and yet so disappointed? She inspired him. That wasn’t nothing.

But it wasn’t a romance.

“An artistic connection,” she said. “I, ah, never considered it.”

“It’s a rare occurrence. One that, I hope, will allow us each to obtain the thing we want most.”

“A fashionable dress shop for you,” she said.