“If it’s the cost that concerns you—”
“It’s not the cost,” she said. “Or rather . . . I do have to adhere to some kind of budget. But that isn’t what makes me hesitate.”
“What, then?” he asked.
She leaned back against the window frame, facing him. “Have you truly thought about this? About what it might mean for your future? Pinning all of your hopes on my making a success of things?”
“You will make a success of things.”
“And if I don’t? If I make a thorough hash of it all?”
He lifted one shoulder in the barest suggestion of a shrug. “I believe in you.”
The words were uttered so casually. So completely offhand. They nevertheless wrapped themselves around Evelyn’s heart. It was a lovely sentiment. Especially from him. But how could she accept it? Trust it?
“You don’t know me,” she said.
“I know enough.”
“You don’t. You’ve no idea what I’m like in company. At a dance or a dinner.”
“Are you so very awkward?”
“Not that.” She was self-assured enough in most situations. Rather too self-assured, in fact. Freely offering her opinions, even when those opinions were at odds with others in village society.
“Must you be so decided in your views, my dear?” Aunt Nora had asked her once as the two of them returned in the carriage from a disastrous Sunday dinner at the vicarage. “If you disagree with a gentleman, it’s far better to say nothing than to make your displeasure known.”
“But he was wrong,” Evelyn had said. “He misquoted the entire passage. And he missed the point of it. What else was I to do but—”
“You might have chosen to remain silent. No one appreciates a know-all. Particularly one who happens to be female.”
Evelyn had thought it monstrously unfair. She still did.
That was one of the benefits of being on horseback. There were no difficult conversations to navigate. No cause to agree or disagree with a long-winded gentleman. To laugh at his feeble jokes.
On a horse, she never had to do much more than offer a greeting to someone. If conversation existed at all, it was of the brief variety, and more than likely focused on equine matters.
But it wasn’t only the conversation—or the lack of it—that appealed to her about riding. It was the strength she was permitted to exhibit. The one place she could do so without fear of censure. No one ever expected her to be quiet and obliging while on a stallion. She had to be strong and competent. Bold and brave. And so long as she looked minimally pretty while doing it, gentlemen would laud her for it. Admire her, even.
“It isn’t awkwardness that plagues me,” she said. “It’s that I simply don’t fit. I’m not a pattern card of femininity. Not like—”
“Not like your sister?” His words held a note of disapproval.
“Yes, if you must know. I’m . . . I’m odd. I’m going to try to be less so this season—to do whatever I must to secure a husband—but the chances of my being hailed as the most beautiful or the most fashionable are as slim as a blade of grass. It’s my riding that will get me noticed, not anything that happens in a ballroom.”
“That’s where my gowns come in.” He sounded so confident. So utterly sure of himself. “If you would but consent to wear them—”
“Of course I’ll wear them,” she said. “It would be an honor.”
A flash of relief passed over his face. She was astonished to see it. Goodness. Had he really thought she’d refuse? That she’d prefer Madame Lorraine, or some other dressmaker, to him?
“Thank you.” He straightened from the window frame, and stepping forward, offered her his hand.
She took it without hesitation, even as she braced herself for the inevitable physical reaction. The jolt of heat and bone-deep awareness. The way gooseflesh rose on her arms and her heart squeezed in her breast.
Their eyes locked for a breathless moment.
And before she knew it—before she could clamp her teeth to stop the words from escaping—she heard herself saying, “There’s something else that might pose a difficulty.”
Mr. Malik stilled, his hand clasping hers. His grip tightened for a moment before he released her. Any sign of relief was gone from his face, replaced by an expression as solemn as the grave.
She registered the change in him, even as her words continued to tumble out, unchecked. “The thing is, I like you.”
What?
She felt a vague sense of horror. It was the truth, but—good lord! There was plain speaking and there was plain speaking. This was . . .
Exposing herself entirely.
A stupid notion. As if he didn’t already recognize her feelings. Even if their brief kiss could be passed off as purely accidental, there was still their chance meeting at Hatchards. He’d marked her reaction to him then. Had noted how flustered she became in his presence. She recalled how he’d smiled at her, seeming to be amused by her obvious attraction to him.
He wasn’t smiling now.
He merely continued to look at her, his gaze even more intent than it had been before.
She forged ahead. “What happened between us at Doyle and Heppenstall’s . . . When I . . . When we . . .” Oh, why couldn’t she simply spit it out! “What I’m trying to say is that, whenever I’m with you, I feel something. A sort of connection. I don’t know what to call it. But if we’re to work together with any frequency—and I imagine we must if you make all of my gowns this season—then it’s better we’re honest with each other about these things. We neither of us would wish a recurrence of what happened last time.”
Still, he said nothing. She began to fear she’d rendered him speechless.
Heat rose in her cheeks. “I daresay it’s only me. No doubt you’ve been on the receiving end of countless—”
“It isn’t only you,” he said gruffly.
“I know that. It’s what I was trying to say. That countless ladies must feel this way in your presence—”
“No,” he interrupted. “That’s not what I—” He took a step forward, coming to an abrupt halt in front of her. He gazed down at her face. “It isn’t only you who feels it. I’ve felt it, too.”
Evelyn was glad she had the window frame at her back. Without it, she might have swooned into a heap on the drawing room floor. “Felt it,” she said. “Past tense?”