Page 80 of The Siren of Sussex

“This dress isn’t functional,” Agnes remarked, running a fingertip over the embroidery. “It’s as light as gossamer, it is. Like fairy wings.”

“Be careful where you put your fingers,” Mira said sharply. “The gauze is very fine.”

Ahmad exchanged a look with Miss Maltravers. Her hazel eyes were shining soft as velvet. Soft as the smile edging her lips.

And he knew in that moment she was more than pleased with what he’d made for her.

She was pleased with him.

Satisfaction came at last. Not because of the dress or how she looked in it. But because he’d been of use to her. He’d made her feel seen—taken care of.

It would be no small thing to take care of Evelyn Maltravers. To look after her as his own.

As quickly as the sugar-spun thought arose, it was dispelled by brutal reality.

He was in no position to become entangled with anyone, least of all a gently bred English lady. He had nothing to offer her. Not now. And even if he did—when he did—the two of them could still never hope to be anything more to each other than what they were in this moment: a man and a woman divided by wealth, rank, and the entire history of British colonial rule.

“Where would you like me to stand?” she asked.

“Here, if you please.” Taking her hand, he helped her up onto the footstool. “Mira will work on your skirts while I see to the bodice. If that’s agreeable?”

“Perfectly agreeable.”

For the next half hour, Ahmad forced himself to think of nothing but silk, gauze, and trimmings. Of needles, pins, and invisible stitches. Anything but Miss Maltravers herself.

It was easier than it might have been in the fitting room at Doyle and Heppenstall’s.

Here—with Mira assisting him and Agnes hovering nearby—there were no opportunities for any long looks or private conversations. No illusion of intimacy. Instead, Miss Maltravers had been relegated to the role of marble statute.

“Will it be ready in time?” she asked when another quarter of an hour had passed. Mira knelt on the floor below her, re-pinning one of the box pleats on the silk lower skirt.

“It will be.” Ahmad secured a fold of sparkling gauze along her neckline with another pin. His knuckles brushed briefly against the silky-warm curve of her bosom. He tried to ignore it, just as he was trying to ignore every other necessary intimacy between them. “I’ll have Becky deliver it tomorrow evening. She can stay to help you into it.”

Agnes gave an audible sniff of protest at this encroachment on her territory.

“You’ll want a seamstress,” he said, “in case you require any last-minute alterations.”

“Yes, of course.” There was a wash of color over Miss Maltravers’s bosom and throat—the beginnings of a blush creeping its way to her face. “I’d be glad of the help.”

“The ball is at nine?” he asked.

Her answer was forestalled by the arrival of Mrs. Quick.

The housekeeper materialized in the doorway, seeming to appear all at once. An unsettling skill, and one that Ahmad observed was possessed by only the most efficient of servants.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” she said. “You have a caller. A gentleman by the name of Mr. Stephen Connaught.”

The name had a startling effect on Miss Maltravers.

Her face paled and her knees wobbled. For a single horrified second, it looked as though she might topple to the floor in a heap of silk and embroidered gauze.

Ahmad’s arm shot around her waist to steady her. “Are you all right?”

She turned to him blindly, blinking behind her spectacles as if to refocus her vision. “What? Oh . . . yes. A little light-headed, that’s all. I haven’t eaten enough today.”

Rubbish.

She’d been steady enough until the housekeeper had announced her visitor.