Mr. Malik gave her a fleeting smile. “I feel it every time I’m near you.” An endless pause. “I’m feeling it now.”
Her breath dammed up so tight in her chest, she could barely manage a whisper. “I’ve never experienced this before. Not with anyone.”
“Nor have I,” he admitted.
“What do you suppose it is? Some form of particularly strong attraction? Something chemical, or what have you?” She thought it must be. Something primitive and elemental. What else? She’d met handsome men before and had never responded to them the way she responded to him.
“I don’t know,” he said. “All I know is that you inspire me. That when I look at you, I feel something here.” He touched his chest.
“Do you?” Her question was a mere thread of sound. So soft, she was astonished it wasn’t drowned out by the mad hammering of her heartbeat.
“Every time I see you,” he said. “It stands to reason that others will, too.”
Her heart stopped. “You’re talking about your designs?”
He inclined his head in silent acknowledgment. “We will have to work together with some frequency in the coming weeks, but you have nothing to fear from me. This thing between us—the connection you describe—I’ve heard of it happening on occasion in the creative world. If an artist is very lucky, he sometimes meets his muse. The day you walked into Doyle and Heppenstall’s, I believe I met mine.”
She swallowed. How was it possible to feel at once so moved and yet so disappointed? She inspired him. That wasn’t nothing.
But it wasn’t a romance.
“An artistic connection,” she said. “I, ah, never considered it.”
“It’s a rare occurrence. One that, I hope, will allow us each to obtain the thing we want most.”
“A fashionable dress shop for you,” she said.
“And a wealthy husband for you,” he replied.
She pushed up her spectacles. He was right. This wasn’t a romance. It couldn’t be. Their goals, and their positions in society, were diametrically opposed. What this was, was a partnership. A business partnership. One that could ultimately benefit them both. “Very well,” she said. “When do we start?”
Fourteen
The following morning, alone in her uncle’s breakfast room, Evelyn perused the society page as she ate her toast and jam. Mr. Malik had said she might be in the paper, and this was the very latest edition. Her gaze drifted over the small black print.
Despite all the attention she’d garnered as she rode, she didn’t truly expect to see any mention of her debut on Rotten Row. When it appeared, her heart fairly leapt into her throat. It was tucked at the bottom of the page, sandwiched between a report on French millinery and a write-up on mourning fashions:
The Pretty Horsebreakers
Our fair Anonyma has, it is said, gone to America, leaving many creditors to lament her departure, but another horsebreaker has appeared in her place. From whence came this titian-haired enchantress? Anonyma’s abandoned admirers demand to know.
A titian-haired enchantress? Evelyn’s hair wasn’t titian. Auburn, possibly, when the light hit it just right. But not red.
Perhaps the article was referencing someone else?
She suggested that very possibility to Lady Anne when she arrived later that morning to collect Evelyn for their shopping excursion.
“It’s definitely you,” Lady Anne said as Evelyn welcomed her into the drawing room. “I nearly choked on my tea when I read it.”
“Is it vey shocking?”
“It’s a triumph. To be mentioned in the gossip columns so soon after your arrival. And in company with Miss Walters, too. One wonders if she’s truly gone to America.”
“It would explain why we haven’t seen her.” Evelyn gestured for Lady Anne to have a seat.
“We haven’t much time to spare. Madame Elise’s shop is best visited before noon.”
“About that . . .” Evelyn offered a hasty explanation as to why she couldn’t accompany her.
Lady Anne sank onto the sofa. She was wearing a black carriage dress with a white collar and crisp white undersleeves, her golden hair confined in a silk net. “Good lord,” she said as she arranged her voluminous skirts. “Don’t say you’re a social reformer?”
Evelyn sat down across from her. “Must one be interested in reform to object to such outrageous conditions? It’s a human issue, surely.”
“I agree wholeheartedly. But others aren’t likely to be so sympathetic. Madame Elise counts the wives and daughters of many a duke, marquess, and earl as her customers. Few of them would be willing to give up their pretty party dresses for the sake of a common girl forced to work and sleep in such conditions.”
“I can only answer for myself,” Evelyn said. “And I shan’t be patronizing her salon, no matter how pretty her frocks.”
“Nor I,” Anne replied in solidarity. “Have you another dressmaker in mind? I warn you, there are none to rival Madame Elise. Not unless you manage a jaunt to Paris to buy one of Mr. Worth’s creations.”
“Not Mr. Worth,” Evelyn said. “Someone better.”
Lady’s Anne’s brows shot up. “Better than Worth? You intrigue me. Who is this person?”
“The gentleman who designs my riding habits.”
“Your tailor in Conduit Street?”
Evelyn nodded. “He’s a dressmaker, too, and has consented to make the rest of my wardrobe this season. He’s selecting the fabrics and trimmings for my ball gown as we speak.”
“Gracious. That is an inconvenience.”
Evelyn felt a flicker of guilt. “I daresay I should have sent a note round to you, but I didn’t think.” She offered an apologetic smile. “I was so looking forward to your company.”
“And I yours. I’d hoped today would be the first of many shopping excursions. My mother never permits me out of her sight unless I’m riding. Not unless she’s preapproved the outing. And she seems inclined to approve of all my outings with you.”
“Because she’s friends with my uncle?”
“Because,” Lady Anne said, “Mama prides herself on her ability to read people. She recognized right away that you were trustworthy—or so she claims. I suspect it’s because you wear spectacles. It would never occur to her that a bluestocking could be dangerous.”