“For a reason. You wanted a bit of my magic. And you can have it. All I ask is that you put yourself entirely in my hands.”
She lifted her gaze to his. Her soft hazel eyes were thoughtful behind her spectacles. “Very well,” she said at last. “I shall.”
Four
Evelyn stood still as a statue as Mr. Malik applied his cloth measuring tape to her waist, hips, and bust. Any embarrassment she felt at the intimacy of his touch was overshadowed by the memory of his words; phrases that still circled merrily in her dumbfounded brain.
“A singular beauty,” he’d called her. “A diamond of the first water.”
No one had ever called her anything resembling a beauty or thought of her as one, she was convinced. She didn’t even think of herself in such terms.
It wasn’t that she rated herself so meanly. It was only that she’d spent the majority of her life standing in Fenny’s shadow. And Fenny was beautiful. The most beautiful young lady in Sussex. All refined feminine fragility, with a wilting figure and a laugh as delicate as a silver bell.
Evelyn had never been that. Had never wanted to be that. And there had been no need, not with Fenny around. Instead, Evelyn had developed into something else. An athlete. A sportswoman. An equestrienne to rival any man in Sussex. Or so she liked to think.
Not that she didn’t love fashion.
She hadn’t lied when she told Mr. Malik that it was one of her two passions in life. Indeed, her spirts always lifted at the sight of a gaily colored ribbon, a ruffled petticoat, or a newly trimmed hat.
All the same, she’d never aspired to be a great beauty, or to be acknowledged as one. She hadn’t even realized how much she needed to hear the words until Mr. Malik had said them.
“A singular beauty.”
He sank to his haunches in front of her, running his measuring tape from her hip to the floor.
In that brief moment when he wasn’t looking, when his head was bowed and his attention fixed on ascertaining her measurements, she couldn’t stop herself from blurting out: “Do you really think I’m beautiful?”
He glanced up at her, brows drawn together in a distracted frown.
She immediately regretted her question. Good heavens. Look at him! He was so heart-wrenchingly handsome it fairly took her breath away. And here she was in her knickers, with her hair a-tumble and her spectacles slipping on her nose, asking for reassurance about her appearance, of all things. Reassurance from him. A man who was as close to beautiful himself as any gentleman she’d ever seen.
“I’m not fishing for compliments,” she added quickly. “It’s only that . . . I’ve never been called beautiful in my life.”
“No?” He stood in one fluid motion and went to the table in the corner. A notepad lay there, in which he’d been periodically jotting her measurements with the pencil he kept tucked behind one ear. He scratched down the latest figures.
“Not ever,” she said. “It was my older sister who was the beautiful one, not me. She looked just like the plates in the ladies’ magazines. An English rose, people used to call her.”
“You’ve mistaken sameness for beauty.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Many do.” He turned back to her, his gaze sweeping over her—speculative and assessing. “Sameness is comfortable. People like it because it reassures them. But it’s nothing extraordinary. It’s not true beauty. Not the kind that moves the soul.”
She blinked. He wasn’t saying that she was that kind of beauty, was he? Surely not. She opened her mouth to ask him—and she would have done, too, if Agnes hadn’t chosen that precise moment to enter the fitting room.
“Beg your pardon, miss,” she said, dropping an unpracticed curtsy. “The time got away from me.” Her voice trailed off as she perceived the absence of a female fitting room attendant. Her apologetic expression transformed into one of blank incredulity.
“It’s no matter.” Evelyn looked to Mr. Malik. “We’re nearly finished, aren’t we?”
“Nearly.” Mr. Malik’s gaze swept over her again. He didn’t seem at all affected by the arrival of her maid. His manner was just as it had been from the start, that of an artist examining his canvas. “You’ll need a new corset.”
Agnes sucked in a scandalized breath.
Evelyn ignored the sound. She was already in her underwear, and far past the point of schoolgirl blushes. “What’s wrong with the one I have?”
He came to her in two strides, putting his large hands on her midriff as familiarly as if he were her physician.
Or her lover.
Her heart thudded so heavily she could scarcely catch her breath.
“It’s too long here.” His fingers skimmed down past her hips where her corset pinched tight into her flesh. “It should be elastic over the hips, with a shorter busk for ease of movement. And here.” His hands moved to her waist. “The boning is inadequate. It does nothing at all to support your figure—or to emphasize it.”
“I suppose I could lace it tighter,” Evelyn suggested. “But not too tight. I can’t have it squeezing the breath out of me. Not if I’m to ride with any degree of skill.”
“I advise that you dispose of it altogether. It’s not a matter of tight lacing. You need a corset that molds to your figure. There are better models available than this.”
“Which do you recommend?”
“For the habit I design? You’ll need riding stays.” Returning to his notepad, he jotted something down.
Evelyn stared after him, her insides simmering. She could still feel the pressure of his hands on her waist, warm and strong. She wondered how his other female clients could submit to being measured by him with any degree of equanimity. Every touch was an intimate brand, scorching through the layers of her corset and the thin chemise beneath, all the way down to her skin.
“And for the rest of my gowns?” she asked, a little breathless.
“That depends on the gown. Have you engaged a modiste?”
“Not yet. I intended to visit Madame Elise tomorrow.” According to Agnes, Madame Elise was presently the most sought-after dressmaker in London.
Mr. Malik shot her a dark glance over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t advise it.”
Agnes visibly stiffened. For an instant it looked as though she might say something out of turn.
Evelyn didn’t give her a chance. “Why not?”
“You’d do better to go to Madame Lorraine in Bruton Street. She’s not as famous as Madame Elise, but she’ll see you’re turned out in a manner that best suits your figure.” He tore off the piece of notepaper he’d been writing on and handed it to her. “Her address, along with that of a good corsetiere.”