“What have I to do with it?”
“A great deal,” he said. “Ten days ago, a lady visited Doyle and Heppenstall’s. A very elegant lady, inquiring after a mourning dress.”
Evelyn shot him an alert glance. “Lady Seymour?”
“You sent her to me.”
“I gave her your card. I didn’t know—”
“Didn’t you?”
“I hoped,” Evelyn admitted. “Did you make her a dress?”
“Two of them.” He gave her a wry look. “But that isn’t the good news.”
“Something more happened?”
The grove of trees lay ahead—old oaks with their branches tangled in places, making a canopy against the sun.
“It did,” he said. “Not many days after Lady Seymour’s order was delivered, a footman in royal livery came into the shop. He brought a summons from the palace.”
The significance of Ahmad’s words stopped Evelyn where she stood. She looked up at him in amazement. “To make mourning clothes for the Queen?”
His gaze softened with warmth. “Maybe one day. For now, it’s only a few members of her court.”
“Only,” she repeated. And then she smiled, so filled with pride for him she could burst. “Oh, Ahmad.”
“It seems I have a talent for mourning clothes. Something about my designs being beautiful without being ostentatious.”
“Like your riding habits.”
“Indeed,” he said. “Do you know what this means?”
She beamed up at him. “That one day you shall have a Royal Warrant on the door of your shop?”
The Royal Warrant of Appointment was a coveted designation, signifying that a tradesman had earned royal patronage. Those who received the honor displayed it on their premises with pride.
“Perhaps.” Ahmad didn’t appear at all interested in the possibility. His attention was wholly focused on her. “Do you know what else it means?”
Evelyn’s smile faltered. She felt all at once very young and very uncertain. Not because she didn’t want him, but because she wanted him too much. It was dangerous to want something this badly. A challenge to the universe to take it away. And she’d already lost too much in her life.
But wonderful things didn’t happen because one was cautious. They happened because one dared.
And she was ready to dare anything to be with him, even if it meant risking her own pride.
“It means that your prospects have improved,” she said, “and that you’ve come to ask me if my feelings have changed. They haven’t, by the way.” She paused, her courage wavering. “And if yours have . . . you had better tell me quick before I say something stupid.”
* * *
Ahmad felt a rush of tenderness for her. As bold and brave as she was, these were uncharted waters. Not just for her but for him.
He’d been both eager and anxious the entire way from London.
His nerves hadn’t relented on meeting with Evelyn’s aunt and sisters. They were charming, all of them, but he’d felt very large and very male seated in the dainty parlor of their cottage, sipping tea from a little porcelain cup as they regarded him with rapt feminine attention.
Part of him had anticipated a chill reception—well-bred disdain for his being a tradesman, accompanied by veiled contempt on account of his mixed race. He’d been prepared to ignore it, just as he always did, even as he’d dreaded it for Evelyn’s sake.
But her family had shown him nothing but the wide-eyed curiosity ladies might be expected to show toward a man in their midst, come to court one of their kinswomen.
He’d received permission for his suit from Evelyn’s aunt, and encouragement from her younger sisters. All that had been left was to wait for Evelyn to return from her ride.
When he’d seen her trotting into the stable yard, he’d felt a profound sense of certainty.
This was right. This was how it was all meant to be.
“My feelings haven’t changed,” he said. “I told you they wouldn’t.”
Evelyn’s eyes glimmered with relief. And something else. Something that made him weaken at the knees. A smile played at her lips as she continued down the path, leading him further through the trees.
A siren. His siren.
He was powerless not to follow her. “There are things we must discuss first.”
“Haven’t we already discussed them?”
“You don’t know what I’m going to say.”
“I do.” She brought him beneath the branches into the cool shadow of the leaves. “You were going to tell me the same thing you did at Cremorne Gardens. That it’s not going to be easy.”
“It won’t be. There will be no avoiding some of the talk. I may not be able to shield you from the worst of it.”
“I don’t require a shield.” She backed against the curving trunk of the oak as he came to stand over her. There was a soft flush in her cheeks and a determined tip-tilt to her chin. “What I want—what I’ve always wanted—is what you proposed the evening you came to Russell Square. A partnership.”
His blood simmered. “Ah. But that was a business partnership.” He set a hand on the trunk beside her, half caging her with his arm. “What I’m proposing now is something different.”
She looked up at him in trembling anticipation.
“I’ll be your partner, Evie,” he said. “Your shield, your support, your champion. I only ask for one thing in exchange.” His voice deepened. “I ask that you be my wife.”
She bit her lip. Tears welled in her eyes.
“I love you.” Emotion constricted his chest. “I love you,” he repeated. “And you needn’t marry me to have me as your partner—your friend and champion. It’s not a condition of my esteem. But I would be honored if—”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”
In the next instant, she was in his arms.
Satisfaction surged through him. He enfolded her in a powerful embrace, lifting her straight up off her feet. She clung to him fiercely. And he gloried in it, the sensation of her arms twined so tight around his neck. She was strong, his siren. Strong and singular and beautiful.
He buried his face in the curve of her neck.
Her fingers twined in his hair. “I’ve imagined this moment a thousand times since we parted, every day, down to the smallest detail. But real life is so rarely how one plans it.” Her lips brushed his ear, her words an intimate whisper. “It’s better. So much better.”