Page 81 of The Siren of Sussex

“You’ve gone white as parchment.” He helped her down. “You had better sit.”

Agnes hurried to her side. “Shall I fetch the smelling salts, miss?”

“I’m fine.” Miss Maltravers met Ahmad’s gaze. “Truly.” Her hand closed briefly over his forearm in silent reassurance.

He understood her. She didn’t want anyone to fuss. Neither did she wish to be treated as a swooning female.

Comprehending her feelings didn’t make it any easier to let her go.

He slid his arm free from her waist.

“Where is he, Mrs. Quick?” she asked.

“I’ve put him in the drawing room, miss,” Mrs. Quick replied. “Shall I bring tea?”

“No need,” Miss Maltravers said. “His visit won’t be one of long duration.”

The housekeeper withdrew.

Miss Maltravers turned to Agnes and Mira. “Will the two of you please help me out of this?” And then to Ahmad: “I’m afraid I must cut our fitting short today.”

He inclined his head.

And he reminded himself that he was just her dressmaker, not her brother or her father.

Certainly not her lover.

He had no right to question her—and no privacy to do so, either.

As she disappeared behind the screen with Mira and Agnes, he could do nothing. Nothing except pace and worry and wonder.

Who in the hell was Stephen Connaught?

Seventeen

In no time at all, Evelyn was back in her plain woolen day dress and ascending the stairs to the drawing room. She made a concerted effort to compose herself. She’d never been a swooning sort of female.

And besides, there was no reason to panic.

She’d known Stephen Connaught would pop his head up again eventually. Indeed, she’d been expecting him to reappear ever since their encounter in Rotten Row.

All that remained now was to determine how best to deal with him.

On entering the drawing room, she found him standing in front of the cold fireplace, one arm draped across the mantelpiece. His unbuttoned frock coat gaped open to reveal a garishly patterned, double-breasted waistcoat.

It was no doubt fashionable, but when compared to the quiet elegance of Mr. Malik’s black three-piece suits, it made Stephen look the veriest peacock.

In truth, there was nothing about his appearance that measured up to that of the broodingly handsome habit-maker she’d left behind in the morning room.

Where Mr. Malik was dark, Stephen was fair. Where Mr. Malik was tall and muscular, Stephen was shorter and thinner, with a boyish face that—rather than being chiseled from granite—appeared to have been shaped by a disinterested artist working from a mold used countless times before.

There was nothing special about him, she realized. Nothing unique or different.

And it was the differences in a person that gave rise to true beauty. Isn’t that what Mr. Malik had told her?

Sameness was comfortable, but it didn’t move the soul.

Looking at Stephen now, she felt profoundly unmoved. No butterflies or blushes. Nothing except irritation at the inconvenience he was posing to her.