“You have attributes to surpass theirs.”
“When I’m riding? Yes.” A spark of that familiar determination lit her face. “As for the rest of the time . . . I’ll endeavor to do my best, but I have no illusions.”
“You believe you can’t make a success of your season unless you’re on horseback?”
“Not a success, no. Outside of riding, the best I can hope for is that I won’t distinguish myself in some unfortunate way.”
Ahmad’s brows lowered. He refused to accept that she could give up so easily. Not her. Not the young lady who’d entered Doyle and Heppenstall’s a week ago, all but demanding he make her a habit. The one who rode with such innate poise and skill. “You’re either too modest, or—”
“I’m realistic.”
“You’re not.”
“I hope I am, sir. One can’t make a successful plan without assessing one’s strengths and weaknesses. I’ve done both. And quite impartially, I might add.”
“Very impartial. You’ve never had a season before. Never before even been to London, as far as I can tell. And yet you’re convinced you have nothing to offer outside of Rotten Row.”
Miss Maltravers stood suddenly. Tightening her shawl about her arms, she walked toward him, coming to a halt only a few feet away.
His heart thumped heavily. She was near enough he could reach out and touch her. And he wanted to touch her quite badly. To take her hand or to cradle her cheek. To reassure her somehow.
“I know myself, Mr. Malik,” she said. “And while I should very much like to have a ball gown of yours, I can offer you no promises about how well it will be received if I’m the one wearing it.”
He stared down at her, half of him irritated at her for underestimating herself, and the other half aroused by her proximity.
Which wouldn’t do at all.
He wasn’t here because he was attracted to her. He was here because she had possibilities. Distinct possibilities. The potential to make a success of her season, and to make a success of him. He was supposed to be persuading her, not romancing her.
“That’s what you meant, isn’t it?” she asked. “When you said that making gowns for me would benefit us both?” She pushed her spectacles further up on her nose. “It’s obvious how it would benefit me. But I don’t see how you would gain any advantage from it.”
Ahmad didn’t mince words. “In six months’ time, I mean to open a dress salon. To do it, I need fashionable ladies to see my designs.” He gave her a pointed look. “You’ll be out in fashionable society.”
“I will, but there are no guarantees.”
“You’re going to be introduced at a ball given by the Countess of Arundell, aren’t you?”
Miss Maltravers fell quiet. Her gaze slid from his.
“Aren’t you?” he asked again.
“Yes. Though, it’s not the kind of ball you imagine.” She exhaled heavily. “It’s not the kind I imagined, either.” Turning, she walked to the window. The drapes were drawn back to reveal the rain-streaked glass. Outside, the sky was as gray as damp slate. “It’s some sort of annual function related to the society of spiritualists that Lady Arundell and my uncle belong to.”
“Ah.” He followed her to the window.
“So you see—”
“Spiritualism is quite popular of late.”
“I’ve been told.” She turned back to him. “But as to whether it can serve to put your designs in front of the right people . . . Who can say?”
“Fashionable society is fashionable society, especially where titled lords and ladies are concerned. If you wear my designs, the right sort of people will see them.”
“Yes,” she said grimly. “On me.”
“You’ll make an impression, I promise you.”
“I don’t know if I can.” There was an edge of emotion to her voice. Bitterness, perhaps, or even wistfulness. “I haven’t had much luck in a ballroom. Not even at the village assemblies in Combe Regis. I’ve always been better on four legs than on two.”
He rested his shoulder against the window frame as he looked at her. Long seconds passed, the rain pattering steadily on the glass. “What is it about riding that gives you confidence?” he asked at last.
“That’s easy. It’s because I’m not alone. I have Hephaestus as my partner.”
“Only that?”
“Not only,” she said. “I suppose it’s because I understand the rules. I know what I must do to get the desired effect. The way to use my weight, and how much pressure to apply with my hands or my leg.”
“You know all of this by instinct?”
She laughed. “Hardly. Some of it comes naturally, but the greater portion of my skill is derived from practice. Years and years of it.”
“Practice with your partner.”
“And the others that came before him. Experienced horses. They taught me far more than I taught them.”
“And you never felt self-conscious when you were on them?”
“No. They were my partners then, just as Hephaestus is now.”
“Perhaps that’s what I’m proposing,” he said. “A partnership.”
* * *
“With you?” The very notion was enough to make Evelyn’s stomach quiver. Whether it was with excitement or apprehension, she couldn’t tell.
“Why not?” Mr. Malik asked.
“Because . . .” She floundered, her mind temporarily drawing a blank. “Because it’s not the same, that’s why. For one thing, you wouldn’t be with me at any of these hypothetical events.”
“No,” he said. “But my designs would.”
“And they’d give me courage, is that it? Simply by wearing them?”
It wasn’t as outlandish as it sounded. Not if she was honest with herself. His habit had been transformative. What would it be like to wear one of his evening gowns? A gown as radiant and revealing as the one in the box he’d brought her?
“You already have courage,” he said. “In abundance. It’s why you came to see me.”
She folded her arms, wrapping herself tighter in her shawl. There was no reason to refuse his offer. His dresses would be beautiful, she knew. Her only doubt lay in herself. It was one thing to cut a figure on a horse. Cutting a figure in a ballroom was another thing entirely.