She advanced upon him. “You must have known what I had in mind. I made no secret of my interest, and you took no great pains to disguise yours.” Her hand lifted to touch his chest. “If it’s my husband that concerns you—”
He backed out of her reach. “You’ve mistaken me.”
Her hand fell to her side, fingers clenching into a fist. “I bloody well haven’t. There’s no mistaking the way you touched me. Do you expect me to believe that, through all these fittings, you’ve been thinking of nothing but sewing?”
“It’s why you hired me.” It was the same thing he’d told her countless times before. Reminding her that theirs was a business relationship, not a personal one. Certainly not a romantic one.
“I did hire you, didn’t I?” Her eyes glittered. “Take care that you don’t offend me.”
Ahmad recognized a threat when he heard one.
His head told him to comply with her demands. To take her to bed; to provide the exotic diversion she was so desperately looking for. And why not? He needed Lady Heatherton’s patronage. Needed it desperately.
But he couldn’t bed her. He wouldn’t.
She’d had enough of him already. The very best of him. She had his work.
“Your evening dress is the finest garment I’ve ever made, my lady,” he said. “I trust it will make up for any offense I’ve given.” He bowed and turned to leave.
“How dare you?” Her voice trailed after him. “I haven’t dismissed you!”
He closed the door behind him, muffling her words.
There was nothing to be gained by remaining. To do so would only generate further ill will. No lady enjoyed being rejected. Not in such circumstances as this—not with candlelight, brandy, and a waiting bed.
He made his way down the hall to the servants’ stairs, and thereby to the kitchens.
Crebbs was seated at the table having a cup of tea. She gawked at the sight of him, her mouth opening as if to speak.
Ahmad paid her no mind as he exited through the back door, grateful for the fresh air and brilliant sunshine that greeted him on the street. He inhaled deeply.
“The finest garment I’ve ever made.”
Even as he’d uttered the words, he’d known them to be a lie. Lady Heatherton’s dress wasn’t the finest garment he’d ever made. It was stunning, to be sure. Certain to make an impression on all who saw it. But he hadn’t created it with his whole heart. Hadn’t fashioned it into existence with the entirety of his soul.
Those pieces of himself had been reserved for someone else’s garment.
* * *
Hyde Park in the afternoon bore no resemblance at all to Hyde Park at dawn. To be sure, once the fashionable hour commenced, Rotten Row became as busy as a city thoroughfare. Evelyn had known it would be so. During her visits to observe the Pretty Horsebreakers, she’d seen what a crush it was—riders mounted on expensive horseflesh navigating amid open carriages and high-sprung sporting gigs containing the crème de la crème of polite society.
Hephaestus broke stride as they joined the fashionable throng. Evelyn was nervous, which made him nervous, too. She tightened her fingers on his double reins. He was in his Pelham bridle today. An added precaution. She couldn’t allow for anything to go wrong.
“You mind he doesn’t get his head,” Lewis advised, riding alongside her. “A lot of mares nearby.”
“I’ll give him something else to think about.” Deepening her seat, Evelyn stilled her hands and tightened her leg, urging Hephaestus into a passage—a slow, cadenced trot. Andalusians were bred for such elevated movements, and it was one he performed with great expression, his hooves lifting high, suspending in the air for a beat before returning to the ground.
A gentleman on a chestnut hunter turned to watch her as she rode past him.
Evelyn’s pulse skipped. She’d hoped to draw attention, as much for her horsemanship as for the design of her new habit. The dark green riding costume fit her like a custom-made kid glove, the artfully sewn bodice cut close to her figure, and the full skirts draping in a sensual sweep down her legs. The trimmings were no less sophisticated. Crisp linen undersleeves peeked from beneath her wide gauntlet cuffs, and the gilt buttons on her jacket glinted in the sun.
With her hair rolled into an invisible net and her chic little hat pinned atop her head, the dyed feathers fluttering in the faint afternoon breeze, she felt as dashing as a French fashion plate. Indeed, never in her life had she believed herself more beautiful, nor more powerful.
People were looking at her. Staring at her. She registered the weight of their regard, both men and women alike, as surely as if they’d touched her. It provoked a fleeting swell of self-consciousness. An impulse to pose, rather than ride. To worry over her posture, the tilt of her head, and whether or not she was smiling enough—or too much.
She refused to indulge such doubts.
Instead, she focused on her riding. She passaged Hephaestus around a barouche with a pair of toplofty ladies inside and past two gentlemen on horseback who looked as though they were on the hunt.
An open carriage rolled by, driven by a young man in company with a pretty young woman, and up ahead a golden-haired lady in a dark blue habit was mounted on an enormous pale-gold stallion with a flaxen mane and tail.
Evelyn recognized her at once. “Lady Anne. Good afternoon.”
“Miss Maltravers.” Lady Anne acknowledged Evelyn with an inclination of her head. “How do you do?”
“Very well, thank you. And you? I trust you’re well?”
“I’m always well.” Lady Anne guided her horse in step alongside Hephaestus. She appeared to be a competent rider, with a lovely seat and quiet hands.
“Your horse is very fine,” Evelyn said. “And so well behaved.”
“Saffron.” Lady Anne leaned forward to scratch his shoulder. “He’s nearly seventeen, and would rather sleep than put up with all of this nonsense.” She gave Hephaestus an appreciative look. “Yours has a bit more fire. How old is he?”
“Six. Still quite young.”
“He’s turning a great many heads.” Her gaze flicked to Evelyn. “Or perhaps it’s you who’s turning them. Is that a new habit?”
“It is. The habit-maker’s boy delivered it only this morning.”
“Which habit-maker? It can’t be my man in Oxford Street. He’d never turn his hand to something so daring.”
Evelyn hesitated. A part of her was reluctant to share Mr. Malik. Which was stupid, really. No doubt he’d appreciate the business. “His name is Mr. Malik. He’s located in Conduit Street, at Doyle and Heppenstall’s.”