“I can undress myself.” She slowly removed her hat. “How much should I—”
“Down to your chemise and drawers,” he said briskly. “You can leave on your corset to begin with.”
Her lashes lowered. She looked away from him with something like embarrassment.
“Call out when you’re ready.” With that, he withdrew, leaving her to her own devices.
Most tailors in the habit-making trade employed female fitting-room attendants. But that wasn’t the way Ahmad worked. He did all of the pinning and measuring himself. It gave him a familiarity for what was required. That particular knowledge elevated his work. Or so he believed.
No one had yet complained.
Then again, his clients thus far had been courtesans and married women like Lady Heatherton. It was easier with them. They knew what was what and weren’t likely to get the vapors the minute he applied his measuring tape to their scantily clad bodies.
Good God, he hoped Miss Maltravers wasn’t going to swoon.
But minutes later, when she called him back again, he realized—much to his chagrin—that it was quite the reverse. As she stood before him in her faded white cotton underclothes and well-worn corset, it was he who felt a little light-headed.
So this was what her shapeless clothing had been hiding. A figure molded along the lines of a Venus. A full bosom and hips, with a narrow waist, long shapely legs, and daintily rounded arms. She was a delectable morsel of femininity. Lushly curved in all the right places. And yet there was strength in her. An athletic firmness to her limbs, and a healthful glow to her complexion.
She was arresting. And it wasn’t only her figure, exposed to him for the first time. It was her face.
It looked different in the gaslight. Soft and vulnerable, with dark brows winging gracefully over her eyes, and delicately sculpted cheekbones casting a shadow along the elegant line of her jaw. Her nose was a touch overlarge, and very slightly aquiline—a haughty, almost bookish feature. It was balanced by the shape of her mouth.
And such a mouth.
Wide and generous and eminently kissable.
He swallowed hard.
“I confess, this is all very strange.” She folded her arms over her bosom. “I’ve never been measured by a man before. In Combe Regis, the village dressmaker makes my habits.” She cast an anxious look at the cheval glass. “It’s fortunate I can’t make out my reflection at this distance. I should be mortified to see myself in such a state.”
“No need to be,” he said. “I’ve seen hundreds of ladies in their knickers.”
“You’ve never seen me, Mr. Malik.”
He gave her a wry smile. “Point taken. Shall we acknowledge the awkwardness of it and agree to move past it? We’ll be here all night otherwise.”
She nodded. “That sounds reasonable.” Her arms loosened from her chest to hang at her sides. “What now?”
“First things first.” He offered her his hand.
She took it without hesitation.
And he felt it again—that same shock he’d felt when they’d shaken hands yesterday. Only this time, she wasn’t wearing gloves.
Bloody hell.
Her skin was warm and silky soft, her hand surprisingly strong as it gripped his.
He assisted her up onto the platform. “All right?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He stepped back, his gaze drifting over her figure with a practiced eye. Excitement simmered in his veins. “I trust you haven’t fixed on any particular color or fabric?”
“Not especially. Why?” she asked. “Do you have some idea of what might suit me?”
“Several ideas.”
“Different from the other habits you make?”
“In essentials, no. But in every other respect, yes.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
It seemed simple enough to him. Simpler still now that he’d seen her—truly seen her. “You wanted a riding habit that would transform you. I believe I can design something better. Something that will reveal who you really are.”
She was silent a moment. And then she smiled. “I hesitate to ask what that might be. I’ve already been accused of being a bluestocking.”
“Indeed, you hide it well. I didn’t recognize it myself until I saw you ride this morning.”
“Recognize what?”
“You’re a singular beauty, Miss Maltravers. A diamond of the first water, I suspect. All you lack is the proper setting.” Ahmad went to the table and retrieved the bolt of dark cloth he’d purchased at Phillotson’s. “What do you think of this shade?” he asked, returning to her side.
She was staring at him, stunned. It took her a moment to register the fabric in his hand. When she did, her brows knit. “Black?”
“Not black.” He came closer, moving into the halo of light cast from the wall sconce. “Look again.”
She squinted down at the fabric through her spectacles. Her eyes widened. “It’s green!”
“It is. A shade so dark it appears black, unless one views it in the sun.” He tilted the bolt of cloth in the gaslight.
“My goodness,” she breathed. “It shimmers.”
“An illusion. The wool is woven so finely that it has a sheen to it.” A luscious sheen, as elegant as it was seductive. He draped a length of the fabric over her shoulder. “May I?” he asked, reaching for her spectacles.
Her lashes fluttered. “Oh . . . yes. Of course.”
He gently removed them from her face. Her eyes met his, a little shyly, catching the subtle color of the cloth, absorbing and reflecting it like twin jewels. A surge of satisfaction went through him. He turned her to face the glass. “Look at yourself.”
A flush seeped from her throat into her face, turning her cheeks the shade of a damask rose petal. Her bosom rose and fell on an unsteady breath. “The color is very flattering.”
An understatement.
It made her auburn hair glow with fiery warmth and her skin appear as creamy as unblemished ivory.
“Very flattering,” he said. “And that’s just the beginning.”
She touched the fabric with her fingertips. “There’s more? You begin to frighten me.”
He returned her spectacles. “You prefer hiding?”
“I wasn’t aware that I was hiding.” She settled her spectacles back onto her nose. “I commissioned a habit from you, didn’t I?”