Good God.
He’d just lost his patroness. His one chance at making his name in fashionable society. And all because he’d been too proud—too damned particular—to give in to the lady’s erotic demands.
And why hadn’t he?
She wasn’t an antidote. Not by any means. She was an attractive woman in her prime. As comely as any of her class. Would it have been so difficult to accommodate her? So distasteful? Principles were all well and good, but what was the point of them if they left one in this position? Out of a job. Out of options. And out of pocket several hundred pounds.
Doubts crowded his brain. If only he’d done as she asked. Kissed her. Slept with her just once. If only he’d behaved as she’d expected him to.
But he didn’t have the luxury of second-guessing himself.
At this very moment, Mira was back at his rooms in King William Street, diligently working on the remainder of Lady Heatherton’s order. An order Ahmad could no longer expect to be paid for.
He was going to have to tell her. And sooner rather than later.
* * *
Mira stared at Ahmad, her needle and thread frozen in her hand. She was seated in an armchair near the sitting-room window in his rooms above the tea dealer’s shop, her rosewood sewing box open on a table beside her. One of Lady Heatherton’s evening gowns was spread over her lap. “What do you mean she returned the dress?”
“Just that. She had her maid bring it to Doyle and Heppenstall’s.” Ahmad plucked the needle and thread from Mira’s fingers and dropped them into her sewing box. He closed the inlaid lid. “You can leave off your work on her others gowns. She won’t be wanting those, either.”
“What?”
“With luck, we can salvage them for someone else. Though I don’t know who at the moment.” He collected the evening dress from her lap. It was a glittering confection of mazarine silk with a half-finished application of glass beadwork on the bodice. “Pity. This one is nearly done.”
“Wait.” Mira stood to follow after him. “You’re making no sense at all. Do you mean to say she didn’t like the finished dress?”
“It’s me she doesn’t like.” He opened a low wooden storage chest in the corner and lay the dress inside it. There would be time enough to pack it away properly. For now, it was enough that it was out of sight. The last thing he wanted was a reminder of Lady Heatherton.
His patroness, indeed.
A simmering anger grew within him. Anger directed not at her, but at himself.
He’d been so confident about his skill—so certain his designs would ultimately win the day—that he’d ignored every warning sign.
And there had been plenty.
He’d recognized them all. Lady Heatherton’s mercurial moods. The fact that she fancied him. That she was growing bolder in her words and actions.
Had he truly believed that her interest would be limited to an infrequent touch? An occasional double entendre? He should have known she’d eventually expect something more from him. The fact that he didn’t—or rather, that he had, but had chosen to overlook the danger—was enough to make him want to put his fist through the wall.
He’d been convinced that his work would be enough for her. That once she put on the evening dress he’d designed, all the rest of it would fade into the background, replaced by a sense of appreciation. Of awe. The same emotions Miss Maltravers had experienced when she’d put on her finished habit and looked at herself in the cheval glass.
“I knew you would amaze me.”
Ahmad’s heart clutched to think of her. Miss Maltravers. Evelyn. His own personal siren sent to tempt him.
“Why not?” Mira asked. “Did you quarrel with her?”
He raked his hand through his hair. “Something like that.”
“Ahmad, stop.” She caught his arm as he moved to walk past her. “Look at me. Tell me what’s happened.”
He reluctantly turned to face her. It didn’t occur to him to lie. Mira was no worldly sophisticate. Neither was she a child. “Lady Heatherton made overtures to me today that I wasn’t of a mind to accept. That’s why she’s returned the dress. Not because she didn’t like it, but because I’ve hurt her pride.”
Mira’s expression hardened. “I knew it. I knew that’s what she was after.”
“Not very flattering to my skill as a dressmaker.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“She did admire the dress, you know. She was quite pleased with it, right up until the moment I rejected her advances.”
“Naturally she admired it!” Mira burst out. “She’d have to be blind not to see how perfect it was for her. As for the rest of it . . . how dare she? What gives her the right—”
“Her rank. Her race. Any number of things.” He gently extricated himself from Mira’s grasp. “It’s no use getting angry, bahan.”
“I’m not angry,” Mira said. “I’m livid. The fact that you’re not—”
“I don’t know what I am. Still in shock, probably.” He gave his cousin a fleeting smile. There was no humor in it. “She’s threatened me with the magistrate if I turn up at her house again.”
Mira’s jaw slackened. “She never.”
“I’m rather relieved, actually. Better to have a clean break than to return to her, groveling for her custom. And who knows but that I might have done, given time enough to reflect on the matter. I’m out of pocket quite a bit on her account.”
The color drained from Mira’s face. “She won’t pay for the dresses she ordered?”
“Not a ha’penny, according to her lady’s maid.”
Mira shook her head. “But she can’t refuse to pay you. She simply can’t. Not when you’ve spent so much money on her behalf.”
“She can and she has. There’s nothing for it.”
“Of course there is. You must tell Mr. Finchley.”
His brows snapped together. “Absolutely not.”
“You must,” she insisted. “He can do something about it. Instigate a lawsuit to recover your expenses or—”
“And how would that look?”
“It would be justice!”
“It would be the end of my career as a dressmaker. I can’t hope to start a business by suing my customers. What would that do to my reputation?” Ahmad exhaled. “The fact is, Lady Heatherton’s put me in a damnable position. I expect she knows it.”